AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I chuckle, accepting the rocks glass from him, the two of us clinking them together before each taking a sip. The bitter alcohol touches every surface of my mouth, and I hold it there a tad longer than normal before finally swallowing it down, enjoying the way it warms my body. My dad’s not a big drinker, so I don’t doubt his midnight snack run becoming a whiskey break is entirely about me.
“How’s your arm feeling?”
I shake my head and bring the glass to my lips again. “Like shit,” I say, more honestly than I’ve been with anyone so far. Taking another sip, I keep my eyes on the commentators on the TV. “But not too bad, all things considered.”
He nods, and we sit in silence together for a long moment, the highlight reel moving on to teams heading to the playoffs.
“Rush asked me to be the batting coach for the Pirates,” I eventually say.
My dad glances at me, a smile on his face. “Well that would be a fun way to spend your time at home.”
I nod. “Maybe.”
“Just maybe?”
Taking another sip, I think it over again, the idea of helping out with my old team. It could be fun, building up the players who are where I was not too long ago, not to mention it would be nice to spend more time with Rush. And get a paycheck to boot.
But for whatever reason, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to do it, even though I can’t figure out why.
“Well, I think you should consider it,” my dad offers. “Those kids would be lucky to work with someone as talented as you.”
I give him a tight smile. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
Though how lucky could they be to get stuck with some guy who can’t even hack it in Triple-A? The thought is unusual, likely the result of the touch of whiskey in my blood, and I do my best to push it away so it doesn’t take hold.
As if he can sense my thoughts, my dad wraps his arm around my shoulders.
“You’ll overcome this challenge, Bishop. I know you will.”
That uneasy feeling eases slightly at his encouragement. I always feel buoyed by my dad’s support, and I’m particularly thankful for it in this moment when I feel so uncharacteristically down.
That’s Mark Mitchell, though. He knows how to show up at just the right moment, to provide just that one gentle hand on your back that helps you feel a little more balanced, a little less alone. It was like that all growing up, and it doesn’t surprise me that it’s like that now.
“Thanks, Pop,” I say. “Appreciate it.”
We watch the replay on mute for a bit, the light from the TV glowing through the room, until we each finish our glass of whiskey. Then I push awkwardly off the couch, give my dad a hug, say good night, and head back up the stairs to my room.
It should be comforting, coming home, and on most occasions, it is. I return a few times a year, mostly for family stuff or holidays. It was easy enough, being only an hour and a half down the mountain at college, popping back for quick trips just to see the fam.
I loved growing up in Cedar Point, loved everything about it, but I always assumed if I came back someday, it would be on my terms, because I wanted to. Not because of…this. Not because of a foolish mistake, an injury that could have easily been avoided.
I sink back into my bed, gritting my teeth as a twinge of discomfort slices through my arm at the movement, though the pain doesn’t linger long. The whiskey has lessened my inhibitions, and the alcohol lets through that tiny kernel of fear I can’t eliminate entirely. My mind swirls, thinking over the things I don’t dare to think during the daytime: what this injury might do to my career, to my future, to everything I’ve worked so hard for, for so long.
Hopefully, this is just a small setback, just a temporary delay, and not the end before anything has really even begun.
I sleep in the next morning, which is unusual for me but expected considering how late I was lying awake, staring at the ceiling. My eyes didn’t close until I saw a faint hint of color beginning to lighten the sky, so I’m still kind of groggy when I rise, a delicious smell in the air.
Skipping the shower, I rinse my face and head downstairs, grinning when I spot my sister in the kitchen and what looks to be a grilled cheese on the stove.
“Making breakfast?”
Bellamy snorts and uses a spatula to flip the sandwich. “Try lunch. It’s 12:30.” She grabs an orange and glances back at me, her nose wrinkling at my disheveled state. “You look like you slept horribly.”
I make a face at her then step up to where she’s standing at the counter, watching as she begins peeling.
“Thanks for that. Morning Bish, you look like shit,” I mock on a laugh, snagging a piece of her orange and popping it in my mouth. “It’s not like I’m recovering from a devastating injury or anything.”
She rolls her eyes then slaps my hand when I reach out for another piece of fruit.
