Chapter 8
Miller
Remember. One photo smiling with the girl and a dinosaur bone won’t kill you.
My thumb smashes down on the side of my phone to ignore the text from Yas when another pops up on the screen.
In fact, I think it would serve you well.
I hit the last one with a thumbs down so there’ll be no confusion on her end about what I will, and won’t, be doing at the gala tonight.
There are dinosaur bones everywhere. That part would be easy.
But there’s been no sign of the girl all night.
The museum atrium looks almost like it did two weeks ago when I followed a bunch of kids who ran screaming towards all the fossils.
They weren’t running towards the woman at the front of the tour with the beautiful hair and seemingly soft heart.
But they should have been.
I should have been, too.
The part of me that’s been asleep since Matt died woke up, sitting across from her in the downstairs café drinking coffee.
But it might have been at the cost of something else going to sleep.
My teammates and more franchise staff than I’ve ever seen are spread out around the atrium, a sea of black tuxedos with the occasional pop of colour from a silk dress trailing along the floor, or someone with a particularly flashy sense of style.
Everyone looks happy to be standing under dim lighting, surrounded by bones while they sip champagne and glasses of scotch being passed around by waitstaff.
I’m not sure anyone in our organization should be happy. We’re coming off two abysmal road series.
I haven’t played this poorly since I had strep throat during the playoffs my second year of college, and I still managed to field more balls in one game than I did all week.
So much for all the records Yas said I was closing in on.
Autopilot Miller, the one who’s done his best to move through this season relying on nothing more than the mechanics of his body, turned off two weeks ago when something sparked to life behind her eyes.
The Miller who woke up and tried his hand at flirting with her, thought it might be a good idea to try to really smile again—apparently, that Miller can’t play without Matt.
Another text lights up my phone, but I don’t bother to read it, shoving it in the pocket of my tux, shifting back and forth on uncertain feet.
I should move—I’ve been standing off to the side by some giant skeleton I couldn’t name with a gun to my head since we took all the obligatory photos to start the event and Olson made what was probably supposed to be a rousing speech with the head of the Paleontology Department about the importance of funding educational programming.
But when a waiter walks by, a tray laden with scotch winking behind crystal under the dim lighting, a drink seems like a better idea.
Someone else thinks so too.
“Hey.” Joel nods at me, snagging a glass with his left hand—he doesn’t seem to use his pitching hand for anything, and it could be a superstition thing, but I wouldn’t know.
I haven’t bothered to ask our new starting pitcher much of anything.
“Borges. Hey.” I tip my chin.
“You can call me Joel.” He lifts his glass to me. “Friendlier than a last name.”
“Oh.” I shrug. “Sure, yeah. Joel it is. You can call me Miller.”
His brows snag together. “I . . . uh, yeah. Sure. You prefer that to Colson? CB?”
He moves on to an endless list of nicknames my teammates and press throw at me. They all start to bleed together. But all I do is mutter, “Nah, Miller’s fine.”
I don’t think he’s ever called me anything other than my first name in the months I’ve known him, but I can’t really remember. No wonder people think I’m stupid.
“We haven’t talked much.” He nods, moving right on in conversation. “I know it must be weird for you. Me coming in and starting. Taking over for him.”
“All good.” I take a measured sip, hoping the alcohol burns away the absence of Matt’s name. “It was just business.”
And it was business.
You have one of the best pitchers in the world. He walks you through an undefeated wild card round, clinches you a division title, brings you to the league championship, and then takes you all the way to the World Series.
But then he dies in the offseason.
You need to replace him.
Losing talent like that leaves a gaping hole.
So you steal the star pitcher from another team out from under them because you’ve got a ton of money now that it’s not being used to pay Matthew Burke.
Fuck what his cousin and your star shortstop thinks.
Disbelief colours Joel’s eyes, but he swallows it while his jaw works, considering. “We weren’t exactly . . . on the same page this week.”
“That what you’d call it?” I snort.
I’ve been watching Matty pitch since we were kids.
I knew how to clean up after him if I had to.
I knew how to talk him down when he came unglued.
Rare, but it happened. Most people might think that’s because I’m supposed to be the best. But maybe it was Matty who was the best. Apparently, I can’t clean up shit when the other pitchers struggle now that he’s gone.
It was like watching a foreign film with a language I couldn’t fucking speak at all.
