“He couldn’t have been less interested, Mom. Not even a hint of excitement passed through his eyes.”
“Did he recognize you with your new hair?”
“All he said was Natalie and then gave me a small nod and left. It was horrible, Mom, and it took everything in me not to break down right then and there.” I shake my head and say, “As much as I hate to admit it, I think we’re over forever.”
“Oh Natalie.” She pulls me into a hug and holds me tight as she says, “What are you going to do now?”
“The only thing I can do,” I say. “Move on.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
CORY
April
“Milly, you can leave.”
“I’m not leaving,” she says, “and if you don’t let me in the exam room, I’m going to rip your nuts off, do you hear me?”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning back in a waiting room chair, hat pulled down far on my head, my hands connected at my stomach.
I don’t want to be here, but Milly insisted, given everything that’s been going on. She’s worried. It’s not the first time I heard her say that to me, and I’m sure it won’t be the last, but ever since three days ago, after I ran into Natalie in the dugout, Milly has been on me, texting and calling every day.
As she put it, I’ve been in a downward spiral ever since spring training and seeing Natalie has sent me plummeting. No idea what she’s talking about because I’m fine. I don’t feel one goddamn emotion, but I’m fine.
I like this zombie state of mind, going through the motions, feeling nothing but a numbing sensation in the pit of my chest. It makes living life so much easier, especially after the hell of spring training.
After Natalie left, I felt like a giant piece of me died inside, as if forty-five percent of my body faded into black, leaving me with the function of my muscle memory and the intelligence to know how to play baseball, but that’s it.
It’s rare when I joke around with anyone on the team, or even hang out with someone outside of the stadium. Marcus has asked me to dinner a few times during spring training, but I turned him down, walking mindlessly back to my hotel room. Maddox even reached out, trying to get me to connect with some of the other players, but there’s no point.
The minute Natalie left was the minute baseball became an actual job, something I go to seven days a week, work at, and then return home after a grueling day. There’s no joy in it anymore, no relationships built, not when I tried over and over to build those relationships and with every piece of bad press I received, backs were turned on me.
Why bother getting to know anyone when the loyalty isn’t there?
Instead, I lead by example. I push myself. I train consistently, eat healthily, work on recovering techniques so I’m ready for the next day. I’m performing at an all-time peak, I see the ball better than I ever have, and there’s talk already that I’ll make another All-Star team.
But it’s a job. That’s how I’m treating it. I’m performing at my job, even if I feel completely and absolutely dead inside.
“Cory, we’re ready for you,” a nurse says, with a clipboard in hand. Sighing, I stand and nod at Milly to come back with me. Relieved, she glues herself to my side as we make our way down the hallway to the doctor’s office. They opened just for me so I could get in and out without press following me around.
I saw a doctor a week or so ago—the team doctor—but Milly wasn’t satisfied. As she put it, of course the team doctor is going to tell you you’re fine, because they want you to play. She wanted me to see someone who wasn’t invested in my play time. So that’s why we’re here.
They check all my vitals and weight, and then take us to a sterile room painted in a cream color that is less than desirable, more depressing than anything. I hop up on the exam table and even though it’s high, my legs are long enough to connect with the pull-out step. The protective paper crinkles beneath me as I shift my body on the table, trying to get comfortable, but it feels next to impossible with the way Milly won’t stop staring at me.
Instead of having the nurse ask me what’s going on, the doctor joins us immediately and the nurse takes notes while he talks to us.
“Dr. Foreseen, it’s nice to meet you.”
He shakes my hand. “What brings you in today, Cory?”
I go to open my mouth when Milly stands from her chair and saddles up right next to me. “He has bald patches in his hair, and he looks pale all the time. I’m worried about his health. If you’ve been following any kind of media here in Chicago, you’ll know that they’ve been eating him alive. I’m worried that it’s slowly eating away at him.”
The doctor glances at Milly and then back at me, arms crossed. “How do you feel?”
Other than dead inside, great.
I shrug. “Fine.”
He nods and looks at my chart. His brow creases when he says, “Have you ever had high blood pressure before?”
“Oh God, does he have high blood pressure?” Milly asks, standing on her toes, trying to look at the chart.
“One thirty-nine over eighty-nine. Stage one high blood pressure.”
