“It’s okay now that I know you started with loving me. You’ll come around.”
“I didn’t love you. I thought you were eye candy. And so my brothers thought it would be hilarious if they made a life-size cutout of you and put it on the back of my door.”
I almost cackle. “Life-size? We’ve gone from a magazine cover to a poster to alife-sizecutout? This is the best day of my life.”
“Don’t you want to know how I went from a crush to loathing you with every fiber of my being?”
My laughter stops. “Oh. Uh …” Her challenging expression doesn’t bode well. “Yes?”
“I met you.”
“What? No way. I would remember meeting you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Do you remember your first major league game?”
“Of course.”
“My mom got our whole family tickets because she knew what a huge fan I was. My dad adjusted his schedule so he could fly out with us, and everything. You got a walk, hit a single,andhit a sac fly. It was incredible. Your bat speed was like nothing I’d ever seen. My brothers were almost as obsessed as I was. Even my dad was impressed. So after the game, we stuck around so I could ask you for your autograph.”
It’s my turn to wince. Hard. As exciting as that day was, it was also devastating.
My mom had made me a promise: when I played my first game in the majors—my lifelong dream—she would be there. She was working with a therapist and was ready. She swore up and down she would be there.
She wasn’t.
To top it off, the hate I got from the opposing team and their fans was vicious. Heck, even some of my own teammates were hostile.
Being on the cover of Sports Illustrated at seventeen changed my life, but it also set the tone for how everyone else in baseball would approach me from that moment forward.
“You said, ‘Get a life.’”
“No,” I admit, my insides writhing, “I said ‘get a life and stop ruining mine.’” I can’t swallow. I’m feeling nauseous and even a little lightheaded. And I still need to pee.
“You remember?”
“Notyou. I didn’t even look you in the eyes. But yeah, I remember what I said. It’s eaten away at me for the last, what, seven years?”
She gives a slow blink. “Why? Why has it eaten away at you? Why did you say it?”
WhydidI say it?
No seriously. Why did I say it? I’m having a hard time remembering, but this is something I feel like I should know. I pinch my temples. My headache is getting worse, as is my nausea. Maybe that protein bar isn’t sitting well with me. And my other … bodily urge is getting too bad to handle.
Liesel closes her eyes, resting her head on the seat. It’s late afternoon, but she looks tired.
She breathes deeply, almost painfully. “I feel off.”
“I hear you,” I say.
“It’s probably stress, right?” she asks.
“Probably. I’m sorry to do this, but I have to go. Likegogo. I hope you can still look at me when I get back.”
She nods and waves her hand, not even looking up as she draws in another deep breath.
I grab the door handle, the movement almost tiring. How can grabbing a handle be so draining? I’m breathing way too heavy for an hour and half of doing nothing. I wonder if I’m coming down with something or if it’s stress, like Liesel said.
I open the door, and a gust of icy wind slaps me in the face. My foot sinks into the snow drift that’s already formed around the car. I shiver and plunge my other foot in. I try to leave as quickly as I can, but I hear Liesel moan.
