Chapter 4
Miller
“Ren Jacobs. Collections manager, vertebrate paleontology at the Royal Museum. Thirty-two. Double master’s. One specializing in paleobiology from UC Berkeley. Honours. The other in museum studies from the University of Kansas. Lots of publications in high-impact journals. Smart cookie.”
“Huh?” I blink, confused, thumb still hovering over the answer button on my phone.
“Your mystery girl,” Yas, my publicist, croons on the other end of the line. “The redhead from the game who you oh so valiantly saved from the hot dog and spilled margarita.”
“Oh.” I swallow, blinking again, and the girl—woman—Ren—comes screaming into focus behind my eyes.
Wisps of hair escaping what might have been a sleek ponytail before the Toronto sun started beating down on it, smeared with yellow by her right temple.
Blue eyes, sort of like the sky above her. Lines of her thin shoulders stretching underneath a formerly white T-shirt, the unmistakable wobble to an otherwise full mouth, and bounce of her legs that told me she was seconds from bursting into tears.
“Neat trick,” Yas laughs, before her voice turns quiet, gentle even. “You pull some move out of your back pocket, like it’s from a romance novel, right before you ask for an ill-advised trade, and everyone stops asking you about Matt.”
I flinch, grip tightening on my phone before I start pacing back and forth in front of the stretching floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, the Toronto skyline illuminated by the setting sun.
Resting my head against the glass, I focus on the stadium—the dome’s open, for some reason, they must be doing maintenance—before I mumble, “It wasn’t on purpose. ”
The frown in her voice echoes in her still-soft words. “I know that, Miller. But it must have felt like a nice reprieve, no?”
“Sure.” I nod against the glass, the skyline blurring with my eyes. I’d liked this view once upon a time—when I was dumb and young and spent all my sponsorship money from college on the biggest penthouse my realtor could find.
The whole thing looked horribly douchey to me now.
I should have listened to Matt and done what he did. Bought a nice, understated, old wartime home tucked away somewhere in a quiet suburb.
It hangs heavy around me. All the ways I should have listened to him about all sorts of things.
Yas clears her throat, and I imagine her shoulders straightening, pushing off everything that’s all over me and all over her by association.
“I didn’t call with an admonishment. But you caused quite the stir.
And I thought we might be able to use this as leverage to put you in a good position when you waive your NTC, if Olson agrees.
And, well, she wasn’t hard to find. Do you know why? ”
I shake my head, forehead tipping back and forth against the glass. “No.”
“The team and the Royal Museum are official partners this year. Some sort of educational program?”
A bell rings, vague and in the distance, drowned out by the chasm between my two lives: the one with Matt, and the one without him.
Yas saves me from having to admit I don’t exactly remember; that my former life looks blurry from where I’m sitting now, and it’s full of things I don’t do anymore.
“You know, the usual,” she continues, and I hear the nod in her voice, can see the way her braids shift when she does, a cascade of confidence framing her face when she starts to list off obligations neither of us really like: “A gala or two. Some paleontologist gets to throw an opening pitch. Someone cuts a ribbon when they unveil a new exhibit. You play around in some sand at the museum with some kids during a camp, maybe. You smile with those same kids when they get to come on a field trip to an afternoon home game. Hold up a dinosaur bone and pose for the cameras.”
Most of the things on that list are things I do my absolute best to avoid now, too.
“Yeah, that tracks.” We have all sorts of partners for charity and education.
“But I’m not really . . . following. What’s this got to do with her?
” Swallowing, I shrug, more for the benefit of the Toronto skyline.
Yas can’t see me, but I can imagine what everyone down below me would think—stupid Miller Colson-Burke, star shortstop with no real brain in his head doesn’t get it, shocker!
“You’ll have to see her again,” she says simply, but she spares me from having to tell her I’m still not following.
“And even though you didn’t see fit to tell me, Olson called me and Shay, you know, your agent—the one who should be brokering trades for you?
” She does pause to let that one sink in, and I feel even stupider.
But she clears her throat softly. “I’m going to be frank with you.
You don’t look good right now. Doesn’t matter that you’re the best. No one’s going to want to touch the media storm of you and Matt—” I think she punctures a lung with his name.
“—but after that press conference . . . have you not . . . have you not been watching the news? Checking your socials?”
