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Bishop.
Dutch.
No matter how broken I am, no matter how small and shattered my pieces, I’ll always wish they could be mine.
Turn me to dust, and every little fleck of me will fight to scatter on their skin.
I tilt the phone so I won’t catch my pining reflection on screen.
Reese fist-bumps his replacement, and the camera follows him to the dugout. His teammates clap his back, but he retreats to the far corner, putting a towel over his head and tucking his face between his knees in defeat that sneaks under my lungs and makes me twitch to give a comfort hug.
It’s not until they pan away that I realize I forgot to hit the volume.
I could hear the ballpark in my memories. The crack of the bat and Reese’s gentle voice that’s probably dropped deep enough to resurrect my dead hormones with a single purr.
The game commentator isn’t as dreamy as my fantasies.
“—worst performance of the year. Hope Yagami can turn things around for the Cryptids on the mound.”
“I’ll be shocked if Yagami isn’t pulled up to the majors. But with that injury acting up, Parker’ll be lucky to finish the season.”
I press my chest, trying to stop its outraged thump.
His arm’s still hurting?
Shit. I need to check the news instead of just the scores.
But why would the team let him go? Are they fucking morons?
Reese was born to—
No.
I power down and shove my phone under my pillow.
I can’t be trusted.
Can’t think about Reese.
Don’t think about the boy who taught you how to play.
Don’t think about the boys who gave you a place to belong.
The guys knew me better than anyone, but I made sure they never caught a peek of the real me. I’m just some kid they forgot.
I hoped that after I awakened, we could—
NO.
I roll deep into the sheet, tugging the fabric over my head.
It’s too late.
It’s too late, and I’m too broken.
The omega on the other side of my desk looks perfect on paper.
Her name’s Capri.
