Page 3 of Drop Three

The concrete mid-century home is clean, sleek, and made up of squared-off edges. The black trim and framing give it more of a masculine look, which is one of the factors that sold it for Gus, my friend, and the Strikers third baseman, when we decided to settle down here.

If I had my way—which I could, but I won’t—I would live in a penthouse in the middle of the city. I want the views, the city lights cascading over the night sky, and the security that comes with it.

I like my privacy, and a shared house is far from private.

Since my best friend Callaway got married and moved out two months ago, we now have an empty space in this monster of a house. I offered it up to his younger sister, Navy, after she split with her douche of an ex-boyfriend, but it doesn’t look like she will be taking me up on that offer anytime soon.

After grabbing my things from the backseat, I head to the front door, ready to turn in for the night. Entering the house, I’m met with the smell of Kingston’s spicy chili filling the air and making my stomach growl in hunger. I’m beyond starving, realizing all I’ve eaten this morning is a bagel and a protein bar after practice.

Not enough for a guy my size.

You’d think living with a bunch of dudes would result in endless amounts of junk food and takeout every night, but not with Kingston Baylor in the house. The guy might as well be a Michelin Star chef with the skills he possesses in the kitchen.

You’d never know he’s one of the Major League’s best shortstops.

He spoils us with his culinary skills, and you’ll never hear us complain about it.

Speaking of King’s cooking, it looks like the gods are on my side today. I open the fridge to a bowl covered in aluminum foil, just for me.

Fuck, I’m hungry.

He even left me a loaf of garlic bread.

I quickly heat the leftovers and walk to the round table off the side of the kitchen.

There’s nothing but silence.

Although I prefer being alone, the loneliness feels heavy. I can’t let my mind get past the thought of letting anyone else in. I have no room for change and no room to spare. I prefer isolation, knowing I can control what comes next.

In my head, everything has a place—including people. The option is there. However, I won’t entertain it—not because of my busy schedule, but because I prefer it that way.

Solitude.

I’m almost finished with my food when my phone rings, catching my attention.

Oh, look…Dad.

This conversation is unavoidable.

Ever since my mom left, he’s hovered like a helicopter parent.

He means well, except I’m thirty years old and don’t need a babysitter. I still think he tries to live through me, especially knowing he lost his chance at playing in the big leagues.

I hate that for him, but we’re not the same.

I’d never let him interfere to the point that he took the fun out of the game. I love it enough for myself and everyone else, but sometimes it’s like the game is all he cares about.

It’s more about my stats and less aboutme.I know he would never intentionally make things this way between us, but unfortunately, it is what it is.

I’ve learned to accept it.

That makes these random late-night phone calls dreadful. I’m happy to talk to him, but I know where the conversation will lead.

I click to answer.

“Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

“Hey, son. It’s good to hear your voice. How’s everything going?”

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