Page 74 of Off the Trail

But then he coughs. “You’re really okay with not playing anymore?”

“I’m—” I search my heart, trying to be as honest as possible. “I’m still sad. Still working on processing it. It really hurt to be cut. But I have a lot of hope for the future. There’s more to life than baseball, believe it or not.”

I can hear the sigh he lets out on the other end of the line. “When you were a kid, baseball lit you up. Most kids, that light burns out, but with you, it just got stronger. Do you know how grateful I am that you got to do what you love for a living?”

I’ve never heard him talk about this before. “Dad⁠—”

“When you got cut, it devastated me not because I was disappointed in you but because I thought it meant you weren’t going to get to experience that joy any more. I didn’t know how to talk to you about it. I’m sorry I’ve been radio silent. That’s on me, not you.”

I swallow hard. It never occurred to me that he’d been avoiding me because he was sad for me. But I’ve always advanced in my career—the reversal was new for both of us. Neither of us knew how to handle it.

“And whatever you do next, I’m always going to be proud of you. Of course I want to be a part of your life.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I slump as relief thuds through my body. We’re going to be okay. “I have a lot to tell you and Mom. Maybe we could all talk in a couple of days?”

“Sounds good, son.”

“Bye, Dad. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I open the sliding glass door to let in some fresh air and step outside. I look up at the stars, but they aren’t there. I mean, I know they’re there, but I can’t see them. It’s never bothered me before, but now it chafes. Cosmic insignificance theory strikes again. My problems are small, but one of them—not being able to see the stars—can be rectified by going back to Sanctuary Lake.

The fierce ache of missing Blaze, the man I’m falling in love with, would be fixed, too. I pull out my phone again, but when I call him, it goes straight to voicemail.

I close the balcony door, take a shower, put on some clothes I pull at random from my dresser.

My bed’s too big, too soft. I navigate to a white noise app, choose something called “forest sounds,” and fall asleep imagining I can smell pine and briny lake water. I dream of sunlight streaming through trees.

Chapter 33

Blaze

I’m out in the woods all day Saturday leading some retreat guests on a long hike up the mountain. We get back as dusk is falling. The group looks energized and happy, and I take gratification in a job well done, even if part of me wasn’t truly present today. My mind kept looping back to Shawn. I wonder if I’ll always think of him now, no matter how far away he is. No matter if he never comes back.

There’s no way Shawn could have reached me today even if he wanted to, but I still wish I’d heard from him.

I close up the boathouse and swing by the kitchen where Nolan’s slicing some kind of squash cellophane thin. “You wanna go out again?”

He looks surprised, shakes his head. “Not tonight. Why? Your boy still not back?”

I don’t answer. “Maybe another time.”

As soon as I get back to my house and Wi-Fi, my phone dings with notifications. I whip the device out so fast Misty barks at my sudden motion.

They’re from Shawn—two texts.

From this morning: I’m staying for today’s game. Lots to tell you when I see you.

And, hours later: We won. I’ll call you.

But he didn’t. Or at least he didn’t leave a voicemail.

It’s not lost on me that he wrote “we won,” as if he’s still part of the team. Maybe he is. And it’s not like I don’t want the Laurels to win. They’re my favorite team. It just feels like it’s them or me—that’s childish, but it’s how I feel.

I hadn’t noticed Brooke eating a bowl of cereal, standing over the kitchen sink. I nudge in next to her to wash my hands. “I heard the Laurels are league champs,” she says. “Shawn must be thrilled.”

“Yeah, I guess he is.”