Milly shakes her head. “He’s never had high blood pressure.” Worriedly she turns toward me. “Have you?”
I scratch the back of my neck and say, “It was a little high a few weeks ago.”
“Cory.” Milly pushes my shoulder. “What the hell are you thinking?”
I shrug. “Thought it would go down.”
“By magic?” Milly rolls her eyes in exasperation. “Seriously, Cory, you need to take care of yourself.”
The doctor nods to my head and says, “Take off your hat.”
Lifting it off my head, I dip forward so he can see the back, where there are a few pea-sized bald spots scattered.
The doctor runs his hand through my hair and then looks at his palm. There are strands on his hand. After that, he makes me do a few other exercises, checks my stomach, asks if I’m having trouble sleeping, goes through a quick physical minus the coughing part, and then leans back on the counter and says, “It’s safe to say you’re extremely stressed and your body is starting to react to the stressors you’ve been enduring. The blood pressure is concerning but given your lifestyle, I’d need to research if there is medication you can take during the season. Obviously, I can’t talk about changing your diet, as your sports dietician would be the only one to do that. We could look at starting you on 5-HTP, which is a neurotransmitter, a precursor to serotonin. But, you need to speak to an exercise physiologist to decide which cognitive behavioral therapy they’d suggest to work alongside the 5-HTP. I know this is easier said than done, but you need to find some ways to relax. CBT will help with that. Herbal teas that have chamomile, passion flower, lavender . . . The nurses here have recommended Traditional Medicinals Cup of Calm.”
Yeah, okay.
I nod and hop off the table, placing my hat back on my head. “Thanks.” I give him a handshake and start to move out the door when Milly says, “How can he relax? What are some techniques?”
That last question is how I ended up in a bubble bath with a book in hand about stress relief, and a tea by my side.
Fucking Milly.
* * *
May
Rebels Locker Room Heats Up with Fights
Despite currently leading their division and leading the league in homeruns, the Rebels can’t seem to get along off the field. Close sources have been saying Cory Potter is at the center of it, with high demands and diva-like tantrums that have pushed all his teammates away. Word on the street is, they’re petitioning a way to get him off the team. Only time and lots of prayers will tell.
Rolling my eyes, I toss my phone on my table and go to drag my hand through my hair but stop, remembering I have to avoid tugging on it. Much easier said than done when I’m dealing with the kind of bullshit reporting that’s going around this city.
When did it become okay to just make up blatant lies? I’m tempted to sue all these publications, but wi
th my luck, they’ll spin it into me being a giant baby and unable to handle “a little negative” press.
“Here’s your salmon,” Milly says, floating over to the table with a plate in hand. “Yummy, right?”
I’ve been forced to go to Milly and Carson’s place for dinner when I’m home and when I don’t have a night game. Milly said it’s because she misses me and is lonely when Carson is out of town, but I know that’s a load of crap from staring at the fifth salmon dish she’s made for me since we started these dinner dates.
She’s checking up on me, trying to make sure I’m following the strict low-blood-pressure diet the sports dietician prescribed. She has nothing to worry about. I’m following it because I have nothing better to do with my downtime.
“Thanks,” I say, picking up a fork and starting to shovel the pile of green beans on my plate into my mouth.
“So . . . what’s new?”
“Nothing,” I answer, mouth full, chewing.
“Liar. I saw you looking at that article. Why don’t you say something? Speak out? Hell, why doesn’t anyone speak out?”
I shrug. “What’s the point? They’re going to make up what they want anyway. The story is too good right now; it’s just something I’m dealing with at this point.”
Milly sighs and then says, “You know, I always prided myself on being your sister, because you are what baseball players should strive to be. Kindhearted, hard-working, and with a pure love for the game. Now when I look at you, all I see is the hard-working part.”
I pause my fork to my mouth. “Are you saying I don’t have a kind heart?”
“I don’t know, when was the last time you volunteered?”
“Fucking Tuesday, at the hospital.”
“Oh.” Milly’s face morphs into an apologetic look. “I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, well no one does. I’m the same man, Milly.”
She shakes her head. “You’re not. You’re going through the motions.” She bites her bottom lip and says, “I bet if you apologized, she’d come back to you.”
“Milly,” I groan, dropping my fork to my plate. It clatters and falls to the table. “Enough, okay? It’s over between me and Natalie. There is no repairing what happened.”
