Chapter 25
Walker
Iwas shaking.
Anger rolled through me in hot, relentless waves as I gripped the steering wheel of my truck. I slammed my fist against it, the dull thud echoing in the cab.
How are we back here?
After all this time, we were right back in my college apartment living room—Farrah deciding our future for the both of us.
Again.
I blew out a harsh breath and dialed Cohen. He picked up on the second ring.
“What’s up? How’d the talk with Farrah go?”
“Let’s see,” I said flatly. “I’m currently backing out of her driveway and heading back to my place. Alone. So… yeah, not great.”
A heavy sigh on the other end. “Shit, man. I’m sorry. What the fuck happened?”
I walked him through it all, every assumption, every word she’d put in my mouth before I could speak. The more I talked, the more my temper flared.
“I just don’t get it,” I said finally. “Why don’t I get a say?”
I pulled into my garage and shut off the engine, the silence deafening. Inside, I dropped onto my couch and stared at the wall, the weight of it all settling heavily in my chest.
“This is where Drake’s expertise would come in handy,” Cohen said carefully. “But if it were me? I’d be done. At least now you know where you stand before you head back to Austin, right?”
“Yeah.” I dragged a hand down my face. “I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Howard tomorrow. If I get the green light, I’ll head back.”
We talked for a few more minutes before he had to run, but the restlessness didn’t ease.
So, I went to the barn.
Theo was gone for the night, and the quiet wrapped around me the second I stepped inside—steady, grounding. Tex and Ranger lifted their heads over their stall doors when they heard my footsteps, both nickering softly as I rubbed my hand along their faces.
I grabbed some treats, let them crunch peppermints from my palm, then decided they deserved a little nighttime turnout.
I haltered Tex, looped his lead around my arm, then grabbed Ranger and walked them out together.
Once they were loose in the pasture, I sank down into the grass and leaned back on my hands, stretching my legs out in front of me.
The stars burned bright against the deep navy sky, the rolling hills nothing more than dark silhouettes beneath them.
Tex and Ranger wandered closer, grazing nearby, never straying far—as if they knew.
For the first time all night, my shoulders loosened. The weight pressing against my chest eased, just a little.
And right there, under that wide Texas sky, I made the decision I’d been avoiding.
If Farrah was going to keep making decisions for us, then I needed to make one for myself.
I was done fighting ghosts.
It was time to move on—to put my focus back where it belonged.
On baseball.
“Well, Walker, everything looks pretty damn good.”
Dr. Howard glanced up from the laptop perched on his knee. “Dr. Bennett and I agree—you’re cleared to start throwing again.”
My chest expanded as I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
I needed this.
“Awesome,” I said. “That’s… great news.”
Dr. Howard’s fingers continued tapping as he spoke.
“I’ve sent a detailed progression schedule to Coach Turner—what your elbow can handle over the next several months.
Stick with your at-home PT and your gym routine.
If you listen to your body, I don’t see any reason you won’t be back to full strength by next season. ”
He finally looked up at me, studying my face.
“I expected a bigger reaction,” he said. “You’ve worked your ass off to get here. This injury hasn’t been easy.”
I forced out a short, humorless chuckle. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… got some stuff going on in my personal life.” I offered him a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “But seriously, I appreciate everything, Dr. Howard.”
He nodded, mercifully letting it go, and walked me through the next phase—when to push, when to pull back, the importance of patience if I wanted to avoid reinjury. I listened, nodded, absorbed it all.
On the drive home, I called Coach Turner and caught him up. We planned to get to work once the team was back in Austin for their next home series, building my throwing schedule around game days.
The idea of it—standing on a mound again, ball in my hand—should’ve lit something inside of me.
Instead, my phone sat heavy in the cup holder. I picked it up at a red light, thumb hovering over Farrah’s name. I clicked into our message thread.
Typed. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted again.
What was I supposed to say?
That I was cleared to throw?
