Page 69 of Hard to Lose

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Chase

I drive.

I’m unsettled and restless and fighting with my own thoughts while putting mile after mile on my car. The two-lane highway stretches endlessly and takes me past the base, past fields with cows, past schoolyards with kids playing. I take it all in, the normalcy of what feels like small-town America, and find myself pulling off the road when I see a baseball field to my right.

I can’t figure out if it belongs to a high school or a community college, and it really doesn’t matter. I welcome the sight of it. Of feeling like I’m home in the oddest sense. I’m mesmerized by the guy who’s taking swings at the plate and his teammates shooting the shit in the outfield as they shag the balls and make plays with them.

This is what I know.

This is my comfort zone.

It’s no wonder I sit in my car and get lost in the easy cadence and familiarity of batting practice. It’s so much easier than having to face the fact that I’m a chicken.

I pick up my cell several times as I watch only to put it back down. But around the fourth or fifth time, I finally push send.

“Oh, look who’s actually making time to call us and act like she cares?” Brexton teases as she greets me when she answers.

“I’m not in the mood, Brex,” I say, as the kid at the plate goes deep and hits it over the centerfield wall.

“Who pissed in your Cheerios this morning?” She snorts.

“No one. Nothing.” I sigh, and it pains me to even have to say the words. “I need advice.”

“What?” she sputters, clearly wanting to make me suffer.

“You heard me.” I lean my head back on my seat, pinch the bridge of my nose, and close my eyes.

“Wait. You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” The word comes out in a croak. Being the youngest of four, I’ve railed defiantly against asking for advice. At some point I was sick of hearing how much older and more experienced they were, so I made it a point to not ask for any advice and to pretend like I didn’t hear it when it was given.

Childish? Definitely. But when you grow up without a mother, your three older sisters all try to pretend they are that to you, and the last thing I wanted was for her to be erased from my memory.

I’ve since learned that their advice is invaluable. I also know the bratty stigma has stuck. And they like to bring it up or throw it in my face every chance they get.

“Should I get Dekk in here?” Brexton asks, already calling her name across the office before I can answer. I was going to say yes, but the fact that she assumed just adds to my irritability.

“I’m here,” Dekker says winded, but curious. “What’s going on?”

“Chase needs advice,” Brexton says.

“Ohhh.” It’s all Dekker says. I’m grateful that she’s not rubbing it in. “Talk to us.”

“So the bartender—”

“You mean Hot Bartender Boy, as in the one you’re sleeping with bartender?” Dekker asks.

“Something like that.”

“For specificity’s sake, can we say yes or no so that I have a clear path to give advice with?” Dekker says, already annoying me. I’m fully aware my irritation is with myself and the situation with Gunner.

“Yes. That hot bartender. The one who I’ve known during my time here as Gunner but who earlier today, Kelly informed me is one and the same as Ryan Camden.”

“Oh, shit.” I’m not sure which one of them says it, but they sum up my train of thought perfectly.

“You know this doesn’t count as dating two guys, right? I mean, we know you’re goal-oriented and all, but this isn’t what we meant,” Brexton says lightheartedly, but her chuckle falls flat and dies.