32. Chapter 1
Iwas surrounded by trees and that ridiculous smell of pine that made your whole body feel sticky. The sound of a snapping branch alerted me to the person I’d known would follow me.
“Not now, Tanner,” I said. “Go be with the team.” I meant it. I didn’t deserve to be with Tanner. Especially after making the final out—again.
“Tanner is still at the field,” said a soft voice. Mr. Quinn. Tanner, Zach, and Gavin’s dad.
I turned around to tell him to be with his sons. “I’m okay,” I choked. “I—”
He wrapped me in a hug before I could finish.
I’d told Tanner last night I wouldn’t cry if we lost. But I always did when the season ended. This time was even worse—I’d not only ended our season, but I’d done it in the state finals.
“You were great, Easton,” Mr. Quinn whispered. His arms were strong and warm, and I sank into them before I could stop myself. He held me the way I used to wish my dad would. But showing emotion around each other hadn’t been allowed.
I finally broke out of the hug, tears still streaming down my face. I coughed, my insides trying to come out thanks to a hug I didn’t deserve.
A leaf twisted onto my shoulder as I sat under a tree, knees up, arms locked tight over them. Mr. Quinn eased beside me and put one arm around my shoulder.
My name sounded in the distance from the PA announcer. Why, I did not know or care.
Five minutes later, Gavin walked through the clearing. He tossed me my glove when he got close. “Catch?”
I nodded and stood, not trusting myself to speak.
Mr. Quinn got up as well and walked away. Hopefully, he’d go be with Tanner and Zach.
The rhythm of playing catch had always been a source of solace for me. I cocked back my arm and tossed it harder than I should have when playing catch with Gavin, but he snatched it out of the air.
I felt a twinge in my arm, the same pain I’d played through all year, like a piece of metal had wedged somewhere between my shoulder and bicep. It no longer mattered now that the season was finished.
The snap of a branch behind me signaled that someone new had entered the area. It had to be Tanner this time—he wouldn’t stay away for longer than he already had.
I allowed myself a minute to make sure I could keep myself composed. My hands itched, but it wasn’t the type of itch you could scratch—it was the kind that made you need to move, but even movement didn’t help.
I refused to wallow in pity when I’d let him down. I turned.
“You good?” he asked.
It stung, knowing how much he cared.
I spun back at Gavin, trying to compose myself again. When I caught the ball Gavin threw, I glanced at Tanner. Not directly. Just enough to fake it. “We will be.”
It was a lie.
The bus ride home was brutal.
Coach gave his end-of-season speech, trying to find the right words for a team that had made it to the state finals but still come up short.
He had to compose himself near the end; the last words barely got out of his mouth.
Guys clapped. A couple laughed too hard, as if they weren’t bothered. A few cried quietly.
I slipped out the back the second we pulled into the school parking lot. Didn’t wait for anyone. Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t look for Gavin or Zach or Tanner even though I knew they were probably looking for me.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stand Gavin saying “You played great” again when I knew I hadn’t.
I couldn’t handle Zach slapping my shoulder and pretending that making the last out again had just been bad luck.
I couldn’t face Coach, not after the look he’d given me when I’d finally rejoined the team.
I couldn’t face Tanner making it about me when I knew how much this loss was hurting him.
I walked home in my cleats. Why hadn’t I switched to sneakers? It didn’t matter now. Every step crunched against the sidewalk, metal on concrete echoing in the darkness, as if my failure needed an encore.
When I reached my grandparents’ house, the porch light was still shining brightly. They always left it on when I had a game, like it could change the outcome.
I let myself in as quietly as I could. But of course, Grandma was waiting at the kitchen table with a mug of decaf coffee and a smile that said she recognized me but wasn’t positive how.
“How was your day?”
I stood in the doorway, hat still low over my eyes. “It was fine.”
She nodded as if she believed me. She probably didn’t even realize we were having a conversation. “Did you have fun, at least?”
“Yeah.” I wasn’t sure I’d said a single true thing since the game had ended.
Grandpa’s recliner creaked in the living room as he stood. He shuffled in, still wearing his robe, adjusting his glasses. His hair was straggly and thin, the color resembling a freshly opened white baseball. “You boys win?”
“No,” I said. “Close, though.”
He gave a quiet grunt and nodded. “You’ll get ’em next year.” Typical Cubs fan.
I forced a smile. “Yeah. Maybe.”
They didn’t ask for more; they never did. They wanted to help but didn’t know how. To them, you didn’t discuss feelings unless someone was already in the hospital. I didn’t fault them. They’d taken me in when they hadn’t had to. They fed me. They let me be quiet.
