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But I’m sure they are.

Shannon’s kind words bang around in the back of my skull as I twist the ball over and over in my hand.

You always have me in your corner, rooting for you.

I wind up and recall Millie’s quiet admonishment. You’re not the villain in the story. Stop treating yourself like you are.

Release the pitch and remember how happy Noah was to play catch with me.

The ball sails over left field, adding to the tally of four runs in two innings, and not even the crueler taunts about my worthlessness could sink me any lower. These “fans” would have to follow me down to the ninth circle of hell.

Or maybe the ninth inning of this game.

“Time!” Bettina’s call pierces the fog in my brain, signaling what I already know will be my inevitable pull from the game. Stomping off the mound to a crescendo of boos, I rip off my cap and fling it onto the bench in the dugout, immediately followed by my mitt.

Jogging down the steps to the equipment space, I reach for the most immediate weapon and whip it against the wall. The rake cracks, but when I hit it again, it breaks in half. I turn over the bucket of balls, repeatedly bang an extra base against the metal shelving, and kick up a small table with the peanuts Bettina likes to eat.

Each hit is another chance to expel my rage at my own inadequacies. And once I’m finally spent, a hollow silence highlights my failure. The wreckage all around me.

This isn’t the player I want to be. Isn’t the person I want to be. And a wishful, desperate thought lingers in the aftermath—what if I had just accepted it that night? If I had simply agreed with Millie to counseling or talking or whatever else she wanted.

Saw open my rib cage so she could take my heart.

But there is no chance of that anymore. The damn thing’s still dead. Even if I wanted to hand it over, I don’t think she’d want it anymore.

Maybe if I were more like my brother, I’d still have her.

Maybe if I were the man my father wanted me to be, I would still be in the game.

Maybe…

Maybe…

Maybe is too big a question to answer. Especially when Malcolm King suddenly appears from somewhere in the clubhouse. He shakes his head at me, where I lie on the ground, a busted bat in my hand. But I don’t even remember picking one up.

“Let me guess…this has to do with a certain redheaded assistant?”

I slant my gaze away from him, and he sighs. “It’s always about a girl.”

CHAPTER 27

MILLIE

Two weeks after I left Austin alone on my back porch with red eyes and stooped shoulders, I’ve barely thought of him.

I’ve filled up my days, keeping busy with Noah’s travel baseball team and volunteering to be the snack parent, doing research on home care nurses for Mom, and rereading my favorite Jurassic Park erotic fan fiction.

As I watch Noah on the field, I don’t think of Austin at all or hope he will randomly show up.

I don’t wish I could talk with Austin about the options for nurses and let him hold me while I cry.

I don’t remember the feel of Austin’s callused hands on my body when the dinosaur shifter ravishes his mate in the cave, and I certainly don’t long for the scratch of his beard on my thighs when I touch myself under the covers. And I absolutely do not think I’ve lost the ability to orgasm just because Austin isn’t the one giving it to me.

And the fact that I don’t means nothing.

I feel nothing at all.

Except exhaustion.