Chapter 12
Miller
My inability to field a single ground ball effectively in our last two series cost me.
Not just in the race to whatever records Yas was talking about I didn’t realize I was participating in, but in practice.
Pascale was waiting for me outside the locker room when I got to the stadium, and he wasn’t alone. Vai, the team’s strength and conditioning coach, stood beside him with a flat smile on her face that told me all I needed to know about how I’d be spending the afternoon.
Who cares that spring training is long over?
Two hours of agility and footwork.
I wasn’t fast enough last week, according to her.
She’s right. But who cares that I still hold the record for the quickest thirty-yard dash in the combine and no one’s ever even come close?
Lateral shuffle drills. Cone weaves. Speed ladders. Crossover steps.
One hour of fielding drills.
Doesn’t matter that I’ve got the strongest arms in the league and the best range.
Didn’t last week.
Vai finally claps her hands, throwing a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the benches. “Take a break. Hydrate. We’ll wrap up with some ball drops and hand drills.”
Lifting two fingers in a salute—she’s already looking back at her clipboard, probably drawing up new ways to torture me with inappropriately timed training—I heave a breath and jog towards the bench where I abandoned my phone and water.
It’s just us on the turf.
Everyone else is doing what they’re supposed to be doing at this point in the season: lifting, maintenance, and workouts that don’t kill your muscles and risk exhausting your reserves for a game.
I check my phone first, more out of habit than anything, and maybe, a bit of hope that there’s going to be a text from Ren, telling me she’s changed her mind.
It’s funny—going from being interested in nothing to being so interested in this woman who really, really is something. Even if she doesn’t seem to think so.
There’s a text from Yas, with a photo underneath.
Not quite a photo posing with a dinosaur bone, but it’ll do.
The photo in question—Ren, smiling quietly from behind a glass of champagne, and me, standing there, grinning down at her, my own drink held loosely by my tattooed hand.
No sign of Scott fucking Saunders and his stupid shoes.
Another text from my aunt and uncle, and even though it’s not spelled out on the screen, I can feel the desperation in the words.
We saw the photos from the gala. You looked great in your tux! Is it new?
You might not remember, but we gave you and Matty matching dinosaur pajamas your first Christmas with us!
I remember. It’s one of those things—core memories or whatever—that’s burned into my brain. It’s not the type of thing you forget, no matter the fact that it happened when you were seven years old.
My mom said we were going to see my aunt and uncle the day before Christmas Eve. I remember because she told me to be on my best behaviour. Santa was still watching.
She told me I’d get a chance to play with Matt in his room. He had one of those big car tracks set up all over.
We did go.
I did play with Matt. We moved Hot Wheels up and down the course all day, screaming and running around the whole top floor of the house.
But when we came downstairs because we were hungry, my aunt was crying, and my mom was gone.
I don’t know where she went, and I stopped wondering about that a long time ago. But I do still wonder, sometimes, how many stores my aunt had to rush to—how much she scrambled—to make sure I had just as many gifts as Matt under the tree two days later.
I send my first text back in weeks.
I remember—the pajamas had T. rexes on them.
I press a fist to my mouth. Funny way to repay people who treated me like I was always theirs. To decide I need to up and leave when their real son dies.
If Vai looked over, she might feel a sense of pride in her training for bringing me to the precipice of vomiting.
But the next text, from a number I don’t recognize, turns the nausea into this feeling I don’t really ever remember having before.
Unknown: Hi! Ren Jacobs, Collections Manager of Vertebrate Paleontology, and Knower of Fossils here! Not sure if you remember me—I’m the one who drank too much champagne last night and then talked your ear off about a boring hypothesis and a big, giant asteroid crater down in Mexico?
My thumbs twitch with the corners of my mouth.
Miller: Rings a bell.
The three little dots pop up right away.
Ren: What a memorable picture I paint! Thank you—again. For the coffee and the bagel. They did help.
Miller: I’m glad.
I am.
The dots appear again.
Ren: I think I could use your help with something else, too.
My heart does this weird thing in my chest that has nothing to do with the two hours of sprint-like activity.
Miller: Ren’s Reasons to Be Ren?
Ren: Yeah. I think I’d like help finding them again.
I take a heavy swallow.
