3. Sparkly Rom-com Journey
3
Sparkly Rom-com Journey
Trevor
I walk down the stairs of the lake house and into chaos.
Not surprising when I live with this many people. Surprisingly, I haven’t heard any of them fucking yet, so the walls must be nice and thick.
When I round the stairs into the kitchen, my eyebrows shoot up.
Miles has Joel in a headlock, while Aaron leans against the counter, sipping on coffee like nothing else is happening. Mackenzie—who we all call Mackie—is sitting on the kitchen island, tossing little pieces of bacon at Amanda for her to catch in her mouth.
I go straight for the coffee pot. Aaron makes the best coffee.
I’ve barely poured my cup when Amanda calls out from behind me.
I spin around as a piece of bacon flies toward me. I lean forward and catch it in my mouth with ease.
“How did you do that? I’ve caught like two in ten minutes.”
“Baseball player.”
“Didn’t realize you catch balls with your mouth.” Mackie grins. “I’m sure there’s a sex joke in there somewhere.”
I take a spot leaning against the counter next to Aaron, who is laughing, then I look around. “Hold up, where’s your fiancée?”
I tease him with the word because he’s been extra obsessed since they got engaged a few months ago.
“She and Sarah left early this morning. I’m riding in with Joel.”
“And did you have to have your faces surgically separated?”
“You’re hilarious.”
“We’re all twelve years old on the inside.”
Joel breaks free of Miles’s hold, quickly stands, and gives him a titty twister before dashing away. Miles chases after him around the couch in the living room.
“As evidenced.” Aaron takes another sip of his coffee. He’s by far the most laid back of the three guys. Miles is aggressively type A and Joel is soft-spoken but more dramatic.
I smack his shoulder. “Aren’t you supposed to be the mature one? Seeing as you’re getting married in two months.”
“Don’t get him started,” Miles says, walking back into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. He hands one to Joel, who is right behind him.
“Yeah, he’ll tell you exactly how long down to the minute.”
“Only because I have a countdown timer going,” Aaron says.
“And you’re obsessed with your fiancée,” Mackie sings.
“Are you surprised by that? You’re the ones who insisted for years we were in love.”
“Because you were. Dumbass.” Joel hoists himself onto the counter, and I laugh as Aaron gives him the finger.
Yeah, we’re definitely still twelve, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Aaron smacks my chest. “Hey, are you going to talk to Coach M today?”
The room is suddenly silent as everyone waits for my response.
“Yeah. I’m going to stop in before my first class.”
“Good.”
He’s been on his own journey with baseball after injuring his hand senior year of high school. He was all set to play ball in college. He’s an incredible pitcher. He’s finally getting the right treatment now and hopes to pitch again this year, but for the last two he’s been an amazing coach. Aaron was the first to jump in and encourage me to find a different future that still involves baseball.
Some people don’t get it. Just walk away. It’s a part of the past. But when something is ingrained in you to your very core, when it’s your coping mechanism and your stress reliever, you can’t just walk away.
I’ll never be able to play like I used to, but I’m determined to still be involved with the team.
Baseball is a part of me, and it always will be.
I’m a chickenshit.
All I need to do is walk inside the athletic building, go up to the third floor, and knock on the head baseball coach’s door.
For some reason, my feet don’t want to move.
It’s almost like if I go up there, it’s the final acknowledgment that I’m never going to play again.
That’s stupid as fuck, because that’s been obvious since I was lying in a hospital bed, unable to get up to take a shit by myself.
I’m not someone who gets nervous easily. I’m extroverted, friendly, and too confident for my own good. But this is hard. It feels a little too much like swallowing my pride. Or begging. Not things I’m used to doing.
Someone walks past me into the building, and instead of following them, I pull my phone from my pocket and text my best friend back home, Nick.
Me: Tell me to stop being a chickenshit.
The three little dots appear in an instant.
Nick: Stop being a whiny little scaredy cat, put your big boy boxers on, and go do whatever thing you need to do.
Me: You have such a way with words.
Nick: You’re stalling.
Me: You don’t even know why I’m asking.
Nick: Irrelevant. If you’re asking me to give you a push, it’s because it’s something you want to do. Since I’m not there to hold your hand, you’ll just have to be brave and do it on your own.
Me: Like you’d hold my hand.
