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Do you have time to talk?It’s a long shot. I know how busy game days are, especially for the starting pitcher, but soon my phone is ringing in my hand and I grin as I answer.
“Hey Maxwell.”
“Duckling,” he sighs. “I always have time to talk to you.”
The sound of his voice eases the tension in my shoulders as I sink into the couch in my office. I’ve missed his voice around the house, especially his sleepy, first thing in the morning voice. He would sit at the island, hair mussed from sleep, face scratchy with scruff, glasses perched on his nose as he read on his tablet. I miss him reading morning headlines. Singing along with his favorite music. Playing the piano in the library to decompress after a game.
I miss him.
I haven’t really allowed myself to miss him this week, but at the sound of his voice sadness hits me like a wave.
“I miss you,” I find myself breathing the words, almost reluctant to admit it to myself. To him. “I miss you so much.”
Silence meets my confession and for a moment my heart sinks to my toes. For a moment I wonder…
I wonder if all of this has been a mistake. If it’s all been one sided. Nothing to him…buteverythingto me.
“I miss you too.” His voice is heavy with barely concealed emotion. “Sutton, these last few days…I’ve been adrift. Unsteady. And not just because I’m the old guy on the team now, but because you’re not here.”
“How are you feeling about starting tonight?” I ask, attempting to deflect from the longing that’s settled in my chest. “Be honest with me.”
“I’m exhausted, Sutton. Luca tells me it’s just jetlag, but he doesn’t have the same aches and pains I have.”
“Your elbow?” I ask, trying to keep the worry out of my voice.
“The twinge has gotten more persistent.”
“Have you talked to the training staff?”
“Yeah, they told me to rest it, and I have. But I have a job to do today.”
“Be careful, Maxwell.” I know he’s retiring at the end of the season, but I want him to actuallymake itto the end of the season without a career-ending injury. So many pitchers haven’t made it as many years as Max without surgeries to repair torn ligaments in their throwing arms.
“I will…” He pauses, the silence is so long I worry we’ve been cut off until, “Will you be watching?”
“For as long as I can.”
“I love you, Sutton.”
“I love you, Max. We’ll talk later?” Navigating the three-hour time difference between us has been a bit of a challenge. I wake up to texts or voicemails from him, and by the time I’m able to return his calls he’s working out or in team meetings. I see him briefly in the dugout when I’m able to watch Mustangs games, and usually text him just before I go to bed. Sometimes though, like today, our schedules line up just right, and I get to hear his voice.
“We will.”
We end our call and I sit for a minute in the silence of my office, the faint sounds of the clubhouse floating throughthe door that separates me from the team. I have batting drills to run, a coaches meeting to attend, and a game tonight. I have a job to do. And as much as it pains me to do it without Max here, I change into workout gear, lace up my cleats and drag myself out to the field for drills.
“Coach!” There’s a knock on my door shortly after returning from workouts. “We’ve got the Mustangs on in the clubhouse if you want to come watch Max with us.”
I was going to watch from my office, but baseball is meant to be shared. Nico offers me his seat, but I stand in the back of the room, still semi-private, and watch as Max takes the mound for the first time in a Mustangs uniform. He looks good in their classic white and blue, with a bold, stylized ‘M’ emblazoned on his chest. His hair is longer and curling a bit in the obvious humidity. His first pitch is a fastball down the middle, and the batter’s swing is late. The entire clubhouse cheers the strike one call. And when he eventually strikes out the Kings’ leadoff hitter, our clubhouse erupts. But in the chaos, my eyes are glued to the screen.
His eyebrows are pinched together. He shakes out his throwing arm and his catcher calls time, jogging to the mound. Maxwell shakes his head a few times and the catcher gets back to his spot behind the plate, setting up to receive the next pitch. Max throws an offspeed that I don’t think he meant to throw. He never throws offspeed as the first pitch to a hitter, regardless of what scouting reports tell him to do. And his next pitch is wide, so far off the plate that his catcher scrambles for it.
The cheers in the clubhouse die down. Nico moves closer tome, standing at the back of the room, shoulder pressed to mine in silent reassurance. On his next pitch Max’s followthrough takes him right off the mound, his right arm hanging limp at his side. A hush falls over our clubhouse and my breath catches in my throat as the Mustangs training staff jog out to meet Maxwell and take him out of the game.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Painful Choices
MAX