Miller: We can start with mine, if that’s easier. I’m in desperate need of groceries. Can’t keep ordering pizza. Team’s nutritionist is getting pretty mad.
Ren: First public outing, and you’re picking groceries?
Miller: Sure, why not? You can tell me about your list over produce.
The dots take longer to reappear, but they do.
Ren: Okay.
A whistle blows, and I know that’s my cue to start the next hour of Vai’s torture. The prospect doesn’t feel as daunting as the idea of cosplaying as the Miller I used to be.
But Ren sends a smiley face followed by two separate dinosaur emojis, and I can’t think of a better person to help me try again.
Miller: I’ll text you after practice.
“You know . . .” Ren pokes an orange before she lifts it up, inspecting it under the bright lights of the grocery store. “I didn’t have you pegged for a boutique-style grocery store guy. Figured you were a mass-market type.”
I glance sideways right as her hair spills down the back of her sweater. My grip tightens against a Honeycrisp apple, and I give her a grin. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“I don’t know. These places are so”—she tosses the orange into the air—“pretentious.” Her hand-eye coordination could use some work. She misses, and her hands start flailing back and forth as she tries to catch it before it drops to the floor.
I reach out, palm opening and waiting, and the orange falls against my skin. A singular brow kicks up when I hand it back to her.
She brings the orange to her chest, eyes narrowing. “That’s . . . impressive.”
“Part of my job.” I shrug, looking back at the apple I’ve probably bruised.
“Well.” She considers setting the orange back in the artfully stacked pyramid before she cringes, dropping it into the waiting basket hanging on her elbow. “You must be good at it.”
I turn towards her, grin tugging sideways. “You were at a game two weeks ago. You didn’t notice?”
She frowns. “Unfortunately, I was a bit distracted.”
“Too bad,” I tsk. “Great game for me. You’ll, uh, have to catch another one.”
Hopefully one where all of Vai’s seasonally inappropriate conditioning makes a difference and I don’t look like I have for the last two weeks. Heat scorches across the back of my neck.
Ren tips her head. “Is that on your list?”
I shake my head. “No, I uh, stuck with the original six things from last night.” I start ticking them off again.
“Being in public. Stuff like this.” Waving vaguely towards the produce, I keep counting.
“Posting on social media. Lots of brand contracts I’ve not really held up my end of the bargain with.
Have to get better at that or I’ll lose sponsorships.
Playing catch . . . playing for fun. Stop, uh, screening my aunt and uncle’s calls.
” I try to swallow the shame over that one.
Ren’s fingers twitch, like she wants to help, but I keep going.
“Dating . . . again. Or just, learning to talk to people. And then uh . . .” I trail off, the last thing the heaviest and the hardest.
“The cottage,” she finishes softly, mouth shifting into an encouraging smile. “You said you never wanted to go back to your cottage again. But it made the second iteration of the list so . . .”
“I want to try again,” I mumble, trying not to squeeze my eyes shut as all the memories start. Clearing my throat, I try to throw a grin her way. “What about your list?”
Her cheeks turn the colour of her hair, and her voice dips to a squeak. “I could only think of five.” She rushes to continue before I can interrupt. “And they’re kind of stupid, compared to yours.”
“Doubt it.” When she doesn’t say anything, I angle my head, eyes wide and expectant. Her gaze finds the wave of hair that fell onto my forehead before it snaps back to me, and she concedes.
“Fine.” She lifts her hands, sending the singular orange in her basket careening into the side.
“I used to love going to trivia nights. Especially, uhm . . . ones about Jurassic Park and dinosaurs. Scott hated them, so . . .” she trails off with a tiny shrug, lip bowing when she looks down at her orange.
“He didn’t like thrift shopping either. Or the aquarium. I liked both of those things.”
“Love the aquarium,” I cut in with an encouraging grin. “Big fish guy.”
She rolls her eyes, chewing on her cheek before she continues quietly. “Dating . . . for me too. I think . . . it could be nice to go on a date with someone who doesn’t spend the whole time talking about themselves.”
“We live in Toronto, good luck with that.”
A snort escapes in place of laughter, but she doesn’t slap her hand over her mouth.
She takes a deep inhale before she tells me her number five, and I think this might be the heaviest and the hardest for her too.
“I’d like to go back to school. I never got to do my PhD.
