chapter 103
I tipped back my beer and sank into the chair.
Took another pull. I’d been using alcohol to avoid sex with Tobey.
Guzzling drinks and then stumbling into our room at night.
Funny, since alcohol was what put us in bed together the first night.
That chug of his beer, then the next round of shots, the fuzz they brought when they hit my virgin system.
The recklessness it had pushed him to. I doubt Harvard boy would have fucked little Rollins without a condom, had his head been on straight.
Another inning, another run brought in by the Cubs.
Tobey growled under his breath next to me, the entire box quiet as we watched.
We should have changed pitchers earlier.
Should have put Franks before Chase in the lineup.
Should have, should have, should have. I should have ended things with Tobey a long time ago.
I could have done it before the attachment, before the love.
Then maybe this wouldn’t feel so seedy. I was a woman unaccustomed to guilt, and it drowned me—pulling me deeper, cutting off my air supply.
I stood at the final pitch, tossing my empty beer bottle into the trash, the loss painful as I stared at the final scoreboard. Two more losses and we’d lose the World Series. Two more losses and … what? Would another girl die?
I stumbled for the door, and Tobey caught my arm, holding me steady, his hand a shackle I reluctantly leaned on for support.
It was too much pressure, all of it. Baseball shouldn’t be life or death. Baseball shouldn’t determine fates.