34. Troy
thirty-four
troy
Reeling From the Loss of “During Us”
T he roar hits me before I’ve even stepped onto the field.
It starts off as a low vibrating hum when I emerge from the tunnel before building to a wave of pure, unbridled elation as I finish my warm-ups in the bullpen. And when I take my spot on the game mound in the fifth inning, the sound is almost deafening—thirty thousand fans on their feet to welcome me back. A blurry sea of men, women, and kids holding up posters of my face and wearing my jersey, all here to witness my comeback after thirteen months away.
“Winters! Winters! Winters!” The chants echo through the Blazers’ stadium like thunder rumbling inside stormy clouds.
My hand finds its way to my pocket, pulling out a new photograph. Scraping my teeth along my bottom lip, I stare down at the three people who mean the world to me. I’ve always had a ritual of kissing Pearl’s photograph before every game, but now it’s not just her smiling face in the picture.
My lips brush across Pearl and Rome’s faces, then lingers a second longer on the woman who has my heart in her clutches.
And while I feel beyond grateful to be back on this mound again, I can’t seem to ignore the pang inside me, either. It’s as if someone extracted everything worth keeping and left only the bare minimum for me to survive.
Who knew the pitcher’s mound, the one place I used to feel most alive, the place I lived my truth, would become the very thing that cost me mine? Who knew getting another chance to live out my dream would mean sacrificing the only person who saw me for more than the sum of my game stats?
I close my eyes, breathing in the warm July air, trying to center myself. But it does nothing to bring life back into the void inside me. All I see is her—her in my arms, her in my sheets, her tears, her broken whispers against my lips.
The door clicking shut behind her, louder than this stadium full of fans around me.
“Strike!” The umpire’s call pulls me back to the present, and I blink out of my haze. I didn’t even realize I’d thrown the pitch—the large Jumbotron displaying the speed of my ninety-five-miles-per–hour fastball.
When the fuck had I released it?
The crowd erupts again, and I acknowledge them with a wave, making them roar louder. They deserve my humble thanks at the very least—these avid fans who’ve sent well wishes in the form of cards and emails throughout my recovery, who believed I’d make it back, even when there were days I wasn’t sure I would.
“That’s my boy! Hell yes, buddy!” Dean’s distinctive voice, louder than almost anyone else, cuts through the noise behind home plate.
I’d given him a shake of my head earlier in feigned exasperation when I saw him in those ridiculous pajamas with my face on them, but I won’t lie—him and the rest of the guys in that group chat have kept me sane and shown me the type of friendship that’s damn hard to find.
My catcher, Ivan Bledsoe, throws the ball back with a low whistle. My eyes connect with his and his brows lift, silently asking me if I’m good. I give him a short nod, swallowing past the jagged rock lodged inside my throat.
The St. Louis Stingers’ batter steps out again, adjusting his gloves, but I don’t miss the look of surprise that crosses his face. Like many others in the crowd and in the opposing team, I’m not sure he was expecting a fastball with the velocity that came at him from someone thirteen months post-surgery. Truthfully, I hadn’t expected to make this kind of recovery myself, so I don’t take his surprise personally.
Muscle memory takes over as I toe the rubber, feeling the weight of the ball in my hand as I find the seams. My body remembers, even if my mind and heart are miles away. The scoreboard behind me glows three-two with the Blazers in the lead, no outs in the fifth. Coming in as a relief pitcher feels strange, but Coach was clear about the plan to ease me back in during the first couple of games—two or three of the middle innings, max.
Bledsoe puts down a finger, twisting it to indicate he wants me to throw a slider, but after having seen the surprise on the batter’s face, I decide against it. Another fastball is what he’ll get, because if I don’t channel everything I’m feeling into pure speed now, to pack every pitch with the ache in my chest, I might just fall apart right here.
The ball leaves my hand like a programmed missile, zipping past the strike zone and breaking just enough to clip the edge before the umpire calls another strike. Ninety-four miles -per -hour splashes across the Jumbotron, and I watch as a smile erupts on Bledsoe’s face behind his catcher’s mask.
I should be ecstatic. In my first major game back, I’ve made the ball do my bidding, painted corners with flawless precision, and gotten thirty thousand people on their feet.
I should be over the fucking moon.
Wasn’t this exactly what I worked so hard to get back to the past thirteen months—hours upon hours of strenuous physical therapy and rehab? So why does it feel like I’m watching someone else live out my dream while the real me is still in my empty room, staring at the door she walked out of, hoping she’ll come back in?
