Chapter 1 #3
The president and the player exchanged a glance I couldn’t read. God, I was ruining my brand right in front of people who probably had PR teams.
Silence. Well, not quite complete silence.
The birds chirped and the sound of cars in the distance drifted toward us, but I sure as heck stunned the president and the player.
God, I was ruining my rep right now. My entire brand was being upbeat and going on adventures.
Being the daring one. The one to grab life by the balls and enjoy the ride.
They stared at me, frozen in their stance.
Yeah, that was a lot to handle. I ran my hands over my face, probably smearing the waterproof mascara in the process.
If only my fans could see me now … they’d never believe it.
They’d expect a joke, a snappy caption about “life throwing curveballs.” I could already picture it—the soft filter, the sympathetic emojis, the comments pouring in with heart reacts and you’ve got this, girl.
That version of me would tilt her chin up, blink back tears, and turn pain into content because that’s what she did best.
But this me? The real one? She didn’t care about angles or engagement. She just wanted to breathe without her chest aching. She wanted to crawl out of her skin and stop performing.
Somewhere between those two versions—the one smiling for strangers and the one falling apart in front of two men who barely knew her—I wasn’t sure who I actually was anymore.
“We’ll get you a car and make sure your vehicle gets home.
” The president cleared his throat before patting my shoulder.
Then, he pulled a cigar from his pocket, the movement careful, reverent.
“Have a smoke in heaven, Jackson. This one’s on me.
Thank you for your heart and soul you put into the team. ”
“We all signed this ball for you,” the other guy said. His voice dropped, low and rough, and he turned the ball in his hand before tossing it down into the grave. “One of the best.”
Something in the way he said it—quiet, certain—hit me harder than I expected. His expression wasn’t for show; he meant it. Even through the haze of grief and humiliation, I recognized that. This stranger cared about my dad in a way I didn’t understand yet, and somehow, that made it hurt more.
That’s how I said goodbye to the most important person in my life, with the president of the Gila Monsters and a player.
Not with the man who I thought would be my future husband, but with the Gila Monsters team.
They were the ones who stood by me as they filled the plot with dirt, and the casket wasn’t visible anymore.
As the president made a call to request a ride for me, I opened my phone out of pure reflex. My thumb hovered over the camera roll, pictures of me and Mathias at events, at brunch, at games, and I deleted them one by one before I could talk myself out of it.
The silence in the cemetery pressed in, so I did what I always did when I didn’t want to feel anything. I went live.
“Hey, everyone,” I started, voice cracking. “So, uh, today’s been … a lot.” My laugh came out shaky. “My dad’s funeral was beautiful. And my boyfriend—sorry, ex-boyfriend—broke up with me right after they lowered the casket. Yeah. Like, literally as the dirt was falling.”
A few horrified emojis popped up. I kept talking anyway.
“I mean, who does that, right? You’d think there’s some unwritten rule about not dumping your grieving girlfriend mid-funeral, but apparently not. So, cheers to new beginnings?” I lifted my dad’s old baseball cap toward the camera, trying for humor but feeling the wobble in my smile.
The chat started blowing up—
Cass, omg, nooo.
He’s trash.
You deserve better!
Do something wild. Go to a Gila Monsters game for your dad!
Wait—wasn’t that his favorite team?
Make it a thing, girl.
Who was your dad’s favorite player?
My vote is Nate O’Brien. He’s so hot. The silver fox thing is IN.
YAAAS. He’s number 9. Nine home games, nine dates. Let him see what he lost!
Manifest your Nate O’Brien moment!
I blinked at the comments, half-laughing, half-horrified. Leave it to the internet to turn heartbreak into a content strategy.
Still … my dad had loved the Gila Monsters. He’d tried to get me to go to games all the time, but Mathias hated them—called them “washed-up nobodies” compared to his precious Rattlers. I’d always chosen date nights or events instead. Never baseball.
Maybe that was the point.
Maybe this was how I got close to Dad again—by doing the one thing I’d always brushed off. By sitting in those stands, hearing the crack of the bat, breathing the same air he loved.
Nine games. Nine dates. Nine chances to start over.
It was chaotic, illogical, and absolutely on-brand for a girl who just livestreamed her breakdown from a cemetery. But it felt right. A way to honor my dad, piss off my ex, and maybe—just maybe—feel something other than heartbreak.
I ended the live, slipped my phone back into my bag, and whispered toward the casket, “It ain’t over ’til it’s over, right?”