22. Adam
Adam
“Strike two,” the ump calls from behind me as the ball smacks into my glove.
The batter calls for a challenge for some reason. Will threw that slider perfectly. I have a lot of doubts and worries in my head, but that ball being a strike isn’t one of them.
The one other person who I know agrees with me, outside of Will from the mound, is Mia. All game I’ve been able to hear her judgment on calls and cheering for the team, not just me.
I told her again that if she didn’t feel like coming, she didn’t have to…but I do love seeing how invested she gets. I love that she’s here in general, actually. I needed her in the stands, but didn’t know how to say that.
Us having to tell her parents on game day wasn’t ideal, but there was no way I was going to let her tell them without me, and it would be extremely selfish to have her wait for one of my few and far-between days off.
I keep telling myself Mia and I will catch a break, and something will go our way, but the hits just keep coming. It’s like we’re getting challenge calls with every throw.
I meant what I told her—I would marry her if that’s what she wanted.
If that’s what we have to do for her to feel better about this and be in that house, then, yeah, I’ll do it.
And I know Dex told me not to get wrapped up in the what-ifs, but this is a whole other level of complexity that’s been added to the list.
Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise to have to play today. If I didn’t, I’d probably be sitting on Mia’s couch completely spiraling over our decisions.
When the strike is confirmed, I hit the button on my coms for another slider and nod slightly for the same spot.
I don’t have to read too much into Will’s body language to know he got what I said. I can’t even begin to express how much I needed for him to be on the mound today. My mental capacity is maxed out.
Changing up my stance in rhythm with Will’s throw, the ball goes right in my glove.
“Ball,” the ump calls.
I may have a lot of shit going on in my head, but I’m positive I just caught that in the same damn place I did when it was a strike.
Will calls for the challenge before me. It runs back through the system, and what do you know? It’s another strike.
The ump grumbles a few curse words behind me, but I bite my tongue on a dick response. Normally, I’d rarely register a remark from the ump outside of game calls. Most stay pretty quiet, but there are a few that make remarks, and you learn to drown out the extra bullshit.
The best way for me to do my job is to focus on the players in front of me. But my patience has been worn thin with everything going on, so the guy behind me having a piss-poor attitude isn’t going to help.
I have Will switch it up to a four-seam fastball. The batter might whack the crap out of it, but they’re pretty consistent in the strike zone, so if he strikes it should be pretty clear.
“Ball.”
What the fuck?
I’m on that one with a challenge, tapping my helmet quickly and the ump scoffs loud enough for me to hear over the crowd.
I can’t stop it. “It was down the fucking middle.”
“It was too high,” the ump barks back.
Don’t respond. Just let him check the system.
“What, nothing else to say?”
Fuck.
“Go check it. I challenge it, go fucking see for yourself.”
“You guys are just going to challenge this fucking game, like it’s some crutch or something. Maybe you should let me do my job and focus on yours.”
I shake my head and count to ten. I know Will can tell I’m getting frustrated, but he needs to stay on the mound, and this guy just needs to check the call.
I simply tap my helmet, signaling the challenge yet again. If I’m wrong, then we lose one of our two challenges. The other team already lost one for challenging that strike.
He grumbles more curses as he goes to check. I bite my tongue until the metallic taste of blood gets me to let go.
“Strike three,” the ump corrects, and I can tell from his tone how much he hated saying that.
Fucking music to my ears.
The batter steps away, moving back to the dugout, and I toss the ball back to Will. Before the next one’s walk-up song even starts, the ump grumbles again behind me.
“Should I let you make the calls this time?”
“Well, I’m the one catching them, so maybe.” The smart remark is out of my mouth before I can stop it.
In reality, it isn’t anything crazy—I don’t even curse, but I can feel the ump’s anger radiating off him.
“Get out of this fucking game.”
“Are you shitting me right now?” I push up out of my stance. “You’re throwing me out because you were wrong?”
He points to the Blues dugout. “You’re out of this game. Get the fuck out.”
I toss my hands up and the boos from the crowd start. I can hear Will yelling some shit, and Olsson’s making his way over, but this asshole has his mind made up.
“What the fuck is going on, Reyer?” Olsson yells as I meet him halfway from the dugout.