Joel gives a dry laugh, groaning into the hand that scrubs across his face. “Would you want to . . . just . . . toss a ball around out on the field this week? Grab a couple drinks and—”
I cut him a sideways grin. “Are you asking me to play catch with you?”
“Guess I am.” A brow lifts behind his glass when he takes a long sip of his whisky, an ice cube knocking against the crystal.
I’m about to say yes—that it sounds like fun. But I remember the last time I played catch for fun, and that activity slides firmly into the category of things I don’t do anymore.
Poking a tongue into my cheek, I nod like I’m considering. “Uh—I’ll get back to you.”
“Sure.” Joel raises his glass, moving on in conversation like it isn’t the second time in ten minutes I displayed worse social skills than one of the very dead, non-conversational dinosaurs spread around the atrium.
We stand together, side by side, small talk occasionally escaping the corners of our mouths, interspersed by stretching silence where we both take longer and longer sips of our whisky until he points his glass across the room, through the sea of black-tie-clad baseball players, paleontologists, and philanthropists.
“Isn’t that the girl from the game?” Joel smiles, glancing at me. “The one everyone on social media seems to think you should marry?”
My eyes snap up, ready to scour the crowd to find her.
I don’t have to look very far. She’s right there, illuminated and made brighter by rays of sunshine that definitely aren’t real but feel like they’re inching across the floor from her to me.
Hair unbound, framing her face and curling inwards at the ends.
A pale blue silk dress that might as well be the colour of her eyes wrapping around her neck in a bow that falls down her back, leaving the lines of her shoulders on display.
It swirls across the floor as she shifts back and forth, a small slit at the back revealing the points of silver heels.
Lips parted with a polite smile while she nods along at whatever our general manager says.
Olson’s an animated guy when his star shortstop isn’t asking for an unexpected trade—arms swinging wider and wider, so exuberant he doesn’t notice that Ren straightens her shoulders, practically arching her back, to avoid the droplets of champagne that fly from his flute each time he does.
One of those arms flies out again, his finger, the one weighed down with his World Series ring, extends with a point towards me.
Ren’s eyes travel along the stretch of his arm, across the floor between us, and they land on whatever dinosaur stands tall behind me before they find mine.
A flush burns across her cheeks.
“We’ll chat later.” Joel salutes me with his glass before dropping it on the tray of a passing waiter and disappearing into the crowd.
Lifting my hand, I mouth, Hi, and the flush turns scarlet.
It’s not helped by the way she’s practically shoved towards me by all the executive and front-office staff holding court around her.
She takes a stumbling step, hand gathering the skirt of her dress before it catches under her heels. A tentative glance backwards reveals they’ve all moved on to the next thing, content to leave us to whatever story they think might be unfolding.
Her lips take shape to form the greeting “Hi,” too, and her fingers raise.
I start towards her when she tightens her hold on the silk of her dress and takes a step across the atrium floor in my direction.
We meet in the middle.
“Felt like the adult thing to do, to meet you halfway.” I offer her a grin.
Ren smiles, dropping her dress before she raises her hands awkwardly, another blush creeping across her cheeks. “Sorry, uh, hello,” she laughs, holding her arms open. “Do we . . . hug?”
“Is that also an adult thing to do?” I ask, eyes on her as I set my empty whisky glass down on a passing tray, never looking away.
The blush burns deeper.
“Sure.” Her teeth come down on her bottom lip. “Adults give friendly hugs.”
“Alright then. It’s nice to see you, Ren.” The sleeves of my jacket pull tight against my shoulders when I open my arms.
Her fingers flex before her hands knot together and she gives a jerky shake of her head.
Another snort disguised as a laugh catches in her throat, but she lifts her arms, and they wind under mine, her hands skating lightly across the back of my jacket like she’s afraid to squeeze too tight.
Her head fits into the crook of my neck when she does, and my hands freeze, suspended above the bare skin of her shoulders, afraid of something too.
My chin brushes the crown of her head, her hair probably softer than the silk of her dress, and I swallow heavy when my fingers meet the bow hanging down her back.
We both go still at the same time, hands hovering but not really touching. I feel her breath stutter, chest pressed against mine.
I might have just woken up, but I don’t ever really remember a hug feeling quite like this.
There’s no real time to consider it, though, because she pulls away with a start when a voice sounds from beside us.
“Well, well. Isn’t this cute?”