Page 39 of Renegade Ruin

You’re right, but you’d think after a week of trying he’d have given up, or at the very least, realized I’m not looking to make friends,I reply in my head.

That’s not very captainly of you.

We both know there’s no official captains in major league baseball, but the sentiment isn’t lost. I’m supposed to be theleader on this team. It was a job Jackson and I took on together in previous years. It feels wrong now without him.

Ignoring the rookie and his question, I grab my glove and gear and stand from the bench.

“I’ll meet you out there,” I say to Carson, who gives a slight nod and turns back to Smitty, murmuring under his breath not to take it personally.

The field is empty when I enter the training facility. Which is just how I like it. Baseball has always been the one thing that calms me and brings me joy.But stepping out into the practice field feels different now. The joy is a bit muted, and the calm is notably more restless. There are a million reasons I can come up with as to why it feels this way, but all of them are excuses. The truth is, I’m not sure this is where I’m supposed to be anymore. I love baseball and the idea of this team, but it doesn’t feel like home. My only inkling of hope is playing the game gives me the foothold I need to push through.

I cross the walkway, where press and fans will inevitably line up as the spring training season continues, and enter the dugout. Throwing my gear down, I climb the two steps to the field and squat down, running my fingers through the dirt on the short warning track like Jackson and I do every practice and game. Superstitious fucks that we are. It’s our version of saying hello to the fields we call home for nine innings at a time. Or in this case, our spring training home away from home.

My eyes burn with unwanted tears as I try to reconcile how I can hate this place and still love it with every fiber of my being. It’s a constant reminder of the people who should be here but aren’t, leaving the whole vibe off. Spring training is supposed to be fun. Almost like summer camp where you miss your friends in the off season, but now you’re back together again. Only this time, they aren’t here.

Tommy won’t walk in full of swagger and confidence, and Jackson won’t pull his seat out from under him to take him down a peg. Marshall won’t blast reggae from his phone, and Fellows won’t be there to hype us up before each game with a joke that would make even the most vulgar of us blush.

And yet, I’m supposed to just move on.

For the umpteenth time since arriving in Florida, I shake the memories of my fallen teammates from my mind, knowing if I don’t focus there’s a good chance I won’t make it to opening day.

Maybe I’m not supposed to.

Maybe I’m supposed to move forward with Phoebe, protecting her until Jackson wakes up—because I have to believe he’s going to wake up. But then what? What comes next for me?

I hate the thought as soon as it enters my brain, but it’s one I keep circling back to. I may love this game, but I’ve learned the hard way love isn’t enough. Not when it can be ripped away in an instant.

Carson slides up next to me, pulling me back to the job at hand. “You know he didn’t mean anything by that question.”

I sigh and turn to the only guy on this team I can remotely stand to spend more than five minutes with, and that’s only because he’s my ace pitcher and I have to. “What?”

“Smitty,” Carson says, jerking his head back toward the clubhouse. “He’s just trying to get to know you.”

“I don’t need to know him,” I quickly bite back, not wanting to have this conversation.

Of course, that doesn’t stop Carson.

“He could be your backup.”

“And so could any of the other five other catchers still here.” It’s a harsh thing to say, but I’m not about to invest in anyone that isn’t going to be here when the season starts.

That’s what spring training is all about. Those who are already signed to the forty-man roster show up to getreacquainted with each other’s styles, strengthen rapports, and set our signs and communications so that by the time games start in two weeks we are solid. Then there are those—like Smitty—brought up from the triple-A team. They are trying to impress the suits and slide into the big show. Most of them will get cut long before the season starts. The probability of Noah being one of them is high, especially considering there’s some jackass currently riding the roster as my backup.

Sure, that’s it.

I wince internally. I’m not sure how I’m going to make it with these jackasses in my head. They’ve had infinitely more to say now that I’m surrounded by the spaces I shared with them. And usually, it’s calling me out on my bullshit.

That’s because we know you want to do better.

I don’t dignify the sentiment with a response.

Carson’s eyes narrow, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m serious. He runs an aggravated hand through his hair and sighs. “Okay then. You ready?”

“No” is on the tip of my tongue, but I shove it down and grab my gear from the bench and follow him onto the field. We go through the song and dance of stretching before starting with a simple game of catch as the rest of the guys trickle out of the clubhouse and do the same.

Everyone pairs off, mirroring Carson and me, but it’s not like previous years where camaraderie flowed like beer on St. Patrick’s Day. There’s not an ounce of celebration or excitement in the air. Even after a week, it’s every man for himself. The veteran players need to solidify their status on the team while the rookies make sure one slip up doesn’t cost them their chance. Every day is a damn dog and pony show.

I throw the ball back to Carson harder than I need to.

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