27. Unlucky Streak
27
UNLUCKY STREAK
Tanner
But baseball does make me feel better.
At least, it gives . The sport gives me something to do, someplace to be, and somewhere to channel my energy.
The next day in Seattle, I head to the ballpark early and find our athletic trainer, who’s also early. She works out the kinks in my shoulder and neck. By the time I’m off her table, I feel like a new man.
Too bad I can’t ask for a new heart.
When the game begins against the Storm Chasers, I’m ready. The first two Comets batters get on base. In my at-bat, when the first pitch drops in for a strike, I put some wood on it, sending a bruising double down the right-field wall and also sending a runner home.
There.
Everything will be better.
Yesterday is behind me. Baseball is in front of me.
But that night, when I crash onto the hotel bed, a text from Luke blinks up at me.
I grit my teeth. What does he want? I stab it open.
Luke: Hey man! Good game tonight. Nice double! Can I say I told you so?
I grip the phone so goddamn hard as I cock my arm, ready to chuck it at the wall.
Instead, I close my eyes and sigh in frustration, clutching my phone as I fight like hell to let go of this knot of anger in my chest. How the hell can I be mad at him for breaking my heart when he’s clearly trying so damn hard to return to the friend zone?
He’s doing exactly what we said we’d do from the start.
Stay friends.
He’s trying not to ruin the friendship.
I’m stewing, like a little jerk. Get over it, man.
I type back.
Tanner: Thanks. And sure, in this case I don’t mind saying you were right.
Luke: Football’s still better though.
I let him have the last word. I power down my phone and go to sleep.
I still feel empty when I wake. And I feel worse, too, than I did after Finn and I broke up.
Because I can’t even be righteously angry this time around.
We sweep the Storm Chasers. My seven RBIs in the series help. To say I went on a tear is an understatement. Maybe getting my heart yanked around is a good thing for my game. Might have to recommend it to the rookies next time a kiddo asks me for baseball advice.
When I board the team plane in Seattle, my teammates hoot and holler.
“Who’s the man?” one of the guys calls out as I stroll past the galley.
“Let’s do that again,” someone else shouts.
I hold up my hands in mock humility. “Save your applause, please.” Then I glance behind me at Cohen, who hurled fire from the mound today. “Maybe the pitchers had something to do with it.”
He dips his face, but he’s smiling as the team cheers him on too, and deservedly so.
I snag a comfy seat near the front, trying to savor the moment. Maybe if I can capture this feeling, I can use it to spackle my empty heart. Caulk it with accomplishments.
Cohen stops at my row, gestures to the empty seat next to me. “Can I?”
“Of course,” I say, and the rookie joins me.
“Good one,” he says, and I offer a fist for knocking.
“You too,” I say as he knocks back.
We shoot the breeze about the game as the rest of the team boards. When we take off, the conversation slows, and Cohen grabs his phone.
I’m not watching him as he types, but it’d be impossible to miss the massive grin on the young guy’s face. He’s grinning, then, like he’s embarrassed over his happiness, he turns to me. “The woman from the auction wants to see me tonight.”
“That so?” I ask.
He just shrugs, all carefree and happy-go-lucky. “Guess we’re dating now.”
“Good for you,” I say with so much enthusiasm I hope it covers up how jealous I am.
We land in New York well past midnight, and I’m grateful I won’t run into Luke in the lobby.
Well, at least I hope I won’t.
What if he’s out late with some dude he met on the apps? Maybe he hooked up with someone for a quick fuck before training camp. My stomach churns as I stride through the lobby, muttering a hello to the concierge.
There’s no Luke in the lobby, and as the elevator passes the seventh floor, I’m relieved and annoyingly sad all over again.
This heartache can suck it.
The next few mornings I try to run it off, then to work it off in the gym, then to burn it off on the field.
Lucky me—I don’t bump into Luke at all.
My stats love me. The media talks about my hot streak. A reporter finds me after the second game against the Barn Owls, asking if I’m wearing lucky socks or if I’ve stopped shaving.
I fake smile and pretend to laugh, then tell her of course I haven’t shaved. When I head into the dugout, I pat myself on the back for swallowing the real advice that no one wants to hear.
All I have is baseball. That’s why I play so well.
When I go home, the elevator’s empty. That should be a good thing. Wish it felt like one. But as I unlock the door to my penthouse, I’m so damn tired of me. Tired of being lonely. Tired of missing Luke.
It’s time to move on.
I flop down on the couch, swipe open my phone, and text my sister.
Tanner: If Soren is still up for coffee, count me in.
Her reply is immediate.
Amelia: I’m out of town visiting a client, but I’ll work out the deets in the office tomorrow! I know he enjoyed meeting you. Yay!
Tanner: Yay.
I re-read my last text. I hope it doesn’t look like as much of a lie as it is.
My lucky streak ends the next morning as I’m heading to the gym, the elevator whisking me down nice and quick, until it slows at the seventh floor.
Please let it be Elsie.
Or anyone else.
But it’s Luke.