Page 156 of Unexpected Forever
“It’s hard to say. I think he’s been putting it off for years, and it finally came back to bite him.”
“Fuck you, Larry,” I mutter under my breath, but dread curls in my gut.
“And even if he comes back, it’s doubtful he’ll ever have that perfect game he’s chasing.”
It’s a well-aimed shot below the belt, and he knows it.
Being the mature adult I am, I give the oversized TV screen the finger.
My legs bounce, nerves and anxiety making my insides quiver. They’re two concepts foreign to me until now, and I have no idea how to handle it.
Unable to sit any longer, I stand and begin to pace the small, plush waiting area of the Bull Sharks training facility.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet.”
I turn to see Nate come up behind me, a smile on his face. I run my good hand through my hair and blow out a breath. I’m glad to see he’s alone.
I didn’t need “losing my fucking mind” added to the list of my defects right now.
A dead arm is more than enough.
I come to a stop in front of him. “Sorry.”
“I’m just giving you shit.” He glances at the screen. “Ah, Larry Gordon. Still pissed at you for that time he said you purposely hit him with a pitch and the ump didn’t agree?”
I rub the back of my neck, where it seems the tension has decided to permanently reside. “Seems so.”
Nate crosses his arms over his chest, his gaze on the TV. “He went on to strike out and, in the next inning, collided with the wall and broke his leg, ending his career.”
“He holds a grudge, apparently.” I sigh before turning to him. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be down at the stadium by now.”
“I heard you’re starting PT today, so I thought I’d come and check on you before you started.”
Before Nate retired and then came back to work in the club’s front office, of the club this year, we’d started as a battery 310 times, one of the longest runs as a pitcher and catcher combo in league history.
Besides my buddy Theo, Nate is the closest thing I have to a brother.
“Thanks, man. But I’m fine.”
He raises a brow. “You sure?”
I know what he’s asking without asking.
How’s your mental game?
My gut churns at the insinuation. Baseball is a mentally challenging sport, and my head needs to be as right as my arm.
Clearing my throat, I look back to the TV, where a commercial for a high-end whiskey has replaced Larry the asshole.
Rolling my lips inward, I nod. “Yeah, I’m good.” I feel the weight of his stare on me. “Okay, I’m working on it.”
My phone pings, and I bite back a sigh of relief.
Relief that’s short-lived when I read the text on the screen.
THEO: Hey man. I need to talk to you. Text me when you get a chance today.
My stomach drops at the urgent tone of his text. It’s not normal for Theo. But I don’t have time to do more than fire back a quick response.