Another pitch later, I record my first strikeout. Six pitches after that, I get ahead with a curveball, and then drop a changeup, forcing the Stingers’ five-hole batter to follow his teammate to the bench. By the end of the inning, I’ve struck out three St. Louis hitters like a soulless machine.
My teammates line the dugout, watching me in awe. Our fans are so uproarious, the stadium vibrates. The Blazers haven’t had a pitcher dominate like this in, well, thirteen months.
But how do I feel?
I’m dying inside.
* * *
An hour after waving to the crowd and accepting claps on my back from my teammates, I’m showered and changed, facing a row of reporters with their microphones aimed at me like pointed swords. They’re looking to paint a perfect comeback story, the redemption arc for a fallen hero rising from the ashes of a potential career-ending injury.
I play my part, telling them how grateful I am to be back, how proud I am of the work I put in during rehab, how supported I feel by the Blazers. I say all the right words and smile in all the right places.
What I don’t tell them is there’s now a plume of smoke inside me where there once raged a fire, like someone snuffed out my spirit with ice water and left nothing but sizzling embers in its place.
What I don’t tell them is how I feel like a shadow following my own body through familiar motions, as though I’m drifting outside of it, watching decisions be made on my behalf but helpless to change anything.
What I don’t tell them is that while it looked like I played with my whole heart out there, I felt like I was standing on the sidelines, waiting for something inside me to return.
It’s not what they want to hear.
What they want to see is a hero, and that’s what I’ll give them, even if I have to wear a mask to bear it. Even if the man behind that mask is fading like untreated wood under the harsh sun.
I look down at my watch as the media circus finally ends. She’s likely closing up the salon right about now. Or maybe she’s already on her way to pick up Rome from his after-school program and take him to baseball practice? Maybe she’s thinking about what she’ll have for dinner tonight. Or maybe she’s looking through her schedule for tomorrow.
You know, just carrying on with her life like she would have before us, while I’m still reeling from the loss of “during us”—drowning in the ocean of what was and what could have been.
I’m just about to head to the locker room to grab my things when Dev, Garrett, Dean, Darian, and Hudson traipse into the Blazers’ clubhouse. The scene is very much reminiscent of the first time we all met right here, and for the first time in a while, an easy smile ticks up my lips. Thankfully, some things haven’t changed.
“Dude! Five strikeouts in three innings!” Dean practically bounces off the walls, his smile like a permanent fixture on his face. “Do you know how insane that is for your first game back? I swear, my nipples hardened watching those fastballs you were throwing.”
“I feel like you pitched better than before surgery,” Hudson says, his tone marveling. “You sure they didn’t put some enhancers or some shit inside that elbow?”
“And that slider in the sixth? Winters, you’re a magician.” Garrett grins, giving me one of those man hugs. “It was good to see you back out there, brother.”
“Thanks.” I manage the gratitude with as much honesty as I can muster, trying to match their enthusiasm. “Thank you all for coming. It means a lot to me.”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Dev states, eyeing me with that perceptive furrow between his brows, like he’s trying to decipher a foreign language. Noticing the guys are all distracted and chatting about the game, he takes a step closer, his chin tilting down as his eyebrows lift. “You played one hell of a game today. So why do you look like you pocketed a loss instead of a win?”
Because I did.
My chest tightens, but I shake my head, shrugging. “Nah, I’m good. Just . . . uh, processing.”
Dev’s eyes narrow, and I get the feeling it’s the same look he gives in the boardroom when he’s about to close a multi-million-dollar deal.
“You know one of the things that’s common between all my close friends, Troy?” His gaze touches the other guys, now howling with laughter over something Dean has likely said, before coming back to me, heavy with meaning. “They’re honest. They don’t bullshit. And they won’t put on a tough guy act when that’s the last thing they feel. Not with their friends, at least.”
He leaves his statement hanging in the air between us, not bothering to elaborate, but his meaning is clear.
I take in a breath, my throat rolling.
He’s right. These guys have come to know me better than some of my teammates. Where I’ve always had a good camaraderie with my teammates—working toward the same goals, celebrating the same victories, and mourning the same losses—I’ve never had the type of easy friendship with them as I have found with these guys. A friendship that’s far beyond a goal of any kind. A friendship that has no agenda and no need for facades. A friendship that now feels more like a brotherhood than anything else.
“Because I do feel like I pocketed a loss,” I say, surrendering the mask I had on for the press. “A big fucking loss.”
Understanding crosses Dev’s features, his astute mind filling in the gaps of everything I haven’t said. He nods, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “I take it you weren’t able to change her mind?”
