Play Along(124)

I grab my phone, but not to call anyone. I scroll through my pictures instead, hoping for the distraction. There are some of Max, some of the stupid shit my teammates have done around the clubhouse, and an unhealthy amount of her.

She likes to call me a stalker and fuck, I think I am.

The first is recent, her laying on my chest in bed, smiling up at the camera as I snapped our photo. Another of her eating a bowl of pasta I made her, a single spaghetti noodle hanging down from her lips to the bowl. One of my favorites is of her and Miller with their arms around each other, crouching with Max between them, all three of them with beaming grins. And lastly, there’s another of her trying to use a folded-up newspaper, her crossword no doubt, to cover her face and hide from me, but when I play the live version, you can hear her laughter clear as day.

When I keep scrolling, I come across older ones. Photos from last season. She’s in the background of some that were taken around the field.

I have a photo of Cody flipping me off while taking an ice bath. She’s off to the side, wearing her team polo shirt and a frown.

There’s one of Max sitting on the dugout bench, grinning up at me. She’s in the background, sad eyes blankly staring at the field.

Another of her and Miller from last year when they first met. Kennedy’s arms are crossed over her chest, her entire body stiff as she bends in an attempt to get her head close enough to Miller’s and in the frame. But her body language is so uncomfortable and the desperate look on her face screams that she wishes she wouldn’t be.

So much has changed these last couple months, and if nothing else, I can bask in the knowledge that through our time together, she learned how to be comfortable in her skin. She learned that there are people out there who love her. And she learned that I’m one of them.

I get back to the more recent photos and the screenshot I took of the cover of the Chicago Tribune’s sports section.

It’s the morning we got married, neither of us having any fucking clue what we were in for. Her in her white dress and denim jacket and me holding her heels above my head.

Yes, I was infatuated, but it was nothing in comparison to the love I have for that girl now.

A hit of thunder rolls in a loud boom, and I close my eyes, trying to drown out the sound, when my phone dings in my hand.

With a text from Kennedy.



The Mrs: Hi.



My chest settles.



Me: Hi.

The Mrs: Are you okay?

The Mrs: I know you told me to take the weekend, but if you need me to come over, I’ll be there.



It takes everything in me to keep from calling her up right now just to hear her voice, but I don’t because I told her to take the time to think.

I don’t call her because we both need to know that I can get a handle on my anxiety without her help, whether we’re together or not.



Me: I’m going to get through this one on my own, but I fucking miss you.



There’s a long wait before the next text. Gray dots dance along the screen before they disappear and reappear.



The Mrs: I’m proud of you.

The Mrs: And I miss you.

Me: Did you eat today?

The Mrs: Don’t act like you weren’t the one who had food delivered to my house three separate times today. Yes, I ate.

The Mrs: And thank you.

Me: You weren’t sick today, were you?

The Mrs: I just needed some time away from there.



Away from me? I want to ask, but I refrain because she sends another text.



The Mrs: My laptop is there. It’s sitting on the dresser in your closet.



Her laptop with the CliffsNotes version of the research her old peer had sent over. Techniques derived from a specific type of therapy, rewritten in a way for me to understand.



The Mrs: Call me if you need me and I’ll be there, but Isaiah, you’re a lot stronger than you let yourself believe.



And so I do it. I get through the night without allowing my anxiety to check in on anyone, without calling her for help, because she needed to know that I could do it on my own.





Chapter 37


Kennedy


Pure determination radiates off me as I park my car in the employee lot. I’m running a little late. The pep talk I gave myself in the mirror today took a little longer than I had planned.

But I’m here and ready.

I haven’t been to the field since Friday, and granted it’s only Monday, but I couldn’t tell you the last time I spent two days away from the team during the regular season, other than my interview trip to San Francisco.

I called in sick yesterday because I refuse to spend another day working for Dr. Fredrick, and Reese wasn’t back to work until today for me to tell her. I sent her a frantic email on Saturday night, asking for a meeting, and Monday afternoon was her soonest available time to chat.

Locking my car, and with that goddamn manila envelope tucked under my arm, I head straight for the clubhouse.

Isaiah is a lot of things, but if he could stop trying to be a martyr, that’d be great. Two days with these fucking papers sitting on my kitchen counter. Two days of thinking things over.

I didn’t need the time, but the one thing this solo weekend did accomplish was allowing me the space to decide that I will never work for Dr. Fredrick ever again. It took being away from the players I enjoy working with. It took being away from the one person I’ll miss working with the most, sharing hotel rooms on the road and getting to be a part of his game days here in Chicago.