Chapter 2
Miller
I stopped wearing Matthew’s number on my jersey after the first home series of the year finished.
The second it wasn’t mandatory—I ditched the one with the ten right above my heart and went back to the one I’ve worn since I was drafted three years ago.
I didn’t feel the need to keep his number on my jersey for everyone to see.
I wear him around like a sweater, anyway.
And he’s there, with me, on the back of my hand under the leather of my glove.
I’ve never commented on it publicly—I try really hard not to comment on Matt at all, even though it’s all anyone wants to talk about.
That makes it worse, probably. There’s enough press and general people of the internet who think the inked M has something to do with vanity or maybe guilt.
But it wasn’t about me. It was about him.
He was always the better of us—in more ways than one. On the field, at bat, at home, in life. Everywhere that mattered.
So I ditched the jersey the second I could.
But I left it hanging on a hook in the dugout in case I ever felt the need to put it on, or god forbid, his parents came to a game.
They never did, and I never went home, either.
I tattooed the back of my hand, closed my eyes, and I think I put myself and everything I loved about life to sleep, because I’m not really interested in being awake in a world where he isn’t.
But today—I saw that flash of red hair, the blink of bright blue eyes trying to hide tears, the spreading stain of an overpriced, watered-down margarita, and a hot dog flying through the air, and I don’t know—I jogged over right away.
It was what Matty would have done.
This jersey, though, the one with him, hangs heavy on my shoulders. I tap each one with my glove, rolling them back before I rest it over his number and my heart.
He’s not here, and he certainly doesn’t have a voice to speak of—that got stolen by the water—but I can imagine what he’d say. The way he’d clap me on the shoulder, a grin digging lines around his eyes, and laugh when he said, “Always knew you weren’t as big of an asshole as everyone thinks.”
I roll my shoulders again, each cleat stamping into the dirt, kicking up mounds of dust from the field, and I try to shake off his phantom hand when the moment of silence starts.
His picture projects across the screen.
Matthew Burke
# 10
Pitcher
World Series Champion
Forever Twenty-Seven
Usually, I close my eyes.
People have thoughts about that, too. That it’s repentance for what everyone thinks I did wrong. Other people say it’s a private moment of grief made public because the team mandated a moment for Matt before every home game for the rest of the season.
It is mourning, in a way.
But it’s got more to do with the last time I saw his face—not the perfect version projected onto the screen.
Today though, my eyes don’t close. They don’t snap to the screen either.
They find the infield wall, and the beautiful redhead standing behind it, my jersey hanging around her shoulders and covering the stain on her shirt. I can still see the yellow in her hair from here, and the colour pulls at the corners of my mouth.
Her head tips, thoughtful, an absent finger tracing the empty space on that jersey where Matt’s number sits on the one I’m wearing. Her lips move, slow, articulating words I’m used to reading on mouths from years on the field.
Colson-Burke. She repeats it, lips moving before they stumble over the second name.
Burke.
Her eyes flit to the screen, her fingers dig into the empty space on the jersey above her heart, and she blinks at me all the way from beyond the wall.
The pieces of some sort of puzzle she’s trying to fit together slotting in.
She nods softly, like it’s understanding dawning, but it couldn’t possibly be—because no one will ever understand.
No one could. And I don’t want them to.
But I tip my chin at her, her lips move into a quiet smile when everyone starts taking their positions on the field, the photo of Matty blinks away from the screen to reveal the starting lineup, and the number ten burns a hole through my chest into my heart.
“Miller.” Pascale leans around the open locker room door, fingers snapping to get my attention. “Olson is ready for you, and then press in fifteen.”
My fingers bend the brim of my hat into an anxious curve. I nod, muttering a “Got it, Coach” under my breath.
His eyes narrow before he knocks once against the doorframe and pushes off into the hallway.
I wait until his footsteps reverberate further and further away before knocking my head once against the shelf in my locker.
A hand claps my shoulder. “You good?”
I nod, flexing down on the brim of my hat again, veins straining along the backs of my hands, popping beneath the inked M. Shoving it over my hair, still sweat-damp, I turn towards Chourio and try for a grin that doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “All good. I played well. We won. Press is a breeze.”
Chourio cocks a brow, disbelief colouring his usually warm brown eyes. “You sure? I don’t mind taking the post-game for you.”
“All good,” I echo again, tipping my chin. “They don’t usually want to talk to outfielders, anyway.”
His eyes roll, dimples popping in his cheeks, hardly visible underneath his beard but enough to tell me the joke landed. “Oh, fuck off, Miller. You’re so full of yourself.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I start walking backwards towards the door, arms spread wide like they can’t contain all my athletic prowess and records and wins, when really, I’ve got no idea what they might be holding up. Pieces of me, maybe.
He waves me off when I walk through the door, turning towards the rest of our teammates, still in various stages of postgame undress.
I was full of myself, once upon a time. But my footsteps echo in the shadows of Coach’s all the way down the hall to the elevator, towards the general manager’s office, and they’re not full of anything, I don’t think.
I’m not in this elevator a lot. I don’t go up to Olson’s office if I can avoid it.
And I don’t think I can avoid it anymore.
Matt came up here a lot, though. They were close. Talked strategy. Talked about Olson’s kids and his grandkids. Matty could rhyme off their names and ages without so much as a thought. He donated signed balls and jerseys and his time to their birthday parties.