Neither of us has to clarify who “her” is.
“I tried,” I huff, taking off my ball cap and running a frustrated hand through my hair. “For thirteen months. But, of course, the fucking universe would have me fall in love with a woman who literally loathes what I do.”
“She doesn’t loathe what you do—at least, that’s not the way Piper has interpreted it. Sarina just loves her fear more.”
My brows bend as I wait for him to continue, and this time, he does.
“She’s coddled her fears—of cameras and gossip columns, of the media and being in the public eye, and of never feeling like she’ll live up to the expectations of being the woman Troy Winters is with.” Dev rocks back on his heels, taking a moment to find the right words. “Believe me, I know how you feel better than you’d think. Convincing Piper to marry me for real was no walk in the park. The woman might look like a rose, but I pricked my hands multiple times on all the thorns trying to pluck her for myself.”
“So how did you convince her?”
A smile plays on Dev’s lips. “I didn’t.” When he sees the confusion on my face, he continues, “What I mean is, I didn’t try to convince her to disregard her fears. Instead, I let her see, feel, and hear my truth with every word and action. I let her fight her own demons.”
“I feel like I’ve done those things, too.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other as doubt ignites inside me. “Haven’t I?”
“I’d say you have.”
“So what do I do now? Just wait?” The words taste like bitter pills in my mouth.
Dev takes a long breath, his face both grim and hopeful, sort of like my fucking love life at the moment. “Unfortunately, yes. Unlike your elbow, there’s no proven method to rehab a fearful heart. You can hold their hand and hope they trust that you’re different from what they expect, but you can’t put their recovery on a schedule and measure its progress.” Dev’s gaze doesn’t waver from my face. “You know, the past thirteen months you weren’t just rehabbing your elbow, Troy; you were helping her start her own recovery, too.”
I huff out a humorless laugh. “Maybe, but clearly, it’s anyone’s guess as to how long that will take or if she decides it’s not worth the effort.”
“Perhaps. But all you can do is let her figure it out on her own, let her be in charge of managing her own fears. Maybe she’ll conquer them, or maybe she’ll realize that it isn't about conquering her fears at all but about coexisting with them.” He leans in like he’s about to give me the passcode to his bank account. “And that’s when she’ll have made the most progress.”
I blink at him, still trying to decipher what the hell his last statement means when Dean’s hand lands on my shoulder.
“Hey! What are you two whispering about like schoolgirls?” His grin widens when he sees the mirrored feigned exhaustion on mine and Dev’s face. “We’re celebrating tonight! The youngest Meyer brother is buying the first round at Le Mont’s!”
“Says who?” Darian grumbles, standing a step behind Dean and clearly hearing this for the first time.
“Says me! We’re celebrating our boy’s comeback. And not just any comeback; the fucking way that game went, the Blazers are going to the World Series again!”
“Actually, I’m beat.” I roll my neck. “Think I might call it a night.”
Truth is, I just want to get home, wallow in my misery some more as I flip through pictures of Sarina, Rome, Pearl, and me on my phone—the family I could have had.
“What? Come on, man!” Dean looks like I just told him I’ll be confiscating the altar dedicated to me inside his room. Honestly, if that altar is actually real, I legitimately worry about having him as one of my best friends. “One drink. I even brought a Sasquatch costume sporting your jersey to wear to the bar!”
Garrett snorts. “Yeah, pretty sure that’ll have the opposite effect of trying to convince him, asshole.”
I glower at Dean. “It’s a hard pass from me, then.”
Dean waves his hands near his shoulders in surrender. “Okay, okay, no costume. What if we all wear these pajamas?” He waves his hand across his pajama bottoms like he’s showing off a prize. “I have extras in the car.”
“No.”
“Wow,” he huffs, pretending to be at his wit’s end. “You’re grumpier than Hudson without his daily prune juice.”
“Come on,” Dev urges me with a reassuring smile. “One drink. We can even fly there.”
My eyes widen. “ Fly there?”
He nods casually, because of course he does. “The helicopter’s waiting for us behind the stadium.”
I shake my head in bewilderment, my resolve dwindling as I look at their hopeful faces.
Yeah, I have a Sarina-sized hole in my fucking chest and maybe, like Dev said earlier, I’ll need to coexist with this new fear of never getting her back. But for tonight, for a few short hours, maybe all I need to do is fill it with these idiots who show up and drag my ass out of my misery and keep me from drowning.
“Fine. One drink. But only after I have a chat with Coach first.”