Sometimes that was what I needed.
“I’m gonna go to bed,” I said, even though it wasn’t even ten yet.
“Alright, sweetheart,” Grandma said. “Proud of you anyway.”
I mumbled thanks and headed down the hallway, past the crooked photos of my mom at age six and then again at twenty-three, holding me in the hospital, cheeks flushed and smiling too big.
I hated that photo. She looked like someone who planned to stay, not end her life instead of leaving her joke of a husband.
My bedroom door clicked shut behind me; it was the sound that told me I wouldn’t be bothered until I wanted to be.
I pulled the duffel bag from under my bed, the one I kept zipped up and “forgot” to take to games and practices.
The zipper stuck when I pulled it open; I yanked at it, half-hoping it’d rip and I’d feel anything different.
The bag survived, though, and I reached under the pile of socks and found the bottle tucked beneath.
It was only half full. Or half empty. Whatever.
I didn’t bother with a cup. Just twisted off the cap and took a long pull. The vodka burned at my throat—it was cheap stuff I’d stolen from a gas station shelf one night last month. I’d started with beer like most kids. That’d stopped working quickly. This did the job faster.
I leaned back against the wall, uniform still on, and let the numbness spread.
The thing no one warned me about losing the biggest game of my life was that there was no ceremony.
No tragedy. No music swelling as the credits rolled.
I just had to sit in my room, overcome with darkness, buzzed and hollow, wondering if I’d ever get another shot—and knowing even if I did, it wouldn’t undo this one.
My eyes were finally dry and empty, like the faucet had been turned off. Pressure built behind them; I was ready for sleep, but I couldn’t get there.
Another swig. The taste was worse the second time. The third went down easier. A familiar, hazy fog returned. It wasn’t the first time I’d drunk myself to sleep. To forget. To fill something. I wasn’t even sure what anymore.
Sometimes it was my mom. Sometimes it was this house that would never truly be home. Sometimes it was the way Tanner used to look at me. Now I could add to this list the sound of my name over the loudspeaker just before I’d blown the biggest at-bat of my life.
Tonight, it was all of it.
I didn’t even turn off the light. I just crawled under the covers fully clothed with the bottle on the floor beside me. I stared at the ceiling, at the cracks in the plaster, at the shadow of my failure stretched against the wall.
The thought of failure forced my mind to a memory from when I was thirteen. My family was still together, and I wasn’t living here.
The air in the garage is heavy with oil and sawdust and that sweet-metal smell of old tools. It’s the kind of place where silence feels normal. Expected.
It’s summer. Late. The light is dim—just the hanging bulb over the workbench humming and swaying. Bugs buzz against the bulb. My shirt sticks to my back.
Dad’s got a wrench in his hand, knuckles stained, sleeves rolled up past the elbows. I’m sitting on the tool chest, legs swinging, pretending I know what socket size he just asked for.
“Half-inch,” he says again without looking.
I grab the wrong one and hand it over. He doesn’t correct me, just grabs the one he really wants.
“This isn’t complicated,” he mutters.
The silence settles again.
He wipes his hands on a rag then walks to the mini-fridge in the corner. Pops it open, grabs a bottle—brown glass, label peeling. He doesn’t just take one. He grabs two. Before I can ask what the second is for, he tosses it underhand.
I catch it. Clumsy. The cold stings my fingers. I look down at it. Then up at him.
“Go ahead,” he says, already twisting the cap off his own. “You’re thirteen. About time.”
I hesitate.
He watches me with that hard stare he gets when he’s evaluating me—not angry, just waiting to see if I’ll measure up. “Unless you’re scared.” The words hit like a slap even though he says them quietly.
I shake my head too fast. Twist the cap with both hands. It takes me a few tries. My palms are sweating, the cap digging into my palm.
The first sip burns. Not in a fiery way. In the wrong way. My tongue doesn’t know what to do with it. I try not to make a face.
He watches me drink. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say “good job.” Just nods once. “Man’s got to know how to handle things.”
I nod back. I don’t know what “things” means. But I want him to think I do. I take another sip. It’s worse. My stomach turns, but I swallow anyway.
He turns back to the car. Says nothing else. The conversation’s over.
I stay there, fingers tight around the bottle, trying to ignore the taste, the burn in my throat, and the voice in my head screaming this isn’t right.
He didn’t hand me a drink. He handed me a rule:
Don’t cry. Don’t talk. Don’t feel. Drink. Swallow it. Be a man.
And I do. I think I have to.