I put those dreams on pause when—never mind, that’s not really important.
” She flicks a hand. “But I’d like to work up the courage to chase a dream again. ”
“Got it. Trivia night. Thrift shopping. The aquarium. Dating—got that one in the bag, I’m a great wingman. School.” I lift my hand, fingers spread wide. “Easy.”
“You think so?”
“No.” I laugh ruefully. “But we’ve . . . uh, got each other for this, right? Who better to help with no judgement than two adults who are almost strangers?”
“And if people think we’re together?”
“If you’re, uh, okay with that . . . I don’t think it could hurt. Would . . . take the pressure off and maybe help with the trade request.” I drag a thumb across my mouth. “Scott the jealous type?”
Ren gives me a flat look, arms crossing over her chest. “I am not looking to make Scott jealous.”
“Maybe I am.” I shrug before lifting two more fingers up. “Hey—add that to my list. Make a douchebag who clearly didn’t know what he had when he had it jealous.”
“Miller.” She says my name like an admonishment and a reminder of the five years that stretch between us, but I don’t think I’ve ever liked the sound of my name on someone’s lips more.
Flashing my palms, I turn back to the stretching displays of fruit and vegetables around us. “Sorry, scratch that one for now, then.”
A blush creeps across her cheeks. “Maybe we could work on not being almost strangers. I think we’ll be more helpful to each other if we talk.”
“That your hypothesis? We can call it the Ren Jacobs Theory.”
She purses her lips. “I’m serious. We can tell each other one thing each time we mark something off our lists.”
“Okay.” I swallow. I agreed to this, but the idea of talking openly about Matt—about all of it—sits uncomfortably on my shoulders.
“What’s your one thing for this first grocery visit, then?” She tips her chin up.
I grin, deflecting. “I didn’t pick this grocery store because it’s pretentious and has better produce. I picked it because I thought there would be less people than at one of the big ones.”
Indignation pops her mouth open. “That’s cheating!”
I shake my head. “I don’t cheat. I win, fair and square.”
“Be that as it may in your professional life.” She tips her basket towards my hands. “It does not apply here. I’m serious, Miller.”
“So am I.”
Another flat look with sharp eyes, and I crumble under Ren Jacobs.
Scrubbing the back of my head and sending my hair flying every which way, I shrug.
“Going in public used to be . . . fine. Great, even. People called my name and asked for photographs and got me to sign things. Post–World Series, the city loved me, even when they were all making fun of me. Not sure if you’ve heard, but I’m not considered to be a very serious person off the field.
” I make a show of examining the apples again, so I don’t have to look at her.
“But uh, that was fine. And then . . . after Matty. I don’t know.
The laughs disappeared and the looks changed and something just fucking broke, I guess. ”
“Are there things you miss about being in public?” she asks softly.
“Just miss being able to go out without judgement. Can’t even go grab a case of beer like a normal person without someone having a thought about it now. I don’t really feel like me . . . or anyone at all. I want it to go away.”
Ren’s hand finds my shoulder, fingers drumming softly along the aching muscles.
“We can’t make people change their minds, and unfortunately I don’t think there’s a panacea for incorrect judgement of a populous who clearly didn’t know a thing about you to begin with.
” She wrinkles her nose. “But you can carry it differently.”
“Feels too heavy, all those eyes on me.”
Her palm presses flat, and a teasing smile curls her lips upward. “If your arms aren’t up for the job, mine are.”
I poke my tongue into my cheek, grinning. “They look small to me.”
“Please, I once pulled a stegosaurus femur out of a giant slab of limestone.”
“Did you really?” I give her a dubious look.
Her thumb trails across the stretch of my shoulder with her laugh before she lets go. “No, but I did brush some dust off it.”
“Oh, great.” I roll each shoulder out. “That’ll work better. You can fossil brush all the judgements off me.”
Ren smiles, a full one.
It rounds out her cheeks and lightens her eyes, and it stays there as we wander aimlessly through aisles of a grocery store that really is too pretentious, tossing random things neither of us have ever heard of into our baskets that get so full we max out the self-checkout.
And when a store employee comes to override it, and their eyes do linger on me too long, I don’t really feel them at all because this woman with the tiny arms that definitely couldn’t grab a giant femur if they tried, carries way more weight than I’d ever be capable of on my own.