Page 73 of Switch Pitching

I guess, yeah

Call me if you need to talk or anything. I’m here for you

Thanks

Want to call later?

Kinda tired, might just crash

Everything good? Haven’t heard from you in a few days

Yeah sorry. Been busy with PT and stuff

How’s the hand holding up?

Recovering? It’s better

That’s good! It’s hard being away from you

Yeah for sure. It’s hard for me, too

Miss you

Miss you too

The texts we exchange are the greatest extent of our communication. They aren’t anything too deep, just quick updates here and there. To be fair, he’s responding, so at least there’s that, but every successive message seems more and more distant. I try not to read too much into it.

The days drag on, and nothing much changes. I don’t get much time to myself between training and games, but I find myself checking my phone almost obsessively, waiting for a message to come through. Of course, I don’t bombard James because he needs time and space to get better. Hounding him won’t help.

As the near-radio silence stretches on, I get recurring, intrusive thoughts that James won’t come back, that he’ll just stay far away. Thinking about that just isn’t productive, I remind myself, and that he has to come back.

But the longer this goes on, the more it feels like I’m losing him.

28

JAMES

OCTOBER

Toronto is exactly how I remember: beautiful, but already way too fucking cold. I tighten my Falcons hoodie as I walk down Bloor Street, hoping to block the icy gusts that are blowing down from the skyscrapers around me. I’m staying with my parents in Rosedale, so it feels like I’m back in high school, but I know I shouldn’t be here.

Since leaving Boston a month ago, everything’s been a blur. It’s hard not to feel lost going through the motions of physical therapy and not doing much else. Sure, I like spending more time with my parents, and I hang out with my friend Luke from high school sometimes, but all of them have jobs, which leaves me disastrously alone during the day.

I’m stuck in Toronto, away from the team and away from Ethan. We’ve been talking, but not really. We ask each other how we’re doing, and we text back and forth about other stuff sometimes. I can tell he misses me, and I miss him. For some reason, though, I don’t say it, even though I should. It sounds stupid, but I just can’t. I can barely get any words out of mymouth, let alone anything remotely emotional. Every time I try, my words come out bored and dismissive, and I’m left in a slump of wondering why talking to Ethan doesn’t cheer me up the way it used to.

As I walk up the drive to my parents’ house, my feet slip on the wet cobblestone, and I ungracefully flail around to keep my balance. Luckily, nobody is around to see me. I stomp inside, kicking my boots off and thawing in the inviting heat of the radiator. As usual for a Wednesday, the house is empty, so I kick back on the couch and pull my phone out. Staring at the black screen, I sigh and decide that I need to call Ethan. He’s not on the schedule tonight, so I’m guessing he’s doing something quiet at home before he heads to Greenwall Park to sit in the dugout for a couple hours.

With a deep sigh, I open my contact list and hit the video call icon next to Ethan’s name. It rings once, and then his face pops up.

“Hey,” Ethan says, his voice bright. He’s wearing a calm smile, but I can tell there’s something else behind his expression.

“Hey, how’s everything in Boston?”

“Pretty good, nothing much is happening, though. How’s your recovery going?”

“Decent. My physiotherapist here said I’m pretty much healed already.”

Ethan smiles a bit wider, and I feel like a jerk for not smiling back.

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