Page 17 of Drop Three

I trust Tenley and know she will support Navy however she needs. Tenley’s condo is within walking distance of Makers Park, which settles my hesitation about Navy crashing with her. It will benefit her to stay close to work and also be close to her favorite coffee shop.

When Navy texted me the photo of Tenley’s dog, Zion, an overwhelming feeling of relief washed over me.

She’s safe. She’s sheltered. She’s not my problem to solve anymore. I need to get that through my thick skull.

I’m better off keeping my head down and playing ball. It’s time to create a more permanent habit.

* * *

It’s Saturday night,so my teammates will make plans—plans I will avoid at all costs.

I go out occasionally when I feel like it, but that’s been rare lately.

I’d much rather chill at home with a book. It may not seem the most masculine, but I like to read, and I don’t give a flying fuck what anyone else thinks about it.

Not that anyone even knows, for that matter.

I took up reading as a hobby while I was locked up. You don’t realize how slowly the hours drag when you have nothing but dirty cement walls to look at in an eight-by-eight cell.

Books were one of the only things the prison warden allowed.

I can’t remember how many books I read, but it had to be at least one a day, sometimes more. Two years in an isolated prison cell equals seven hundred and thirty days. That’s a shit ton of books.

Reading was the only thing that helped me keep my sanity. There were days when I fought to fall asleep, the screaming throughout the prison cinder blocks the only thing my mind could focus on. The howls, the weeping, and catcalls of inmates rampaged as if their ability to defy the prison rules and the correctional officers would somehow get them out sooner—it was broken noise.

Those were the nights I filled my mind with literature.

Books were my saving grace.

I don’t care how that makes me look because when you have nothing, you’ll take anything that feels like human interaction—in this case, the lives of fictional characters provided me with an escape from my torturous reality.

So yes, my plans are to Tiger Balm the shit out of my aching legs, order greasy takeout, and read a book—in that order.

The team finished a four-hour batting practice, and I’m heading back into the clubhouse to shower and get my things before heading home.

Despite my cloudiness, I love this team and playing at Makers Park.

The Strikers’ clubhouse is fucking incredible.

There are two ways to exit the field: through the bullpen, where the pitcher’s warm-up, or the side gate. Both exits lead to a clubhouse entrance.

As I make my way through the side gate, I enter the thick-paned double doors that lead directly through the clubhouse en route to my player cubby. We call them cubbies because that’s what they look like, except they are comfortable and luxurious. I’m confident the Strikers’ team manager and coach, Jack Leggins, had an unlimited fund when designing a space for the players to hang out. No expense was spared when it comes to the amenities: a sauna, hydrotherapy pool, lounge, batting cages, a fully stocked kitchen, and the list goes on. We take advantage of it as much as we can.

“Aye, yo, St. James.”

Shit. I almost made it out without the guys finding me.

Kingston’s voice sifts through the crisp clubhouse air. I’m going to go ahead and assume he’s recruiting me to hit Delta tonight.

Delta is Atlanta’s swanky nightclub, and the team likes to frequent it when they are close to downtown. It’s pretty much a way of the trade around here. I, however, am not impressed in the slightest.

The Strikers get VIP access and around-the-clock celebrity treatment, which is ideal if I were interested, but I’m not. I’d hardly consider myself a celebrity, either. Most fans of the team avoid me, likely because I’m so damn cheery. I run like hell out of this place on the weekends, hoping to dodge my overbearing roommates, who are no strangers to the nightlife.

I stop my stride, jerking my head in King’s direction as I call out, “Yes, King?”

A wide grin, and one of the best dudes I know, greets me.

I may not have the mental capacity to juggle a social life, but the circle of constants around me is unmatched. I’m eternally grateful, whether I express it or not.

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