Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Nate
“The future ain’t what it used to be.”
Yogi Berra
I played like total shit. Walked in two runs, ERA jumped a full point, and I knew exactly why.
Cassidy Calloway.
Her flirting with my teammates, that smug glint in her eyes, the ridiculous dating idea. I promised myself no distractions this season—contract on the line, my sister pregnant, everything to lose—and she’d still found a way under my skin.
“I need a bucket.”
I shot off the couch and shoved the trash can in front of my sister. She hurled loudly, clutching the rim. My stomach twisted; even the sound made me want to bolt.
“Ugh.” She wiped her forehead, cheeks blotchy. 19, pregnant, single, and miserable. “I can’t keep anything down.”
“When was the last time you ate, Amanda?” I wet a washcloth and handed it over. I’d learned too much about pregnancy these past six months: nausea, exhaustion, random tears. She’d already needed an IV because she couldn’t keep fluids.
Despite the meds, wristbands, peppermint tricks—nothing worked. So instead of drowning my bad game with the guys, I was here at nine p.m. on a Wednesday. Her roommate and best friend was living abroad for a year, and I hated the idea of her living alone.
““Don’t test me,” I warned, mixing Sprite and Gatorade. “I’ll haul you to the ER again if you don’t answer.”
She groaned, covering her face.
We’d had okay parents, but they’d been more career than comfort, more structure than softness. By the time Amanda came along—seventeen years after me—they were tired, distracted, half-present. So I’d stepped in. Caretaker mode wasn’t a choice; it was muscle memory.
Now, watching her pale and swollen and too proud to ask for help, I felt that same old ache—the one that told me she deserved more than being left to figure it out alone. I hated that she wouldn’t say who the father was. Hated watching her struggle. Mostly, I hated that I couldn’t fix it.
“Nate, please.” She exhaled, voice small. “I don’t want to go back there. It’s miserable. I just want my own bed.” “I get it, but you need nutrients.” I squeezed her shoulder. “Come stay with me. I hate seeing you like this.”
Her eyes flashed. “No. I can do this myself. I don’t need anyone babying me.”
“There’s a difference between babying and helping. You look like hell, Amanda. You’re losing too much weight.” I took a breath before she could snap. “You’re a badass—but sometimes it’s okay to lean on someone.”
Her shoulders slumped. “The next trimester’s supposed to be easier. Let me get there. If it doesn’t improve…”
“Then you move in with me,” I finished. “Deal. Spit and shake on it.”
“I’m not doing that.” She laughed—finally—and color returned to her cheeks. “Now, can we talk about what happened on the mound tonight? You were kind of a mess.”
“Don’t turn this around on me.” I pointed at her. “This is about you feeling better.”
“Sure, sure. But you played like shit.”
I groaned, heading for her kitchen and the six-pack in her fridge. “I can’t believe you watched that.”
“Please. The entire Internet watched that. Everyone tuned into the 9 dates, 9 games bit with Cassventures.”
I popped the cap off an IPA, the bitter smell grounding me. My stomach still tightened at the memory of every blown pitch, and of her. God, I hated Cass and what she stood for. “Don’t walk away from me!” she called.
“I’m grabbing a drink, Panda. I need it.”
Her place looked like a magazine spread—plants everywhere, cozy furniture, that perfect lived-in glow. I sank into her recliner, set my phone and wallet aside, and tried not to think about the notification lighting up my screen.
Garcia: Hey old man, I know you hate socials but you GOTTA watch hers
Even without asking, I knew who the ‘her’ was in his question.
My skin prickled. I wanted to see what she’d posted. If she’d shared our DMs, I’d look like an ass—but she didn’t get what it meant to be an athlete. “This is fucking stupid.”
Amanda arched a brow. “You can have one bad game, Nate. You just seemed distracted tonight. It’s not me, is it?”
“What? No. I’m focused on getting my contract extended.” I hesitated, then sighed. “It’s Cassventures.”
