Page 12 of Curveball

Unbeknownst to Walker, what happened at the bar after the College World Series wasn't what made me want to end things; it was just the final nail in the coffin.

Chapter 6

Walker

Present Day

Because of my injury, I wasn’t much use for the hands-on work I normally did around the winery, so my dad had me helping with label designs for a new release. I suspected it was less about my opinion and more about keeping an eye on me. Creativity had always been Ava’s lane, not mine.

“What do you think of this one?” Dad asked, sliding a mock-up across the table. “Too simple?”

I studied it. “I like it, but it doesn’t really feel like us.”

My dad nodded. "Yeah, you're right. I want something different, but still want it to look like us, you know?" He put the mock-up down on the table and picked up another one. "So, how's everything been going? Everything with Dr. Howard go well?

I nodded. "Yeah, I went to PT first thing this morning. We started his program today, so we’ll see how I'm feeling tomorrow."

My dad smiled, the laugh lines around his hazel eyes prominent. It was always funny to me how much Weston looked like the dark, broody version of Dad. Dad's dark brown hair was mostly gray now, but in older pictures of him, Weston was essentially a carbon copy. Like me, he’d played baseball at The University of Texas, but was a first baseman and never went pro. Being a professional baseball player was never what he wanted; it was just something he was good at. Really good at.

My parents met at UT in one of their business classes, and the rest was history. My mom studied finance, and my dad studied entrepreneurship. My dad's family owned a very small vineyard and winery decades ago, so his love for winemaking ran in the family.

As much as my parents hoped that I would eventually step in and take over running the family business, my dad was beyond thrilled and supportive of my baseball career. It was important to him that all of his kids did something they loved.

"Are you sleeping okay? You look tired." My dad frowned as he studied my face.

I shook my head. "Not really. But not because of my elbow, the pain has been manageable.” I picked at a nonexistent piece of dirt on the table. “I don't know, I just can't get that game out of my head, and all the what-ifs. What if I’d just shifted to the right faster, or what if I’d gone with the fastball Drake called for?" I felt a dark cloud forming over me, as it often did lately. "I've read the articles. I should just retire at this point. I'm thirty and injured, I'm not going to heal as quickly or bounce back the way I would’ve if I were twenty-five." My jaw tightened. "This was likely my last year anyway."

My dad scoffed at that. "Son, I'm sorry, but that is a load of bullshit. You’re one of the best pitchers in the league. If anyone can come back even better, it's you." He placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. "Just do me a favor. Stop the retirement talk for now. Focus on rehab, and then we’ll talk after we see how you progress. You’re forcing yourself into this dark, depressive state, and I don't like what I see. This isn't you."

It sure felt like me. Or at least who I had become.

I couldn't get past the anger. The sadness. It was debilitating. I'd been trying to push it down when I was around my family, but they all seemed to see right through me.

We spent the next hour or so making final decisions on the label and chatting about baseball. Even though winemaking was his main passion, my dad still loved the sport, and it was something we bonded over. "All right, Walk, I think we’re done here. Thanks for the help. I'm headed to the house to grab some lunch. Why don't you check to see if your mom needs you for anything, and then meet me back at the house?"

I nodded. "Sounds good. Is she in her office?"

"Probably, otherwise check the tasting room." My dad started collecting all of the mock-ups scattered across the table before making his way out the door.

I poked my head into my mom's office, but was greeted with an empty room. I made my way over to the tasting room as Dad suggested, hearing voices as I approached. I rounded the corner, about to enter the room, when long blonde waves and green eyes met mine, stopping me in my tracks.

Farrah.

What the hell is she doing here? Did no one want to give a guy a heads-up?

I had managed to keep my distance from her over the years, which was a feat in and of itself, considering how close our families were. Luckily, being a professional baseball player, I was gone a lot. Neither of us told our families what had gone down between us, and honestly, I'm not sure why. It wasn't like either of us cheated or did anything unforgivable.

Well, at least I didn't.

I think for me, it was hard to admit to my family that the girl I thought I would spend my life with didn't, or better yet, couldn't, support my career. It was a low blow. Like she didn't love me enough to handle the one thing I’d worked my entire life for. It wasn't like I’d randomly picked up baseball in college; Farrah knew what I was about, and she’d always seemed more than fine with it.

Until she wasn’t.

I felt embarrassed that I was that wrong about someone.

Farrah seemed to move on quickly—in my opinion— for someone who loved me the way I thought she loved me. I never wanted to talk about what happened again, didn't want to relive it, so I didn't get into it when my family asked what had happened. We broke up; that was it. She wanted to be back home, and I wanted baseball—that's what I told them. So, you could only imagine their hope for reconciliation when I bought my house here, only to be crushed when Farrah married another man.

For Farrah, I couldn’t tell you why she didn't tell her family the reason we broke up, especially since she was the one who dumped me. Maybe she had a level of embarrassment as well? For what, I'm not sure.