Nick: Yeah, no. That’s reserved for when you’re almost dying in the hospital. Right now, I’d give you a shove. Or drag you by the ear.
Me: Leigh’s rubbing off on you.
Me: Do NOT make a sex joke about your wife. She’ll know and yell at both of us.
Nick: Then stop texting me and go do the thing. Seize the day. Carpe diem. Hakuna matata. Live laugh love. Insert applicable mantra here.
I laugh at that. That’s what I wanted when I texted him—for him to pull me out of my head.
Nick can act like a five-year-old to cheer me up and get me out of my head, or he can settle in for a lengthy conversation about the complexities of life. It’s what makes us such good friends. And he’s always shown up for me whenever I need him.
Me: Okay, you’ve convinced me.
Nick: Excellent timing because a toddler meltdown is imminent, and I need to go.
Me: Have fun with that.
Nick was a teen dad, but life worked out how it was supposed to for him. He and his wife are insanely in love, and he’s a great dad. I almost envy him. Not the teen pregnancy part, but how happy he is with his life. He proves every day that it doesn’t matter if you’re young, you can find your person and start a beautiful life with them.
And that’s enough sappiness for me this morning.
As if I’m running from those thoughts, my feet start moving and I finally make it through the doors of the building. The coach’s office is easy enough to find, and I quickly knock on the door before I can second-guess myself.
“Come on in.”
I push the door open and see Coach M behind his desk. I saw him from a distance last year when I came up for a couple of games, but I’ve never met him before. Aaron mentioned me to him, though, so I’m not showing up out of the blue.
He looks up, his piercing gaze instantly connecting with mine, sizing me up. I stand tall, letting him break eye contact first.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope so. My name’s Trevor Matteny, Aaron—”
“Ah, Cooper’s friend. He mentioned you’d be stopping in. Come sit.”
Coach M is in his late forties with a serious look in his eyes, but the laugh lines around his mouth tell me it’s all a hard-ass coach act.
“Thanks for meeting with me.”
“No problem. So, Aaron didn’t tell me much about you, only that playing isn’t an option anymore, but you’d like to be involved with the team in some way.”
“That’s the gist. I was playing D1 ball for Syracuse and was supposed to be looking forward to the draft about now, but my dumb ass went snowboarding with my friend in January and bounced off a few trees.”
“And the doctors were definitive about you not playing again?”
“There’s only so much rehabbing you can do with a fully replaced knee, a partially replaced hip, and an entire leg that’s held together by rods and pins. Moving boxes the other day took me out, so anything beyond a pick-up game with my friends is out for me.”
He nods slowly. “I’m sorry to hear that, and I understand the desire not to lose something that’s woven into who you are. It’s why I offered Aaron the coaching position. What exactly are you looking for? I don’t have any paid coaching positions available, but I’ll always take volunteers.”
“I don’t know exactly. I’m studying sports management now, and I guess I was thinking—well, I was thinking I’d take whatever I can get. Ideally, I’d like to see the behind the scenes of the team, maybe? Something working with you or the other coaches. And yeah, I’d love to be involved with practices and stuff. I don’t need anything paid, but the locker room, the field, the game calls to me. I’m not ready to leave it behind.”
I shift in my chair, again that sensation of begging crawling up my spine, but then Coach M smiles.
“How long did you play?”
“Pretty much my whole life. It’s something my dad introduced me to at a young age, and I fell in love with it.”
“From the behind-the-scenes things, what are you hoping to get from that? Just being close to the game or preparation for your future?”
“Both, I guess. I’m leaning toward wanting to work with some kind of sports development or management, maybe in a school or college or even a minor league team.”
He nods and claps his hands together. “I have some ideas, but I want to look into a couple of things. Can you stop in tomorrow morning around the same time?”
“Yes, sir.”
I stand and extend my hand to his.
He shakes it, a smile coming through.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
The second I’m outside his office, I let out a whoosh of air. I did it, and to my surprise, I feel lighter now. I don’t think I realized how much facing this reality and finding a way forward was weighing on me. Not that it’s a magic solution to the trauma I caused myself and am still healing from, but it’s progress, and that’s the whole point in this fresh start, Eat, Pray, Love , sparkly rom-com journey I’m on now.
With that weight off my shoulders, I set off to find my way across campus and make today my bitch.