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“Shit.” He rubs his beard as he lets out a sigh. “I’ll talk to the school, see what they suggest doing.”
Even though Richard is one of the most recognizable men in America, he and Sandra have worked hard to keep that separate from their private lives with us. I didn’t realize just how normal everything about my life was—intense training schedule aside—until I came to college. I got rid of all my social media within a month of starting at McKee. Izzy eventually wore me down and made me a public Instagram, which has exactly two pictures on it, both of me in uniform on the field. I never use it, so I have no idea why it has thousands of followers. The thought of being anything like James, who has already had to file a couple of restraining orders to protect him and Bex, is terrifying. I don’t want that kind of future.
I’m just a left fielder with a nice swing. I’m not worthy of a feature on an online sports gossip site, or wherever these photographs are going to end up. That photographer only wanted my picture, not Ozzy’s, or Hunter’s, or anyone else’s, because my father was Jacob Miller, and my adoptive father is Richard Callahan.
Richard is going to be pissed when he hears about this.
“Thanks, sir,” I tell Coach. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to apologize for.” He takes a step closer, squeezing my arm reassuringly. “You understand? They should know better than to try to pull this shit. The athletic department won’t let it stand.”
“Will it get worse?”
I blurt the words before I can think better of them, my face burning. I stare at the dusty floor of the dugout. It’s ridiculous to complain about. No wonder the whole situation annoyed Ozzy. Boo for me, so talented and privileged that people are acting like I’m already playing in the majors.
At least I still have one more season of college ball after this. One more season of playing with the teammates I’ve come to love in a place I feel comfortable. The draft’s been screwing with my mind, but my future isn’t quite here yet.
“I don’t know,” Coach Martin says slowly. “That would be a better question for Richard. I do know that talent comes with scrutiny, and you have talent in spades.”
“I love baseball, but all the other shit—I can’t do it.”
“Sure, you can,” he says. “You can do anything you set your mind to—that’s never going to be the issue for you. I know you, Sebastian. You’re someone who sticks around. You keep your head down and grind. Focus on what’s important—preparing for the next game.”
It should be that easy. Richard certainly makes it seem so, and my brothers and sister, too. When Izzy is in the middle of the volleyball season, she never dwells on the mistakes or missed points.
It used to be easier to tune out the noise. But what about when it’s right on the edge of the fence, pointing a camera in your face? What about teammates calling you by the last name you should, by all rights, still be using, even when you’ve been part of a different family for years? What if when you look in the mirror, you see your father staring back at you?
And what if you’re dreaming of something else all the while?
I’ve wished so many times over the years for more time with my parents. I used to play a game with myself, bargaining for it silently. I’d never talk to Cooper again if it meant another conversation with my father. I’d never accept another hug from Sandra if it meant breathing in my mother’s perfume one more time. I’d grow up with my mother’s estranged relatives instead of the Callahans, if only I had five more minutes with my parents first.
Right now, I want more than anything to talk to my dad again.
But since I don’t have that option, once Coach sends me and Hunter to the locker room to wash up before the second half of practice, I call Richard.
25
MIA
After dinner,I have every intention of locking myself in Izzy’s room for the evening. Sebastian left a tray of baked ziti in the fridge; I had some standing at the counter, barely waiting for it to cool down before attacking it.
Then I dragged myself upstairs, allowed exactly fifteen minutes for mindless scrolling through Instagram, and sat down with my highlighters and pens. For the past three hours, I’ve been annotating papers for tomorrow’s roundtable with Professor Santoro and the rest of the team. Alice reminded me several times today to make sure I had something useful to contribute. I just told her to focus on her own analysis, which I’m sure didn’t win me any points with her.
Yet the moment I notice headlights in the driveway, I set down my highlighter. I didn’t lie to Izzy when we last spoke. We’re not dating. But that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of Sebastian whenever he’s nearby. I still have an article and a half to slog through, and maybe if I don’t see him right now, I’ll manage to keep my hands to myself, but despite those very rational thoughts running through my mind, I find myself hurrying down the stairs.
I get to the last step as he opens the door.
Part of me—a bigger part than I care to think about—wants to jump into his arms. I manage to restrain myself, pulling the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my hands instead. For half a beat, we just smile at each other. I feel, absurdly, like some housewife in an old movie.Hello, honey.
“Seb—”
He presses me against the front door, using the force to shut it, and kisses the breath out of me. He tastes of lip balm and sweat. The evening air still clings to his skin, slightly cool and fresh. He works my hair out of its bun, tugging on a fistful as he nips my bottom lip.
Kissing Sebastian makes mehungry. Not for food, or for breath, or even just for him. My soul expands, yearning for something on the horizon. Something I can taste in his kiss, feel in his hands, and sense in the air like a mirage.
He makes a low noise as he breaks away; when he leans in again, I yank him close by the collar, licking a line down his throat before finding his lips once more. I only release him when my lungs burn for air, and even then, I reach out, lacing my fingers through his.
I used to hate kissing, but something changed when he pressed his lips to mine for the first time. It was a bitterly cold January day, and my gloves fell in a puddle outside the library, and my phone was full of texts from him, and when he smiled at me in the stacks, I couldn’t help it, something inside me snapped, and I dragged him to the nearest private space—an old seminar room hidden on the fifth floor of the library. It was quiet and two degrees too warm, and I felt the hunger in both of us, satiated a little more with each kiss.
