“Then drop the subbing gig,” he suggests. “With tips, I’m positive you’d be making more here. I could get you on here for forty to fifty hours for the next two weeks, back it down to thirty-five, and then back up to forty. I just can’t give you over forty more than two weeks in a row, or corporate will want to shift you to full time.”
I wrinkle my nose again, and he reaches over and taps it playfully.
“I’ve got you covered, Mills. You know you can always come to me with anything, and I’ll help you with the solution.” He picks at the crusted syrup on one of the nozzles, and I can’t help but think that’s true. He’s a good boss, but more than that, he’s a good friend.
“Will you be okay for an entire month with me gone?” I ask.
He sprays some water out of the nozzle. “Nope. I’ll be counting down the days until your return. Maybe Jackie and I can come visit you and mooch off the freebies while you’re down there.”
I laugh, but the truth is, I’m looking forward to an entire month on my own at one of the most luxurious resorts the Bahamas has to offer…even if it isn’t going to be the relaxing vacation it first sounded like.
The countdown is on. Two months until my dreams start coming true.
CHAPTER 3: Archer Bradley
Outsider
I force myself not to get emotional. It’s pretty easy to keep my emotions in check most of the time.
But this? This is different.
Two more outs until I’m sitting in the stands—not even the dugout—for the next forty games.
Fuck.
It’s beyond frustrating that this is happening, and it feels like it’s happening at the peak of my career. Like things will never be the same when I come back from this. Like my reputation is ruined. People won’t want to work with me. Teammates won’t trust me. It’s already starting. The clubhouse is quiet. Nobody approaches me.
I used to prefer it that way—but that was back when I had Tatum waiting for me at home, and I could unload some of the shit from the day onto her rather than onto my teammates. Maybe that’s why she left, but I was able to open up to her in ways I’ve never opened up to anyone else. I’ve known her since I was a freshman in highschool, and when relationships span that far back, those become the people we can trust the most.
But she’s gone now, and I’ll head back to Vegas to a quiet house too big for one person.
I leave for my trip tomorrow.
It all happens in two outs.
I’ve never wanted to make a game last a little longer before. Not like this. Usually I’m busting my ass to ensure we get those last two outs, but I want this inning to stretch on a little longer.
The batter hits a grounder to the right side, and Eric Griffin on second base sprints to grab it and flip it to Danny Brewer on first.
One more out.
It’s mostly our A-team out here right now. It’s our last game before the regular season, and Troy has been rotating in starters throughout the game so everyone can have that last bit of practice before the games that count begin.
But I won’t be there. Not for the first forty.
He let me stay out here a few more innings than I usually play in spring training games. He knows how much this game means to me. He knows I won’t have anything left for a while starting in one more out. At least he gave me that gift.
I spit into the grass, a leftover habit from the days when I used to chew sunflower seeds in the outfield. Another batter steps to the plate, and he fouls the first pitch to the stands not far from me. His timing is off, so I drop into the ready position and wait for the next one. A swing and a miss. Two strikes. One more and he’s out. One more and the game is over. One more and I’m off for the next forty games—which is nearly a month and a half, for the record. With our schedule, we only get four or five days “off” most months, and they’re usually spent traveling.
I hear the sharp sound of the bat as it connects with the ball, that sound I love so damn much, and I watch as the ball sails toward me. I keep my eye on it as I run toward the back wall, never breaking my focus on it until I hear it slap into my glove.
I caught the final out. The game is over. We won.
I should be celebrating with my team. Instead, I feel like an outsider.
It’s been a common theme my entire life. I felt like an outsider in myfootballfamily when my four brothers chose to play a sport different from the one I chose. I could’ve played football. I was a wide receiver my sophomore year of high school, and I was a damn good one. Good enough that I played varsity on a competitive team as a tenth grader. Good enough that colleges were interested.
But I didn’t love football the way I loved baseball.
