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“Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
My words are clipped and my emotions feel raw.
I don’t want to talk or think. I just want to get back to the station and throw myself into work and forget about my father and all the bullshit that seems to follow me around like a black cloud these days.
“If you say so,” Brian muses, taking his coffee.
Thankfully, he’s not pushy and seems okay with driving in silence all the way back to the station.
Once we're back, I make a call to Detective Briggs to give him an update. He assures me they’re staying on top of things—doing routine patrols and filtering out messages and emails.
“We’re all going to stay vigilant,” he assures me. “They’ll slip up. They always do. And when that happens, we’ll be there.”
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. “Okay.”
That seems to be my go-to reply today, but I don’t have anything else to say. It feels like my life is happeningto meright now, like I don’t have a choice, and that’s just not me.
I’m where I am in my professional and personal life because of choices I’ve made.
And I’m okay with that.
I’m okay with my family disowning me.
I chose that.
But I didn’t choose this.
I didn’t choose to be stalked.
I didn’t choose to be harassed.
And it’s really starting to piss me the hell off.
“Thank you,” I finally say, ending the call and getting back to things I can control—editing videos, writing copy, and getting ready for tonight’s game.
Tonight’s game where I’ll see Mack. And with that thought, I’m flustered and hot for an entirely different reason.
* * *
A few hours later,I’m in the press box near the dugout watching the Revelers struggle for the first time in a long time. They’ve been dominating in their offense and defense, and even during games where the pitching might suffer, their offense makes up the difference. And vice versa.
But tonight, nothing is clicking.
There was just something cloying in the air, uneasy. Tension among the players seemed higher than usual and it left a heaviness on the field, like the air right before a thunderstorm.
Buddy pulled Ross after four innings.
No one has been able to get a hit off Miami.
Our bullpen is like a revolving door, with every relief pitcher coming out and loading the bases.
And just when I think things couldn’t get any worse, one of the batters for Miami hits a foul ball and when Mack dives to catch it there’s an audible cry of anguish that makes my stomach lurch.
The entire stadium goes quiet as Buddy and one of the trainers walk out to check on Mack, who is laying on the ground.
He made the catch, but no one seems to care about that.