I snort wryly. Knocking my forehead against the window, I finally push off and start pacing around my apartment. “No. I don’t watch the news anymore. And I sure as shit don’t check my socials page, Yas.”
A quiet inhale, and I imagine her chin coming to rest in her palm when she blinks dark eyes at me. “I thought maybe . . . you’ve been playing so well . . . you’d at least be back to checking what analysts are saying? You’re closing in on some records.”
“Oh yeah?” I circle around my living room, dragging my feet until I flop down on the leather couch stretching in front of the too-large television taking up half the square footage of the entire space.
My reflection blurs in the quiet screen.
I’m not sure the last time I turned it on, and whenever that was, it definitely wasn’t to watch SportsCentre.
“I’ll leave it to the analytics department to let me know when the time comes. ”
“Have the comments not gotten any better on social media? We can release a statement or—”
I interrupt with another thing on my list of things I don’t do anymore. “I stopped posting.”
She exhales now, and I imagine her lips pursing while she blinks thoughtfully.
“Well, maybe it’s a moot point then. I won’t force you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with if it’s not a contractual obligation but seeing as you haven’t really looked online .
. . ever since the press conference, the headlines have shifted.
The city seems to love your chivalry, Miller.
You giving the girl your jersey is the only thing anyone can talk about.
And seeing as it’s certainly not going to be the last time you see her . . .”
Yas trails off, waiting. Despite the general populous believing there’s nothing else in my head but baseball and women, and Matthew always being the smarter one—I’m not dumb.
I’ve just never really cared about anything else, and I never thought I’d have to.
Her implication settles around against my skin, and I shift against the couch.
That doesn’t fit either. Shaking my head, I tell her, “I’m not interested in some harebrained publicity stunt to distract people from asking me about Matt.
Even if you think it’s going to help my prospects and keep my value up.
” But air whistles out of that hole in my lungs, the one shaped like Matt.
“It was—nice.” I choke on the word. It doesn’t feel like the right descriptor.
The absence of him isn’t something I’d ever associate with positivity.
Swallowing, I keep talking, even though my leg starts to twitch, and the corners of my eyes burn and blur.
“It was a relief, to not be bombarded with questions about him instead of the game or the season. But I’m not acting out some rom com, seeing if I can use her moment of embarrassment to my advantage .
. . I was just trying to be . . . I don’t know. It’s what he’d have done.”
I’m sure her next words come through pursed lips.
“I’m not suggesting you take advantage of the poor girl.
I’m suggesting you leverage an opportunity to not only get what you want, but to give yourself a break.
The more and more you react to questions about Matthew, the more and more you avoid talking about him, posting about him, doing things you used to love, the more and more you are going to get asked about him.
You are going to crack, Miller.” She pauses, letting those words settle, too.
But there are already cracks all over me, and I’ve got no idea where these ones dig in.
“The girl is right there. You’ll have to see her more than once.
You have to see her at that gala the museum is hosting for all their philanthropic partners in a few weeks.
” I’ve got no idea what she’s talking about, but my phone pings when she forwards me my press schedule again.
“Ask her to dance, ask her to tell you about a dinosaur bone, pose for a photo together, and let the press do the rest. Give yourself a break.”
I do decide to give myself a break. From this conversation.
“Yas—” I cut in, thumb already hovering over the screaming, angry, red end-call button. “I’ve gotta go. Matt’s parents are calling.”
I hang up before she can say anything else.
It’s a believable lie.
She doesn’t know I haven’t seen my aunt and uncle in months, that I do my best not to take their calls, and she certainly doesn’t know that I definitely can’t face them now that I’m trying to run away from them and Matty’s memory like a coward.
Silence rings out, and it sits on my shoulders beside everything Yas said.
It feels nice, at least.
My thumb still hovers over my phone screen, dark and quiet now, spending its time like my television does.
But in the silence, something else taps on my shoulders: curiosity about a beautiful—brilliant, apparently—woman.
I do something I haven’t done in months.
My thumb swipes up, it navigates across my home page until I open Google.
I type in my name.
Before Matt, the first thing that popped up would usually be stats, an article or two about my recent games. Maybe even a picture of me on a date.
But now, it’s her.
Smiling softly at me in thanks when her hands reach out in space across the infield wall to take my jersey from me, somehow looking beautiful despite the condiment in her hair, the tears shining in her eyes and the stain from an overpriced drink on her shirt.
The corners of my lips tug upwards.