Chapter 25
Trevor
“Hey, Christina,” I say warmly when my oldest sister picks up the phone the next day. “How are—”
“I have ten minutes until I need to be scrubbed in the OR. Can it wait?”
I haven’t called my sister in almost a year and a half.
We send half-hearted texts on our birthdays and Christmas, but that’s it.
It’s been even longer since I’ve spoken to my two other sisters.
I think Christina reaches out more out of some eldest-daughter obligation more than a desire to actually keep in contact with me.
My heart sinks as I turn the steering wheel, driving toward the stadium for today’s home game.
“Trevi, can it wait?”
Her use of my childhood nickname sends a frisson of hope weaving between my ribs. Various medical machinery pings in the background. Christina is probably in a hospital unit, making last-minute rounds before her next surgery. She’s busy. That’s the only reason she’s being curt.
“Yeah. It can wait. I just wanted to invite you and David to come out over Labor Day. We’ve got home games and—”
“David and I will be in Saint-Tropez then.” Her flat tone hits me like a bat to the jaw. “No. That patient should still be in traction. It’s clearly detailed in my orders,” Christina says to someone beside her. “Was that all you wanted?”
It takes me several seconds to realize that her last question might be directed at me.
“Excuse me?”
An irritated sigh bursts over the line, and instantly, I’m eight again.
I’m asking Christina to help me with multiplication because none of the numbers will line up.
There should be a pattern, but I’m not recognizing it, and I know my fourteen-year-old sister can help.
She’s always getting shiny awards for her grades, especially in math.
But just like then, Christina is too busy.
“Was that all you wanted?” she repeats.
No. Not even close.
I want to not feel like a burden for asking my sister to visit me. I want to not be considered a disappointment because I excelled in something other than medicine. I want a family, a real one, like the kind Kenzie has.
But all I get is this brief—I glance at the call’s time stamp—forty-second conversation with my distracted sister. A small part of me wonders that if I call back at a different time, when she’s at home perhaps, I might get a different response.
My head shakes on its own. I might get a slightly softer delivery, but the answer would still be the same.
They’re not coming. They’re never coming.
An ache settles deep in my bones.
“Trevi, I need to—”
“That was all. Sorry to bother you.” I hate myself for apologizing, for making it easier for her to brush me off, but it’s habit at this point.
“It’s fine. I’ll talk to you later.”
She won’t, but I don’t call her on it.
“Bye, Christina.”
Numbness seeps into my body as I pull into the players’ parking area.
I shift my truck into park and stare at the blue wall that divides our vehicles from the rest of the spectator parking lot.
Swallowing hard against the boulder in my throat, I ignore the sharp sting behind my eyes and fight that tiny voice that wants to assign blame to me.
If I let the insidious feeling of failure seep into my muscles, I’ll underperform tonight.
I’d spent years working through my messed-up family dynamic with a therapist. Seeing a sports psychologist was a required part of being on my college team, and after several successful sessions, I decided to use my excellent student health benefits to see my own therapist.
I know the steps I need to take here. I know I should acknowledge the burning sensation of rejection and give myself grace for feeling like absolute trash.
Christina’s response to my invitation hurts because it’s supposed to.
This whole situation isn’t fair, and my brain knows that.
But knowing something intellectually and processing through the sticky, painful emotions are two separate things.
For just a few seconds, I let myself be that ignored little boy.
I allow the hollowing sadness and disappointment to wash over my tired muscles.
Then I do what my college therapist recommended years ago.
I talk to myself like a coach, being for myself who I needed back then—someone encouraging, understanding, and caring.
“My family’s behavior doesn’t dictate who I am,” I remind myself softly. “I won’t abandon myself because they did. My value is not dependent on their attention.”
Little does Kenzie know that I spend years using affirmations to counteract deep-seated feelings of unworthiness. Closing my eyes, I cycle through box-breathing until the gnawing sensation in my stomach subsides. I’m on the last set when a rap at my window makes me jump.
“Are you catching a quick nap before the game?” Aaron’s sneer swiftly undermines the small amount of ground I’d gained in calming my mind.
Drawing in a final deep breath, I step out of the truck, not bothering to address his snide comment. “What’s up?”
Aaron puffs out his chest. “I just wanted to let you know we’re not doing that today.”
“Doing what?”
“Calling every pitch like I can’t think for myself. I’ve reviewed the data on this team, same as you. I’ll make my own decisions today.”
My molars grind together, but I try to keep my tone even. “Patrick is going to want us to go over the game plan, like usual.”
We’re on a winning streak, but the Detroit Sluggers are one of the tougher teams we’ll face this season.
Aaron scoffs, glancing toward the stadium. “I don’t pitch by spreadsheets. I pay attention in real time, making adjustments, like any good pitcher should.”
I pause, shifting my duffel onto my shoulder to give my irritated muscles something to do. “I know. I’m just giving you options.”