That baseball still mattered to me?
That I didn’t know how to make room for both her and the only thing I’d ever been sure of?
The light turned green. I dropped my phone back into place.
I needed this. I needed Austin. I needed to throw.
Because right now, baseball was the only thing that was still mine.
Weston: How’s the elbow feeling?
Me: Felt strong until I started throwing again.
Weston: You’ve gotta be patient, man. This shit takes time. Give yourself a break.
Me: I know, I know. I just thought I’d feel better than this by now. I feel solid lifting, but when I throw, I feel like shit. I don’t know how I’m supposed to get back to where I was before the injury.
Weston: What does Coach Turner say?
Me: That this is to be expected and I need to chill the fuck out.
Weston: Oh. So exactly what I’m saying?
Me: Shut up. Dick.
I’d been in Austin for a little over a week, and the discouragement was settling in deep. Everyone kept telling me the same thing—that just because I felt stronger didn’t mean my elbow was ready to perform at the level I expected. Knowing that didn’t make it any easier.
I sat on the bullpen bench after my latest session with Coach Turner, stewing, rolling a baseball in my hand. Shane dropped down beside me and bumped my shoulder.
“Stop being such a depressing shit, James,” he said. “You look good. Your mechanics are solid. You don’t look weak. The velocity will come back. It just takes time.”
I rolled my eyes, staring down at the ball as it spun between my fingers. “Easy for you to say, Witek. You just launched a ninety-nine-mile-an-hour fastball.”
Shane grinned. “I did, didn’t I?”
I shoved him off the bench, his laughter echoing as he caught himself.
I tried—and failed—to hide my smile.
This was why I needed to be back in Austin. With my team. Doing the work. As much as they were a bunch of degenerates, they always knew how to pull me out of my own head.
“You still good with everyone coming over tonight?” Shane asked as he brushed dirt off his pants and stood.
“Yeah,” I said. “Bring beer and Chinese food.”
“Fuck off! That was not a foul ball!” Drake shouted at my TV, jumping to his feet and slinging his Xbox controller across the room.
I smirked, shoveling beef and broccoli into my mouth and washing it down with a long pull of beer.
“That was one hundred percent a foul ball,” Beckham yelled back. “Quit being a little bitch.”
I missed this. Takeout, beer, and overgrown man-children taking a video game way too seriously.
Whenever we had a few nights off, we usually ended up at my penthouse playing MLB The Show.
The only rule was you couldn’t choose yourself as a player.
With six professional baseball players in the room, things got competitive fast.
Drake and Beckham were locked in a heated battle while the rest of us sat back and enjoyed the chaos.
Maddox stood. “I’m grabbing another beer—anyone want one?” He glanced around at the sea of raised hands. “All right. I’ll see if I can carry six beers, you dickheads.”
Shane jumped up, laughing. “Relax, ya big baby. I’ll help.”
They disappeared into the kitchen.
Cohen leaned toward me, lo mein dangling from his mouth. After shoveling in another bite, he asked, “You hear from Farrah at all?”
I shook my head. “Nah. Don’t expect to.”
He nodded once. “Sorry, man.”
He didn’t push, and I appreciated that.
It was bad enough she lived rent-free in my head every goddamn day. Part of me wondered that if, just once, I’d swallowed my pride and fought back—said what I wanted to say instead of letting her decide for both of us—would things have ended differently?
How much of her choice was fear? Was it really what she wanted, or what she’d convinced herself she had to do?
Between Farrah and my piss-poor pitching, I had no idea what my future looked like anymore.
And that terrified me.
I didn’t think there was a world where I could have both baseball and Farrah—especially after her reaction to those photos. But now I wasn’t even sure another season of baseball was realistic.
Retiring meant walking away on my own terms, with my pride intact—and the possibility of having Farrah back in my life.
Going back meant risking everything. Standing on a mound and realizing I wasn’t who I used to be.
And worse, that everyone else knew it before I did.