Fuck.
The crowd boos. Loudly. Deafening, and I don’t think it has anything to do with our opponents and everything to do with me.
Travis begins his jaunt to the mound, but Isaiah shakes him off, coming in from his position instead.
We both hold our gloves over our mouths to speak.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Does it seem like I’m fucking okay, Isaiah?”
“Yeah, you’re right. Terrible question.”
My entire fucking life fell apart seven days ago, and it wasn’t due to a lack of love or wanting each other. It was simply because we were headed on two different paths that only crossed for a short two months.
Before my brother can ask anything else, Monty leaves the dugout, headed straight for me.
“God-fucking-dammit,” I curse into my glove.
I couldn’t tell you the last time I was pulled this early from a game. I played like shit in my previous start this week, but I made it a full five innings before the relief pitchers took over. Third inning is fucking embarrassing, and for the first time in weeks, I’m wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life.
Nothing makes sense without her. The team staff is taking turns watching Max until the season is over, but what am I going to do next year or the year after that? Hire some random person who will never care about my son the way she did? Why am I even doing this? Because I love it? Well, we don’t always get to have the things we love now, do we?
Monty nods my brother away, and Isaiah gives me an encouraging swat with his glove before heading back to his spot between second and third base.
Monty exhales, holding his jersey over his mouth so he can speak without the cameras picking up on what he’s saying. “I gotta pull you, Ace.”
I don’t argue. I don’t complain. I simply agree.
“You’ve got to find a way through this,” he continues.
“Yeah, sorry, I’ll get working on that.” My tone is entirely dry and Monty shoots me a warning glance, reminding me I’m not the only one having a hard time.
While I’m bitching and complaining about missing his daughter, he’s also heartbroken over not seeing her every day.
“Sorry,” I add more sincerely.
Monty’s brown eyes search mine. “Go home. Go get Max and head home. You don’t need to stay for the rest of the game or the press. Go take care of yourself and your son.”
While standing in the center of the field with forty-one thousand fans watching me, my eyes begin to burn, my throat growing tight because I don’t know how to take care of myself anymore.
I’m a shell of a human these days, barely showering or eating, only getting out of bed for Max. Having someone else to take care of while your heart is breaking is an odd relief. You want to wallow in self-pity but can’t because someone else is relying on you.
But someone else is always relying on me, so that’s nothing new.
“Pick up the damn phone and call her, Kai. It might help you.”
I shake my head, swallowing back the knot in my throat. “I’ll be fine. She’s got more important things going on right now that she doesn’t need to be distracted hearing how fucked up I am.”
He watches me for a moment, then gives me one single nod of his head, my cue to take off.
I do just that. Jogging off the field, through the dugout to the clubhouse to grab my keys. I swing by the training room to pick up Max and find Kennedy playing with him on the floor. She volunteered to watch him for me tonight.
“Hey, Ace,” she says as cautiously as possible. “How are you holding up?”
I groan. “Please don’t pity me like everyone else. I can’t handle another person looking at me like I’m about to break.”
“Sorry, you’re right. You got pulled in the third inning? Ouch. Hate to break it to you, Ace, but I only work on the body. I’ve got nothing for a bruised ego.”
A huff of a laugh escapes me. “Thank you.” Max walks himself over to me, hands up for me to hold him. “And thanks for watching him.”
With that I turn to leave, only to stop in the doorway, looking at Kennedy over my shoulder. “Have you heard from her?”
Her face falls, so much pity that I asked her not to give me. “A couple of times, yes. I’ve texted to check in, but I don’t get a response until it’s the middle of the night. Then by the time I write back, she’s asleep. She’s busy.”
She’s busy. I know she’s busy. I hate that she’s busy.
“Thanks again for watching him.”