“Don’t do that.”
It requires more effort than usual to keep my expression even. “I’m trying to help you, Aaron.”
“I don’t need help.”
“That’s my job,” I tell him, squeezing the strap of my bag so I don’t snap and do something rash.
“No, your job is to catch what I throw.”
I blink, barely keeping from shaking my head at his arrogance. If I didn’t need him in top shape for tonight’s game, I’d seriously consider twisting his pitching arm behind his back and pinning him against the side of my truck.
“We’re a battery,” I say carefully, to remind myself as much as him. “We’re supposed to be on the same page.”
The corner of Aaron’s mouth quirks upward. “We will be. As long as you trust me.”
“I do trust you.” It’s a lie, but keeping the two of us on an even keel for tonight’s game is more important than how I feel right now.
“Then stop calling pitches you know I’m not throwing.”
A muscle jumps in my jaw as I try not to lose it. “I just want to set you up.”
“Well, don’t. I’ll be focusing on what I think is best. After all, it’s pitchers that win championships. That’s where this team should be headed this season. Only I can ensure our victory.”
The silence stretches between us because I honestly don’t know what else to say to this jerk. I’ve never been so disrespected in all my years of baseball. My fingers twitch as I use every mental technique I’ve learned over the years to stay put.
A car door slams down the row, and Tenny lets out his traditional pre-game whoop. “Are we ready for a great day of baseball?”
Aaron swings his duffel onto his shoulder, his gaze locked on me. “I am.”
I don’t budge as he moves toward the stadium, Tenny slapping his back on the way.
“T-man, you coming?”
“Be there in a sec.” I lift my phone out of my pocket. “I need to make a quick call.”
Pressing it against my ear, I listen to the ambient sounds of the ballpark prepping for this evening’s game. I’m on my fourth box-breath when my phone pings against my head.
Kenzie
You did great tonight! I’m so proud of you!
A laugh rumbles up my chest. Kenzie’s unexpected text is like a beam of sunshine piercing through the maelstrom of emotions still threatening to poison my game.
I push the call button as a wild smile overtakes my face.
“What?” she answers, startled. “Um, hi. I thought you’d already given up access to your phone.”
“No, not until four.”
“Oh.” It sounds like she’s outside, probably weeding.
I imagine Kenzie with her hair tied back, dirt under her nails, picking pesky nutrient hogs from her garden beds. Since her parents are organic farmers, Kenzie doesn’t use any weed killer. She likes to use a spray bottle of dish soap to keep pests away but has to remove weeds by hand.
“I appreciate your message, but what if I hadn’t had a good game?”
Kenzie makes a little pssh sound over the phone. “Trevor, it’s you. You always have a good game.”
The burst of gratitude is so overwhelming that I almost stagger back a step.
My palm presses over my breastbone as Kenzie’s words ground me.
I hadn’t known how much I needed someone in my corner, someone who truly believed in me.
Reason dictates that I should be able to look at my player stats, at the career I’ve built, and know my worth, but even with doing the mental work over the years, that little boy who was never enough will always be a part of me.
Kenzie bursts into a boisterous laugh before I can tell her how much her unwavering faith means to me.
“What is it?” I ask, the remnants of frustration and anxiety sliding away like soap bubbles down the drain.
“I just realized that we both prefer to have our knees in the dirt.”
My chuckle feels light, effortless. Everything with Kenzie has always been effortless.
She tuts. “You were all worried last night, but we’re more alike than you think.”
“I was,” I admit, my tone deepening. “I’m not anymore.”
It seems foolish to worry when the undeniable truth is that Kenzie is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Like she said last night, she’s capable of making her own choices.
If I happen to be one of them, I should spend my energy counting my lucky stars and showing Kenzie how much she means to me instead of fearing some negative future that may never come.
Kai hops down from his lifted truck, raising his eyebrows at me.
“I’ve got to head inside, but I’ll see you later tonight?”
“You sure will.”
There’s a giddy undertone to her words that I don’t know how to interpret.
Maybe she plans on surprising me with her three-layer chocolate cake when I get home?
My mouth waters automatically, anticipating diving into gooey deliciousness post-game.
I’m usually strict with my sugar intake, but I will always make an exception for Kenzie’s cake.
After we hang up, I shoot off a quick email to the designer who helped decorate my house.
It’s time to repurpose the remaining guest rooms. The largest one could easily be turned into a billiards/game room.
A smile curves my mouth as I enter the stadium, thinking about getting crushed by Kenzie in a game of pool.
Then another thought jumbles forward—both surprising and soul-satiating—of a room decorated in soft pink elephants or calming blue tigers.
My feet stop, imagining Kenzie with a swollen belly.
Only the scent of the infield dirt brings me back to the present, reminding me to focus on now, on today’s impending game.
I’m getting way ahead of myself, but as I head toward the clubhouse, I can’t keep the grin off my lips.