Page 56 of Curveball

Me: Shut up. Dick.

I’d been in Austin for a little over a week, and the discouragement was settling in deep. Everyone kept telling me the same thing—that just because I felt stronger didn’t mean my elbow was ready to perform at the level I expected. Knowing that didn’t make it any easier.

I sat on the bullpen bench after my latest session with Coach Turner, stewing, rolling a baseball in my hand. Shane dropped down beside me and bumped my shoulder.

“Stop being such a depressing shit, James,” he said. “You look good. Your mechanics are solid. You don’t look weak. The velocity will come back. It just takes time.”

I rolled my eyes, staring down at the ball as it spun between my fingers. “Easy for you to say, Witek. You just launched a ninety-nine-mile-an-hour fastball.”

Shane grinned. “I did, didn’t I?”

I shoved him off the bench, his laughter echoing as he caught himself.

I tried—and failed—to hide my smile.

This was why I needed to be back in Austin. With my team. Doing the work. As much as they were a bunch of degenerates, they always knew how to pull me out of my own head.

“You still good with everyone coming over tonight?” Shane asked as he brushed dirt off his pants and stood.

“Yeah,” I said. “Bring beer and Chinese food.”

“Fuck off! That was not a foul ball!” Drake shouted at my TV, jumping to his feet and slinging his Xbox controller across the room.

I smirked, shoveling beef and broccoli into my mouth and washing it down with a long pull of beer.

“That was one hundred percent a foul ball,” Beckham yelled back. “Quit being a little bitch.”

I missed this. Takeout, beer, and overgrown man-children taking a video game way too seriously. Whenever we had a few nights off, we usually ended up at my penthouse playing MLB The Show. The only rule was you couldn’t choose yourself as a player. With six professional baseball players in the room, things got competitive fast.

Drake and Beckham were locked in a heated battle while the rest of us sat back and enjoyed the chaos.

Maddox stood. “I’m grabbing another beer—anyone want one?” He glanced around at the sea of raised hands. “All right. I’ll see if I can carry six beers, you dickheads.”

Shane jumped up, laughing. “Relax, ya big baby. I’ll help.”

They disappeared into the kitchen.

Cohen leaned toward me, lo mein dangling from his mouth. After shoveling in another bite, he asked, “You hear from Farrah at all?”

I shook my head. “Nah. Don’t expect to.”

He nodded once. “Sorry, man.”

He didn’t push, and I appreciated that.

It was bad enough she lived rent-free in my head every goddamn day. Part of me wondered that if, just once, I’d swallowed my pride and fought back—said what I wanted to say instead of letting her decide for both of us—would things have ended differently?

How much of her choice was fear? Was it really what she wanted, or what she’d convinced herself she had to do?

Between Farrah and my piss-poor pitching, I had no idea what my future looked like anymore.

And that terrified me.

I didn’t think there was a world where I could have both baseball and Farrah—especially after her reaction to those photos. But now I wasn’t even sure another season of baseball was realistic.

Retiring meant walking away on my own terms, with my pride intact—and the possibility of having Farrah back in my life.

Going back meant risking everything. Standing on a mound and realizing I wasn’t who I used to be.