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Sometimes, though, moving forward means you leave something worthwhile in the past.
My boots crunch against the gravel on the path leading to the Jones’s wooden porch. Mr. Jones, Carter, and I had refinished it the summer between junior and senior year. After all these years, it could use a touch-up.
I climb onto the first step when the front door swings open. “There he is, Mr. Baseball Star turned Villain, himself.” Carter’s broad form pushes past the screen door and approaches me, arms wide. “Bring it in, big guy. I bet you could use a hug.”
I bat away his arms. “Fuck you.”
“Ah, come on.” Carter laughs. “Don’t tell me you’re letting the news get to you? The Loons had to say something to justify why they traded you. Everyone was calling them idiots for letting you go.”
“They didn’t have to lie,” I huff.
It’s been two weeks since the allegation that I intentionally lost the final game in the World Series dropped, and I’m stillpissed as hell. Not just because it’s not true, but because of the way it makes me look. Anyone who believes that I, a professional athlete who’s worked his whole life to reach the highest level of the sport he loves, would throw a game out of petty revenge must believe I am a petulant, weak-willed man. And after being raised by such a man, I can think of no greater insult.
The desire to respond to the Loons’ lie had been fierce. Avery and Gary had to talk me down daily those first few days. I wanted to sue the organization for libel… slander… whatever it would take to get them to admit what they said wasn’t true. But because the allegation came from an “unknown source” and wasn’t an official statement from the team, little could be done.
Avery did manage to get the online magazine that broke the story to post a follow-up statement, saying the allegation hadn’t been corroborated by anyone in the Loons organization. It wasn’t a retraction, but it was something. But it didn’t soothe the anger that’s been burning in my chest these past two weeks.
“You’re right. They didn’t.” Carter clasps a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, man. This sucks.” At six-five, I have three inches on my best friend, but he’s more muscular. At two-hundred and fifty pounds, he’s a formidable machine. He was named captain of the Rough Riders’ defense his year, and he’s having a kick-ass year. I wouldn’t be surprised if the team goes to the Super Bowl. Imagine, both of us going to our sports’ respective championship games. That would really give Rose Hill something to talk about.
I shrug off his condolences. “It’s fine. Sorry about missing your birthday, by the way.” Carter had invited me to Miami to celebrate his twenty-ninth birthday at the end of October. He and his team were playing the local team on Monday night and then had two days off before they needed to report to practice. They used that time to celebrate.
“You were a little busy, what with being in the World Series.” He laughs. “But if you feel compelled to make it up to me, you can organize my next birthday celebration. I’m thinking Vegas is the perfect spot for my dirty thirty.”
The crowded city filled with drunk, stumbling men and women who gamble away their hard-earned money hardly sounds like a good time to me, but it that’s what Carter wants, I’ll suck it up. “Sure. Sounds good.”
Carter whoops and throws an arm around my shoulder. I duck so his arm slides off me. “Knock it off.” I shove his chest and step around him to go inside.
He laughs behind me, making me crack a smile despite the fact that, after all these years, he still tries to hug me even knowing that I hate to be touched. The most I tolerate are shoulder clasps or handshakes, and that’s usually reserved for men I trust and respect. Just one of many issues cultivated by my lackluster relationship with my father.
The moment I’m inside, I note the scent of cinnamon rolls lingers in the air. The sugary breakfast is a Jones Thanksgiving tradition. The holiday isn’t for two days, but since the Rough Riders are playing on that day, the Jones family is celebrating today.
And while I wanted to respect the promise I made to Carlee and keep my distance, Carter told me that his parents wouldn’t accept my absence. It’s a small miracle one of them hasn’t shown up to my penthouse to demand to know why I haven’t come to see them since I’ve been back. I suspect the negative press has kept them at bay. They know I need space to process problems. That’s one of the benefits of them knowing me since I was a kid.
The screen door slams shut as Carter follows me in.
“I know one of my children didn’t just let the door slam closed,” Mrs. Jones’s voice travels from the kitchen in warning.
“Sorry, Mom,” Carter calls back. “The wind caught it.”
“Liar,” I mutter.
He grins.
I unlace my boots and kick them off, leaving them by the front door. Footsteps head my way. I look up, my heart in my throat. It settles back in place when I see Mrs. Jones, not Carlee, walking down the hallway.
“Corey Johnson, my dear boy, I am so happy to see you.” I don’t resist as she rises on her toes and slips her slender arms around mine.
“Hello, Mrs. Jones.” With my arms pinned, I pat her back awkwardly. I’m not a fan of hugs from women either, but I don’t have the same physical aversion to it like I do from men.
She pulls back and looks me up and down. “You look good.”
“I feel good.”
“Good.” She nods. “That’s good. We’ve missed you. I’m so happy you’ve moved back.”
I force myself to say, “Me too.”
“Come into the kitchen. You and Carter can help peel potatoes while I finish the rest of the meal.”
