BISHOP
“Can you believe they chose Etchers over Tralenski?” I leave out the fact it’s to replace Jackson at shortstop, in case he can actually hear me. “The fucker hates me. Not to mention, how the hell am I supposed to top our record of outs on a steal if he can’t catch the broad side of a barn? It’s a wonder the guy even got drafted in the first place.”
I knew you couldn’t keep up that record without me. I wince, imagining him saying it with a sardonic smirk on his face.
The doctors say it’s possible he can hear me—that there have been plenty of coma patients who report hearing everything while they were unconscious. I should really ask them if it’s normal that I hear the voices of my dead and unconscious teammates in my head.
I keep my eyes locked on the incredible view of the East River, sparkling in the last hints of sunset as the start of a hangover pounds against the inside of my temple. After my blowup at the stadium, I quickly found the nearest bar and managed to lubricate my mind. Many would say it’s a problem, but it’s the only successful way I’ve found to diminish the ache in my chest.
In the same manner a drunk finds their way home, I managed to find my way to Jackson’s room at the long term care facility just as the highlights of the draft started onSports Talk. I’d like to say it was because I wanted to check up on my friend, but my motivations were purely selfish. I needed to not feel alone, and these four walls have become somewhat of a sanctuary for me.They hold the last bit of hope that maybe someday things can return to normal. It’s a crock of shit because even if he wakes up, the team is still gone. And Jackson will have to face that he not only lost them, but his wife too.
Jackson and Norah were soulmates in every sense of the word. They had a rough start but fought to be together, and their love is everything I thought I wanted. There was a time I believed I could find my person, and I thought maybe I had. But seeing Jackson and Norah ripped apart has been heart-wrenching. If this is the price for love lost—the crippling heartache and unsurmountable pain—I’m not sure I want it. I’m barely surviving losing my teammates. I couldn’t survive something like that. If I could take her place on the plane I would, if only to spare my best friend and goddaughter even an ounce of this pain.
But I have to hold on to the hope that if he wakes up, at least we’ll have each other. Because right now, I have no one that understands the dry drowning I experience with every breath.
The pain I have come to know intimately wraps its arms around me as I cross the spacious room and force myself to focus on telling Jackson about the rest of the draft. I gently pick up his limp left hand, wincing slightly at the lifeless weight of it,and lace my fingers through his. I study the tattoos on his skin, frowning at the burn scars that ruined some of the artwork. He’ll be pissed about that.
Rotating his wrist in a circular motion the way the physical therapist taught me to help keep his range of movement, I givehim the rundown of my new team. “Aside from Echers, the rest of the field drafted doesn’t look terrible. We’ve got McCoy from the Blues and his solid arm on third, and Brooks from the Knights on second. Stone was a clutch pick for first, even though he’s a bit of an asshole. Winters, Osborne and Luis complete left, center and right field. Just about every other player rounding out the roster are leftovers their club is grateful to get rid of.”
I pause like I would if he were conscious, waiting for his comment on how we don’t know they are just leftovers and even if they are, that doesn’t mean they are at the bottom of the barrel.Plus,the Renegades change people,he would say.
I shake my head and let out a skeptical grunt.
Once upon a time, maybe. This team worked its magic on Jackson and me. We hated each other when we first met after he got called up. We didn’t know then we were destined to be best friends—he grounded me, and I lightened him up. The tattoos that cover both his arms are evidence of that.
My eyes drift down to my leg, which is covered in ink beneath my jeans. A hint of a smile traces my lip as I remember the first time I took Jackson to my artist to get a tattoo for Norah. He walked in with bare arms and left with the start of a half sleeve. I’d never been prouder.
The problem is lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, and I’m not sure the Renegades have any luck left on their side.
“Come on,” I reason, though I’m not sure who I’m trying to fool with my false bravado. “We both know Stone is one surgery away from needing a total arm reconstruction. You can’t tell me that’s not month-old leftovers.”
Okay, so I’m exaggerating, but the guy is thirty-nine and even with one of the higher batting averages in the league, he’s a ticking time bomb for injury and retirement.
“Not to mention he looks like he’s got a stick up his ass ninety percent of the time. I’m not sure that guy even knows how to smile.”
Well, I wouldn’t smile at your ugly mug either.
I roll my eyes and finish with Jackson’s left hand, ignoring the way it flops sideways before rounding the bed to do the same stretch to his right. “On the opposite end of the spectrum, we’ve got three rookies coming in hot from the farm team. Not to mention whoever they send up to test at spring training—don’t worry, as far as I can tell, none of them have Tommy’s penchant for theatrics. They’ll go swell with our rookie coaching staff, though. It blows my mind Willow thought it was a good idea to hire staff that have a cumulative of five years in the majors all together. Then there’s Graham Clarke as our new field manager.”
Willow, huh?
Of course, that’s his takeaway.
“I know you think I fucked that one up, but it’s better this way. She’s my boss now.”
So, you talked to her?
I freeze like a kid caught red-handed before I remember I’m not actually talking to my best friend.
He doesn’t know I’ve been lying to him for months. He has no clue that while I fulfilled my promise to forgo relationships and work on myself for the last year, I’d also met Willow at a party last year when we were at spring training. We talked all goddamn night, and I proceeded to fuck her on every surface of her beach house bedroom with party goers just below her balcony—and then jacked off to the memory nearly every time I showered since. He doesn’t know I planned to find her the second our deal was up and demand she stop living rent free in my mind and take up a permanent residence. Because despitethe fact we hadn’t spent more than two nights together, Willow York was endgame.
Was.
The crash ruined all that. And thank fuck it did, because if our interaction today is any indication, I absolutely dodged a bullet there.
Dropping his hand, I flip up the blanket to cover him like a masseuse would during a massage, and make work stretching his leg. “No. We argued. End of story.”
I leave out the part where I had my hands wrapped around her throat, followed by agreeing to allow her to escort me to spring training. Though, if he really is just a figment of my fucked-up conscience, he already knows.