“Who hasn’t?” Her eyes lit up. “She’s hilarious—real, even after her breakup went viral. She was at the game tonight. Why?”
“Because she’s the reason I played like shit,” I muttered, taking a long swig of beer. “She’s making a spectacle out of my career.”
Amanda gave me a look. “You sound dramatic.”
“She lives for likes. Everything she does is calculated for views. I don’t respect that—you remember what happened to me a few years ago.”
“Jesus, Nate, that guy hacked you. This is different. You play sports for a living—that’s literally entertainment.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are,” she said. “That’s exactly how you’re coming across. Have you talked to her?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Yeah. She DMed me asking to do some cute video things and I told her my unsolicited opinion of what she does. Told her she’s making a mockery of her dad’s memory.”
Amanda groaned. “You’re an ass! She’s not like that.”
“She’s an influencer, Amanda. That’s exactly what she is.”
“Okay,” I admitted. “I came at her pretty hard. She hates me now. Mutual, though.”
Amanda smirked. “You’ve dated before. Women have cheated with teammates and that didn’t shake you. But you’ve been a damn hermit and kinda boring the last few years. I mean you get hit on all the time and you act like they are flies. So tell me. Why does she bother you so much?”
“Great question,” I muttered.
“You gotta figure it out. You can’t play that bad again.”
“Wow, thanks, Coach.” I drained my beer and glared at the text Garcia had sent earlier. Did she post about me? Call me an asshole? People wouldn’t see the difference between focus and arrogance.
“Oh, she has a new one!” Amanda projected her phone onto the TV.
Cassidy’s face filled the screen—no makeup, hair down, a baggy shirt sliding off her shoulder. But it was her eyes that hit me hardest. That sad, soft smile felt like a fastball to the ribs. It had to be an act. A ruse. She was fucking performing, and it pissed me off.
“I’ve gotten a lot of questions about how I’m doing and if I like baseball, or the Gila Monsters, and I wanted to take a few minutes to talk about what happened at today’s game.
I might cry, so if that makes you uncomfortable, keep scrolling.
If you’re new here, I recently lost my dad, and my boyfriend of two years dumped me right as they lowered his casket into the ground.
Since my dad was a die-hard Gila Monster fan, and my heart was shattered, I sought out to attend nine home games with nine different dates in honor of my dad’s favorite player, Nate O’Brien. ”
I tensed. Every muscle hardened in my body as I prepared for her to tell everyone what a dick I was.
“My goal was to try and move on and have fun dating, while also feeling closer to my dad. And tonight … I felt him. He told me once that the sounds of baseball were his favorite, and I never understood. Maybe, I was too self-absorbed. Hell, I’m only twenty-four!
” She laughed, and holy shit, her raspy voice went straight to my gut.
The younger guys were always yapping about ASMR, and I never got it, but something about her voice made me see the appeal.
“But baseball is romantic, and I never realized. I fell in love with the sounds of the organ, the vendors yelling for food, the way the crowd ebbed and flowed throughout the game. Even when they were down, the crowd wanted to believe and rallied behind the players with a fierce love and belief. To me, the crack of the bat was my dad telling me I’d be alright.
It might seem silly, damn.” She wiped a tear and had a self-deprecating smile.
“Emotions are annoying, but anyway, the most amazing thing happened before the game.”
Amazing? That couldn’t have been me? I adjusted my position on the couch, nerves grating me.
“One of the players handed me this.” She held up the baseball with writing. Was this what Pavin handed her before she had the biggest smile on her face? The two of them were laughing and flirting, and it annoyed me to no end.
“My dad spoke in quotes, and his influence wasn’t just with me.
His love of the game transferred to the guys on the team, and it felt like a hug from him getting to hear about him through someone else’s eyes.
Pavin Porcello—thank you. Thank you for giving me a small piece of my dad.
