do a story about how I plan on locking down third base or breaking the school home run record they can call me.” I put my hat on and wait for him to release me.
“Think about it,” he counters.
“Does my position on the team have anything to do with the article?” I ask the only question that might change my mind on the subject.
“No, but I worry the problems—”
“Then, my answer is no.”
“Lynch,” he sighs.
“May I go.”
He lets out a long release of breath and his hands fall to the top of his desk. “Yes.”
I hightail it out of his office as fast as my cleats will allow.
I rush out of the locker room, ignoring the razzing from Oliver and Tyler. Once I reach the hallway, my back leans against the wall, and I slam my glove onto the concrete floor. When will I ever be free of it?
A small voice inside me answers. When you face it. I push that voice aside because I’m not convinced me rehashing the accident would fix the brokenness I feel every morning when I wake up.
The locker room door clicks open and shuts quietly. There’s only one person who it could be.
“I heard,” Brax says.
There he is.
“I can’t talk to you about it.” I pick up my glove and head toward the field.
“Then, who are you going to talk about it to? Come on, man, I used to be one of your best friends!” he screams out.
My footsteps stop right at the edge of the field.
“Noah was my friend, too,” he continues.
“I know.” I push open the doors to the field, allowing them to slam shut behind me.
Once practice starts, I’m thankful for the distraction of baseball. Hitting drills is easy. My anger helps me smash the shit out of the ball, earning me a few catcalls from the guys. When we practice drills on third, that’s where I fuck up. The ball flies by me for the third time, and I hear the groans of my fellow teammates. They aren’t used to me missing the ball.
“Lynch, go to the outfield,” Coach says after my throw to first base drops ten feet in front of Oliver.
I jog out to the grass and mildly redeem myself when I catch a few fly balls. My mind is a clusterfuck, and there’s only one way I can clear it—beat the shit out of my muscles.
After practice is over and the guys head over to the tutoring session at the library, I stay back in the weight room.
My gray T-shirt is dark with sweat, and my muscles are on fire, but I’m not ready to stop punishing myself, I’m doing bicep curls when the radio turns off.
I drop the dumbbell, ready for Coach to lecture me on wearing myself out, but it’s not the beer-bellied man with a scowl on his face. It’s a beautiful girl with a scowl.
“You’re going to hurt yourself.” Ella saunters through the weight room and sits down on the bench across from me.
“Why are you here?” I pick up the dumbbell and curl my arm, more sweat dripping off my forehead and onto the foam mat at my feet.
“When you weren’t at tutoring, Brax told me you skipped. He figured I’d find you here.”
My eyes divert to her crossed legs covered in tight yoga pants. If I could do one thing right now, it’d be to uncross them and bury my face between them right before I took her on the bench. She’d be a better mind-number than weight lifting.
“Old habits die hard,” I say.
Back in high school, every time the baseball team lost or a fight broke out, I’d hole myself up in the weight room. My method of therapy is how my biceps grew three inches in the last two years.
“Crosby, you need to talk to someone. Whether it’s Brax, Spencer, or me. Just someone.” She brings her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
I wipe my sweaty face with a towel. “I could move forward if people would just let me.” Already antsy from sitting, I stand and grab a heavier dumbbell.
“That’s not true.”
From the mirror, I see her approaching me, and I should step away because she’ll never let this issue die. Her hand rests on my shoulder, and the weight drops from my grasp, pounding on the floor.
“We both know that,” she says.
Tears prick my eyes, but I sure as shit won’t cry and definitely not in front of her. Might as well put