I shake my head. “I’m okay.” I hop down out of my seat and stretch. The little nap didn’t do anything but make me feel even more tired. It must be the heartbreak paired with the travel, but I’ll be back to normal by tomorrow.
Only…I’m not.
I’m usually one of those people that gets home and has a load of laundry going an hour later with the rest of my belongings from my trip put away—suitcase included.
Today, however, that didn’t happen.
I collapsed on my couch with my suitcases beside the door, and that’s where they’ve been for the last…I squint at the clock.
Holy shit. The last ten hours.
It’s a little after four in the morning. It’s dark in here except for the lamp I flicked on when I collapsed on the couch, and I really, really have to pee.
I’m wide awake after so much sleep even though it’s super early. Paradise Island is only an hour ahead of Chicago, so it shouldn’t really be impacting me the way jet lag might. I guess I just need some time to get readjusted back to reality.
Reality kind of sucks, to be honest.
I have a text from Chip sent last night with my schedule for the next week, and he wants me in from four until close. It’s a Saturday, which means I could be there until one or even two in the morning.
I should go back to sleep. I’ll never make it until two AM if I get up right now.
But when I lie in my bed, all I can think about is all the nights I spent tucked into Archer’s side.
I miss him. Fiercely. With a pain I didn’t know I could feel.
But he checked out. Of the hotel. On us. It’s over.
And that’s something I’m just going to have to get used to.
CHAPTER 40: Archer Bradley
Running Scared
I swing harder than usual, and I miss the ball completely.
Another swing. Another miss.
My batting average is slightly higher than the overall league average for left fielders, but you’d never know it from today’s performance.
I think I’m trying to take out my aggression on the ball, and instead, I keep missing it.
I’m alone, though, so I don’t really care. Nobody’s watching. Nobody’s keeping score.
Alone as usual.
Baseball usually calms the storm inside me, but today it’s raging in a new way. A way only one person could possibly calm…the same person who caused the storm itself.
I’m in my backyard, where I set up a batting cage years ago, and I’m out bright and early since the temps start to heat up pretty quickly now that it’s the start of May herein Vegas. It’s only sixty-four now at seven a.m., but by later this afternoon, it’ll be in the upper eighties.
I hit for an hour, and then I change into my swim trunks and jump in the pool.
I swim a few laps, naturally thinking of the last few times I was in a pool. The time I slipped right into Millie in the middle of the water where anyone could’ve seen but no one did—probably because half of them were doing the exact same thing, something we never noticed, either.
Yeah, swimming isn’t working for me, either.
I do some core work with my medicine balls. I run through some throwing drills as I focus on accuracy. I get my arms loose and game-ready since I only have another twelve games to sit out. The Heat plays every day for the next twelve days, and the day I’m scheduled to return is a rare night off. That’s fine, though. It gives me the chance to access the clubhouse and training complex ahead of time.
And that’s how my days go. I’m doing my best to put the past behind me and act like I’m not destroyed over what happened. As if I’m not thinking about her every second of every hour.
