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But I will not crack.
Swallowing my powers and pride is good practice for being a free citizen.
I haven’t tasted freedom since before my perfume.
Maybe ever.
The closest I came to following my heart was when I was still living with the foster-monsters—those rare days I could sneak out of the house and shadow the guys I planned to follow forever.
I’m trying not to get sucked into the past when my phone chirps an alert. My data is monitored as closely as I am, so I mostly keep my browsing to the weather and weird fanfics, but I’ve always treated myself with baseball score notifications.
The settings must’ve gotten confused when my team made the playoffs.
This time, the pop-up links to a video.
Cannot watch.
I’ve spent years not chasing my ghosts.
I don’t want the SAS tracking down my past any more than I want to keep fantasizing about a future I can’t have.
But watched by cams, plugged into the wall to charge my ankle monitors, and with a headache hammering thanks to the drug-of-the-day, freedom feels farther and farther away.
My willpower’s iron when it comes to the SAS.
But for my guys?
Weak as wet tissue.
Before I can think, I click.
No prep, no foreplay, I’m rammed with a bearded, boy-next-door dream in a white jersey, who tosses his curveball using the same form he taught me.
My heart flutters out of control, and I pat my chest to remind her—we can’t have him.
Reese is number nine, with PARKER plastered across his tall, straight back.
I can’t decide if I should be heartbroken or thrilled that he’s still using his placeholder last name.
The guys haven’t finalized their pack.
They haven’t taken a mate.
That has nothing to do with me, except that it feeds the frantic gut-butterflies who never learn their lesson.
The pitch replay ends, cutting to a live-action of Reese and the guy replacing him on the mound.
His deep brown eyes pinch with strain.
Filling his uniform to aching perfection, the grown-up man with the bushy playoff beard still reminds me of the scrawny orphan kid who was the first to ever pick me for his team.
Those summer days, when I slipped the bickering adults and screaming babies for batting practice with a sweet-grinning Reese.
My naive little heart throbs, gushing now that I picked the scab.
Not just Reese.
Su-Jin.
