Chapter 1
Liam
I always thought rock bottom would feel more dramatic. Turns out, it just smells like warm beer and regret.
“You don’t have to go home, kid,” Frankie says without looking up from where he’s wiping down the bar. “But you can’t stay here.”
I didn’t have a home to go home to. That’s why I’d been at this dimly lit bar every night since Cal took off for Cambodia a week and a half ago. Or maybe it was Cancun, somewhere with palm trees and no cell service.
Most nights end the same: Frankie kicking me out, me stumbling back to Cal’s apartment, collapsing face-first into his bed, and sleeping until either the woman across the hall screams into her phone on her way to work, or I have to piss badly enough to crawl out from under the covers.
Technically, I did have a home. I grew up twenty minutes from here.
My mom still lives in the same house, still has my trophies on a shelf.
But I hadn’t told her I was back in town yet.
I hadn’t told anyone, aside from Cal, that the Iron Cats let me go and that my big league dreams had quietly died somewhere on a half-lit field in Reno.
I sure as hell hadn’t told my mom I was crashing at my best friend’s apartment and drinking myself numb every night trying not to think about how badly I’d screwed it all up.
I toss two twenties on the bar, but Frankie comes over and slides the bills back toward me.
“I’ll put your drinks on Cal’s tab,” he says, turning to re-shelve bottles before I can object. I put the bills back in my pocket because, let’s be honest, I’m in no place to argue.
Minor league baseball players barely make minimum wage, so I’d made ends meet by doing the other players’ taxes—I have a weird brain for numbers.
I used to tell myself I’d pay off my mom’s mortgage once I hit the big leagues, finally repay her for everything she gave up for me.
But that dream was as flat as the last sip of beer in this bottle.
I let out a long sigh and figure I should head back to Cal’s.
I'm not really sure what to do with myself these days. My entire life, since I was fourteen, has revolved around baseball—grueling training, a perfect diet, and studying the game like my life depended on it. Because let’s face it, every day you’re trying to get called up feels like the most important test you’ll ever take.
I have zero hobbies, hardly any friends, and I barely even date.
Scratch that—I don’t date. I don’t have time.
I push off the stool and head for the door when a brunette in a strappy tank top and denim skirt gives me that look—the one I know well.
The one I’ve seen in countless bars and hotel lobbies across the US.
I’ve been an athlete my whole life, and I have a face that apparently works in my favor.
I might not have time for actual relationships, but I know that without much effort, I could take her home or find a dark corner here.
I know my reputation, and honestly, most women seem to want exactly what I have time for—one night, no complications, usually that works for everyone involved.
But even that doesn’t sound appealing right now.
Besides, once she finds out I’m just a washed-up ex minor leaguer with a pretty face and not her ticket to the WAG lifestyle, she probably won’t want to waste her time anyway.
Hell, I’m technically homeless right now.
As soon as I was cut, I broke my lease on the apartment I could never really afford anyway.
I packed the stuff I cared about into two duffel bags—both of which are still unpacked on Cal’s living room floor—and left El Paso to come back to San Francisco.
I give her a tight nod and push through the bar doors to the chilly night.
Now, here I was, on the sidewalk in front of Bar None, mooching off my childhood best friend’s generosity and wallowing in self-pity.
I need to figure out a job, a place to live, and what the fuck I’m doing with my life besides being a has-been ball player with a bruised ego and a mountain of debt.
But that’s a problem for tomorrow.
By the time I reach Cal’s front door, my vision is so blurry I can barely make out the keypad. But somehow, I manage to stumble into the darkened apartment, strip off my jeans and hoodie, toss them onto the bed, and then collapse face-first into it.
Pretty sure I pass out before my head even hits the pillow.