I could probably remember some of their names, if I was pressed, but it’d take me a lot longer.
Especially lately. I’ve had a hard time caring about much.
The last time I was in here—this office with the sweeping, unparalleled view of the field, hidden away beside some of the executive suites—I had my head in my hands, thumbs digging into my eyes to try and stop the tears, while Olson told me all about their plans to replace Matt.
It was a courtesy. He didn’t owe me advance warning of a necessary business decision.
I’ve got a funny way of paying him back—walking in here to ask something that’s the exact opposite of a good business decision.
I knock on the propped-open door, still in my grass-stained jersey, and mechanically put one foot in front of the other when he calls me to come in.
“Great game,” Olson says, hand with his World Series ring lifting off his polished oak desk in greeting. “Great series so far.”
“Thanks.” I smile tightly, tugging on the brim on my hat when I sit in the matching leather chair across from him. Pascale’s already in here, propped up against a bookshelf, arms crossed and features blank.
Olson folds his hands, head angling in assessment. “How are you doing?”
“Uh, good. I mean, the fourth inning—”
“I didn’t mean on the field,” he corrects gently, like he knows he needs to be patient with his stupid, grieving star shortstop. “How are you?”
“Oh. Uh.” Pretty fucking terrible, actually, I think.
But I don’t say that. I give a shrug, like it’s hard but not really a big deal—like I don’t feel like I’m being choked every single second of every single day.
I nod, saying, “I’m, uh, alright. It’s not .
. . easy. Playing without Matty. Being without Matty. And the press—”
“Have been particularly cruel,” he finishes for me.
“Yeah. It’s been . . . it hasn’t been fun,” I say lamely, but I think I’d suffocate on any of the real words.
He frowns, knocking a hand against his desk again. “We can speak to Media Relations and see if we can come up with some unique workarounds that limit your availability outside of contractual obligations. Is that what you’re looking for?”
“No. I’m not here for . . . it’s not about the press. It’s about . . . me. I probably shouldn’t, uh—” I bow my head, scrubbing my face. “This was . . . stupid.”
I shouldn’t have come in here without my agent.
But I can’t really breathe, and I don’t think I can do this for much longer.
“I don’t think I can—I can’t do this anymore.
The press, all the things they’re saying in the media .
. . being here . . . without him. I know I’ve got years left on my contract, and I know I have a no-trade clause.
But, uh, I’d . . . waive my NTC. I just need to—”
“You want to leave?” Pascale finally speaks, arms folded tightly across his chest. “One of the top teams in the league, coming off a World Series, and you’re asking for a trade?”
“I just want it to stop,” I mumble, hands clenched together as I blink determinedly at the floor, trying to beg the tears not to come.
Olson makes a noise of consideration that has me lifting my head.
He studies me, fingers drumming across the polished wood.
“You understand that solely from a business perspective, my immediate answer would be no. I’m hesitant to trade a star player on a good day, let alone a generational, best-in-the-league talent.
One we need, quite badly, if we’d like to win again.
Especially after losing my generational, best-in-the-league talent of a pitcher. ”
“I know.”
He angles his head, and his fingers stop playing his invisible piano against the wood.
“But from a . . . personal perspective . . . out of respect for Matthew, who was . . . more than just a player to me. He was a friend. And out of respect for you—I’m willing to consider it over the next few weeks.
Let’s see how things play out with the press and media, whether they settle down or not.
Because as talented as you are, you’re expensive, and not everyone wants a mess dumped on their doorstep, regardless of how good he is on both sides of the ball.
We can talk closer to the trade deadline. ”
“Okay,” I say, voice cracking and hoarse. My gaze lifts, all blurred and burning around the edges, and I’d swear he looks concerned.
Olson gives me a sharp nod and knocks on the desk again in dismissal. “You are, unfortunately, contractually obligated to be downstairs with the press right now for a post-game.”
“Yeah. I’ll get down there. Uh, thanks—thank you,” I mutter, but I clear my throat, using the arms of the chair to push so I can stand. I’m not sure my legs are working properly. I’m not sure any of me is working properly, really. “We’ll talk . . . in a few weeks.”
I turn, eyes back on the ground, before I can see how either of them might be looking at me—the disappointment, or maybe the surprise that my stupidity really does know no bounds.
I don’t feel any sort of relief when I get to the elevator. It’s dread, actually. Sinking in my stomach as the elevator descends down, down, down into the press room.
I used to love press—especially last season when we were winning and definitely after getting the first World Series title in team history.
I used to love doing it with Matty, too. We made a good team—and the media loved it when we’d sit at the table together. Laughing and fighting and generally being dumb, like best friends who might as well be brothers usually are.
But all anyone wants to ask me about since this season is the fact that his seat is forever empty.
They want to ask what it was like to win a World Series with him.
What it was like to lose him.
What I think he’d make of our record this season.
What I’m doing differently on and off the field because he’s gone.
What grief does to you.
What it means to be without him.
I know it’ll be worse today. I haven’t worn the memorial jersey in weeks. They’ll wonder why. They’ll dig and dig and dig at whatever’s left of me.
And when I lift a hand in greeting, a tight smile plastered on my face before I settle into the press chair behind the table, cameras lit and waiting, media holding microphones and recorders at the ready—when our manager points to the reporter from our local network, I brace my hands against the table and wait for it.
But she asks a different question. They all do, actually.
“Who’s the girl?”