Too bad your number is 45, or I’d switch to attending that many games to honor you. ”
No. My instinct was to fight that comment and demand her to stay focused on me, but that was ridiculous.
I wanted her to stop the charade entirely because it was distracting.
It was why I sucked tonight! But the way her gaze softened when she spoke about Pavin made my eyeballs twitch.
Did the woman have no shame? It was enough to make me feel bad for the poor saps she dragged along as dates.
“Drop a comment if you’ve dealt with grief in weird ways or found connections to things you didn’t expect.
I love hearing about them and knowing I’m not alone.
Adventures and trying new experiences are my brand, but learning to live post grief is my current adventure and its hard.
Love you all, thanks for your support, always. ”
Then she blew a kiss, and the video stopped.
My sister sniffed.
“Are you crying?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, wiping her eyes. “That was adorable! That baseball story? Romantic. And the part about her dad—ugh, I love her.”
I rolled my eyes. This wasn’t going well. Pinching my nose, I swallowed the urge to argue. I was apparently the only person on the Cassidy-is-annoying train. Still, something twisted in my gut thinking about our last exchange. I owed her something. Not an apology, exactly, but … something.
Since she’d blocked my text—fair—I reactivated my personal social media account. Not out of desperation, just curiosity I couldn’t quite explain. I hadn’t used it in years; back when the line between fans and players blurred, it got ugly fast. It was private now, mostly for family updates.
Amanda glanced over. “You knew her dad, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Miss him. He was a good man.”
“So why haven’t you told any stories about him? You totally could. People would love that.”
“I don’t want to be filmed,” I said. Even to me, it sounded weak.
She grinned. “Please. You’re just afraid she’ll make you look human.”
I shot her a look. “That’s not it.”
“Sure it isn’t. You think Cassidy’s gonna film you for clout or something? She doesn’t need you for that.” Amanda yawned, still smiling. “You’re the one watching her videos, big guy.”
I ignored her, but the heat creeping up my neck gave me away. Amanda yawned. “Damn, I need to sleep.”
“Do you need another drink or want to try more food?”
“No, I’m okay. Thank you for being here.”
“Might crash here if that’s cool?” I jutted my chin toward her guest room.
“You’re not here to babysit me.”
“Oh, I’m well aware. I’m tired, I want to drink a few beers and pout. Plus, I’m obsessed with your blanket in there and your bath towels. They are better than mine.”
She snorted again. “You’re so weird, but love you anyway.”
“You too, Panda.”
She disappeared into her room while I stared at Cassidy’s feed on my phone. I could reach out to her. Try something. But I had no idea what.
NateDawg: Hey Cassidy, would you unblock my number, please? I have a story about your dad you might enjoy.
He’d mentioned that old game in her video—the foul ball her dad caught and gave to a kid in the stands. It’d stuck with me all night, the way he’d grinned about it for weeks after.
Cassventures: Typing … typing … typing …
Nothing.
I gripped the phone, throat tightening as her response never came. I wasn’t used to this, but then again, I normally wasn’t an asshole to people.
NateDawg: I came at you too hard, I realize that now.
Cassventures: You can tell me tomorrow.
NateDawg: Tomorrow?
Cassventures: The day after today, yes. Tomorrow. I’m going to the team shop to buy a Pavin jersey. You can meet me there at 10 a.m.
NateDawg: Deal.
Cassventures: Also, NateDawg? Really? How old are you? Make that when computers were invented?
My lips twitched despite myself. I told myself I was only humoring her to avoid more chaos. If talking once kept her off my back later, fine.
She didn’t deserve my judgement, but I could also use the time to try and convince her to stop coming to the games.
While I could be kind about it, she was a distraction.
I had to get resigned to the Gila Monsters—that meant staying focused, performing, and throwing everything I had at this season.
I couldn’t get traded, I couldn’t move cities.
I refused to leave my sister on her own, and I wanted my legacy to be here, in Phoenix.
If I didn’t play well, all of it would be over and without baseball, I was nothing.