“An overreaction,” I clip and keep on walking. The ump’s made his call and there’s no point in anyone else getting thrown out.
Dex stops me next, right in front of the door I need to go through to get to the clubhouse. “You okay?”
“Perfect, actually.” I snap in the heat of the moment but stop and take a deep breath. “I’m fine, but I’m out of the fucking game now, so, if you don’t mind…”
Dex’s face tells me he’s concerned, but instead of pressing, he steps to the side.
The whole way to the clubhouse I just feel exhausted. With every step, my shoulders feel heavy, like I’m walking on the bottom of the fucking ocean.
Fuck. What even is this week? It hasn’t even been a full week yet, and somehow my whole life’s been turned upside down and ninety degrees. I’m helplessly trying to get some sort of grip on something—anything to give me some sense of control.
I really thought Mia and I had it this morning on my couch, but that went to shit.
I pull my phone out of my duffle bag. My immediate thought is to text Mia and tell her I’m fine, just need to cool off, but then I pull up another number.
One I haven’t called in nearly a decade.
“Well, well, well, you want to tell me what I just watched on my fucking TV, Reyer?” my old high school coach says before I can even say hello.
“You saw that, huh?”
“Of course I did. I always watch your games,” he huffs. “At least this time you didn’t punch anybody.”
“Shit, I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut this time.”
“That’s not like you, Adam.” His tone softens. “You know…I haven’t heard from you in a long time. That’s not to guilt you, just an observation. What’s going on?”
“I got my girl pregnant.” I sit in the silence that we seem to get every time we tell anyone.
I’m not sure if it’s the fact that it’s huge news in general or that it’s coming from me and Mia that makes it so damn shocking.
“We’ve only just started our relationship, but I care a whole lot for her.
I’m falling in love with her, really…” I trail off, not entirely sure how to continue.
“Am I saying the ‘but’?”
I tsk. Good to know he still knows me well. Talking to Jett and Dex was one thing…but talking to the man who made me who I am now…I need to air all of this shit out, or I fear it might suffocate me at this point.
“This wasn’t the plan. We were safe—it just happened, whether there was a hole I didn’t see or just the universe thinking it’d be a funny joke.
I keep fucking seeing my father’s face in my head, and I hate it.
I thought I’d try to replace it with Mia’s…
give me something to hold on to while I try to wrap my head around being a dad, but then today we found out that in order for her to get the house she always dreamed of bringing her baby home to, we have to get married. ”
I sputter a laugh in pure defeat. “I would marry her if that’s what she wanted. It’s not her that gives me hesitation, it’s just all of it at once, and I had never really thought of any of it until her. Even then, I thought it was at least a few years down the road.”
Shit, now that I’ve started, I can’t stop.
“My buddy told me to stop worrying about the what-ifs and focus on something else, but I can’t.
I’ve been in what-if mode my entire life.
All I know how to do is think of every outcome and try to prepare myself.
I did that to get out of that fucking house, to be where I am today, and now I don’t know how to make a decision without feeling like it’s the wrong one, and I’m going to fuck it up.
” I swallow hard and say the one what-if that’s been haunting me.
I’d never be able to voice it to anyone else.
“I told her I’d tell her about my parents.
I know I have to—especially before we get married, if that’s what we decide to do.
Coach, what if she’s scared of me? What if something snaps and I end up like him?
Hell, look at the times I’ve been thrown out.
Clearly I have a temper. I’ve hit someone before—what if there’s more of him in me than I thought? ”
“No, son, stop right there. I’m hearing you, but those instances are very different.
I’ll explain why in just a second, but you are never allowed to compare yourself to Harrison Reyer.
I’ve coached athletes who went on to be doctors, pilots, hell, I think one’s a neurosurgeon, but the one I’m proudest of is you.
It’s insulting to me that you would compare yourself to him, do you understand? ”
I’d agree with him, but I can’t find the will to speak. In my core, I know he’s right, but I don’t know how to move on from this fear. Hell, I didn’t realize it was one until yesterday.
“Even if we weren’t on the phone and I could actually see your face—I would still demand a verbal response. I’ll sit on this line all night if that’s what it takes.”
I take three strong breaths. “I understand.”