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Me: Then why did you look in your hat between every pitch?
I regret asking as soon as I send the message, but no matter what’s going on (or not going on) between me and Carter, I want to know he’s all right. And when the seconds tick by, turning into minutes, I finally realize he isn’t going to respond. That worries me more than any answer he could’ve given.
30
CARTER
“Again,” Coach commands.
Woodenly, I move up the bullpen mound, set up on the rubber, and throw the ball.
“Again,” Dundee chirps.
Again, I mechanically throw the ball. There’s no fire. No thought. I’m simply following an order. I stand and wait for either his approval or next instruction. He dismisses the catcher, leaving us alone in the bullpen. The sounds of the crowd arriving for the game can be heard, but it’s not my day. Tomorrow is. And I know Dundee’s level of concern is warranted. “There’s no shame in standing down, kid.”
“I’m ready,” I reply flatly, which earns me an assessing look from Dundee.
“Your former team is in our house for a series, and you’ve been walking around here like a mindless zombie, and you want me to believe that you’re ready to go?”
When I don’t respond, he waves his hand, signaling for me to spill whatever he thinks I need to say. “I’m good.”
He blows out a frustrated breath. “Yeah. Okay. Well, we’ll see how ready you are tomorrow.”
I walk into the clubhouse to shower and pull on the Coyote uniform.
“Hey, man. You good over there?” Brooks asks.
“Yeah.” I am. I’m fine. I’ve done this for years. Pretending everything is fine is my thing. Even Avery said it. Only she knows the truth, and the fact that she noticed I was looking in my hat every pitch affirms that she sees through the façade, past all my bullshit, and it still doesn’t make a fucking difference at the end of the day.
“How’s Avery?”
“Wouldn’t know,” I retort, moving to sit in one of the leather chairs in the center of the room. I have no plan to move until it’s time to head to the dugout. Every muscle in my body aches with tension, but it’s not from the workout.
Brooks sits in the chair beside me, remaining quiet for a few as Gunner and some other guys ignore us and chipperly bounce around the room.
“What happened?” Brooks asks as I keep my eyes fixated on the ceiling.
“I guess she didn’t like what she saw.” And that was me.
“Do you really believe that load?” he asks as I look to him.
“I don’t know what to believe.” She pushed me away, then sent a stupid message. And it’s a stupid message because now I know she’s still watching my games. The person who didn’t want shit to do with baseball or me, who ran at every chance, who doesn’t want me around, is still watching me play. Was it all a bunch of bull?
“Me either.”
Brooks remains next to me, a silent sentry, until it’s time to head out to the field. Once we’re in the dugout, I park my ass on the bench and don’t move.
* * *
As I watch the Evergreens celebrate their victory in the visitors’ dugout, I lock eyes with Mac, the only damn one to get a hit off of me in the last series. The thing is, he knows my skills better than most—the whole team, really, especially the pitching staff. It’s harder to defeat someone when they can predict what you’re going to do before you even know.
After changing, I make my way out to the stadium parking lot and see my former teammate propped against my truck.
“Carter Barlowe. Tough loss, man. Better luck tomorrow.” Mac bends his elbow, swinging his arm around. “How’s the arm, old man?”
“Get the hell outta here!” Dundee yells across the lot, causing Mac’s satisfaction to grow, but he smirks and walks away. We all know it’s a mind game, and anyone with half a brain can see that I’m struggling mentally. So the guys who know me, know I’m an easy target.
“Lowe,” Dundee shouts as he walks over. I brace myself, sighing and putting my hands on my hips. I fully expect him to lecture me again, but he only tells me to call him if I want to go over the lineup before he walks off.
