Page 36 of Serving Bunt

“Talking about yourself like your feelings don’t matter. That’s twice in one night, and I don’t like it.”

Silence.

“Just because you care about doing things better than the rest of us assholes doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you,” I continued quietly. “Don’t minimize your feelings just because somebody else might’ve handled it differently.”

He didn’t answer right away.

And for some reason, that bothered me more than it should’ve. Because I knew that feeling, the instinct to dismiss your own hurt before somebody else could.

I’d spent years doing the exact same thing.

“My therapist says stuff like that,” he finally admitted.

“Well, your therapist sounds incredibly intelligent and sexy.”

That pulled a startled laugh out of him. “Her name is Florence, and I’m pretty sure she was alive during the world war.”

I snorted. “Which one?”

“Take your pick.”

The last few pieces of the Matty Miller puzzle were starting to click into place. And honestly, the final picture put a lot into perspective, things I’d known about him for years.

Whereas most of our teammates could wash away a bad game with a scalding shower and some fatty, postgame meal, Matty would sit at his locker replaying every at-bat in his head like game tape. Every missed swing, every defensive play he thought he could’ve handled cleaner.

I couldn’t count how many times I’d walked into the cages early and found him already there, drenched in sweat and trying to “fix” some microscopic flaw in his swing mechanics nobody else had even noticed.

The guy was a two-time Golden Glove nominee.

I had always chalked it up to him being intensely competitive. Having the kind of obsessive work ethic coaches drooled over. But lying here beside him now, I understood it differently.

It wasn’t just perfectionism. It was deeper than that.

It was the fear that if he wasn’t flawless, people would stop seeing him at all.

“You know, you’re not exactly easy to read either,” he said after a minute.

I let out a soft laugh. “Trust me, Alabama. My book is more like People magazine.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

Matty’s voice was quiet, but firm. Like he was tired of letting me get away with the easy version of myself.

Join the club.

“I’m serious. No jokes, no bullshit. Just talk to me.” The mattress shifted as he rolled onto his side to face me. “The way you used to.”

The way you used to.

As the stranger on the other end of our DMs. PeteRoseCity9.

The easy answer hovered right there on my tongue. Something light and silly, a joke about eldest child syndrome. Anything to redirect the conversation somewhere safer.

But Matty deserved more than that.

He had already given me the truth tonight. It only felt fair to meet him there.

I swallowed hard.