Page 81 of Hard to Lose

“What do you mean, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Gunner explains about Coach Bassett believing in him and sending letters and videos out to agents and scouts. About stealing his stepfather’s car and crashing it. The brutal ultimatum given to him the next day between service or jail. Then the hard truth he found out months later that agents had called, had wanted him, and that Sal had supposedly ignored or misdirected them to his son instead of letting Gunner know.

That part got to me. Why didn’t agents persist? Why did they contact Sal when Gunner wasn’t a minor and they should have contacted him directly? Why did they give up on him?

But I know the reasons. Too many athletes, not enough time for the one who doesn’t call you back or shows zero interest. Difficult people—in this case, Sal—to deal with, so it’s just not worth the effort unless you see a star in the making.

No one saw the star. No one looked close enough to see his ability to shine.

And my heart breaks for him because of it.

But it seems that no one looked close enough at his situation for a long time.

He continues on to his time in boot camp, deployment, and how he realized life how he’d known it had changed.

“And then Dickman, our sarge, said we should write letters to those who mattered. To say goodbye to our dreams because life as we knew it was over. Even if we returned, we wouldn’t be the same men. And he was right. Not just because of what we experienced, who we lost, what we endured. But well, it was too late for me.”

“How do you know—”

“Because life had rolled on regardless of the darkness we saw every day, Chase.”

“Oh.” He should be angry. Or maybe he’s already grieved. Had his moments of anger. He shrugs again, and I lean in deeper to his hold.

“Anyway, we wrote our letters. I wrote to the agencies my mom mentioned had contacted Sal—don’t even remember who they were now—and thanked them for their interest.”

My dad. He’d written and thanked my dad. Even that made him a good man to say thank you.

“So that was your goodbye to a game you loved.”

He nods. “Something like that. But the funny thing is, I still use it as my therapy. I still go out at all kinds of hours when I’m off work and throw the ball with one of the catchers from the junior college.”

“You do?” I ask, thinking of the clerk at the hotel and wondering if it was, in fact, Gunner she saw.

“Yep. When things get too much—emotions, memories, stress—I go throw the ball for a bit. It helps me work through it all.”

“Memories? Of what happened over there?”

His sigh is heavy. “Fucking Nix.”

“The guy loves you with all his heart. He meant well by telling me.”

He pulls me closer to him. “How about we stop talking about me? I assure you there are much more interesting conversations we could be having.”

“Like?” I ask. But I totally disagree with him.

The man is fascinating. I thought it before and now I definitely know it.

“Like what’s your deal with bed bugs?” he asks and I laugh.

“Do I detect this topic of conversation as being over?”

“You do. The one thing I hate more than hearing myself talk is talking about myself.”

“Now that? I can agree with you on.” And I’ve been so lost in the conversation, in listening to him tell his story, that I never noticed it grew dark outside. I bolt up, startling both of us. “Oh my God. The bar. Your work. You forgot to—”

He offers me a shy smile and tugs me back down to where I was snuggling against him. “Don’t worry about it. I called in sick.”

“You what? Why?”