“You don’t know that,” she says in desperation. “Dottie was saying—”
“Stop right there.” I stand from my chair and push it under the table. “I don’t want to know what your circle of friends has to say about my non-existent relationship with Natalie. No one should be talking about it.”
Ignoring me, she says, “Have you even talked to Jason?”
“No. I’m not making him the middleman.”
“Maybe you should,” Milly says, alluding to something.
“Why?” I ask, not quite ready to storm out when there seems to be a nugget of information my sister is harboring.
“Because—” She looks away, probably contemplating if she should say anything. After a moment, she says, “She’s . . . well, she’s starting to date.”
It feels as if someone just swung a pickax straight into my chest and is twisting it relentlessly to get it out. Twisting and pulling and yanking so hard I can feel my heart ache, my lungs burn.
She’s starting to date?
Well, of course she is. It’s not like she’s waiting around for me, after I fucking told her she wasn’t important enough to stay in my life, after I haven’t contacted her since, after I practically dismissed her with one look in the dugout.
I was so fucking stunned to see her there, I had no idea how to react. I froze, my heart tumbling within my chest as I took in just how beautiful she looked. Her blonder hair made her eyes stand out even more, and its length made me want to tug on it, grip her from behind, and hold her in place while I claimed what I so foolishly let go. It gutted me being so close and not being able to reach out and touch her, kiss her, hold her close against my chest where I would whisper in her ear over and over how much I love her, how sorry I am, how I will never take her for granted ever again . . . how she’s the most important thing in my goddamn life.
“From the scowl in your brow, I can tell that’s not something you’re happy with,” Milly says, seeming far too happy with her knowledge, probably because she thinks it’s going to light a fire under my ass to get her back. Little does she know, that ship has sailed. Natalie was right. I’m not the man she deserves. Maybe I was once, but I’m certainly not now. She deserves happiness, the ability to wear whatever fucking shirt she wants when kissing her boyfriend in public, and a man who will run into a fight to protect her. Not the man who blames her for everything and doesn’t have the stones to apologize and admit he was wrong. Because I was. I haven’t got my shit together. Nothing’s changed on that front. The media still hates me, so nothing new there. No, she was right to leave, and it’s right I stay back while she finds her life. Her happiness.
“It’s Natalie’s life; she can do what she wants,” I say and start to walk away, leaving my half-eaten dinner on the table.
“Cory,” Milly calls out, and I stop at the door, keeping my back toward her. “This closed-off persona you have going on, it’s not you, but it’s driven by you. The only person who can make things better . . . is you.”
I bend my head forward, take a deep breath, and say, “Been there, done that. No one fucking cares. I’ll catch you later, Mills.” I take off, only hearing the click of her apartment door echo in the hallway as I retreat.
* * *
June
The fans practically shake the stadium with their distaste for me as I enter the dugout after hitting a single homerun. With every boo, it’s like a breath of air, reminding me to shove it down the fans’ throats with how fucking good I am. They’re begging me to fail, counting on me to strikeout, to commit an error, do something . . . anything to prove their perception about me.
Too bad I’m on a hot streak and with every crack of my bat, I show them up. I wish I could enjoy it more, but I’d be lying if I said the booing didn’t bother me.
Because it does.
Because I’ve always been the player who thrives off positivity. It feels wrong that I thrive off negativity now.
I fucking hate it.
I hate everything about my life right now.
I hate my team, the fans, the coaches, the front office that keeps telling me everything will clear out, don’t worry.
Bullshitters.
I hate this game I have to play. I hate studying it, training, and traveling.
But most importantly, I hate myself. I loathe myself, every last inch of me. Looking in a mirror is painful. Seeing my moronic reflection just reminds me how I ruined my life with the simple statement: we should take a break.
I miss her, desperately. I think about her every goddamn minute. She’s the first person I think about when I wake up, the first person I want to text when I need someone to talk to, and when I can’t sleep at night, she’s the person I think of.
Foolishly I let her go, and that’s a mistake I’ll live with for the rest of my life.
“Fucking smashed that,” Jason says, coming up next to me on the bench. “And hey, I really think the fans are starting to figure out the whole collective booing thing so it sounds more uniform, almost like a foghorn. So, there’s something.”
There is one thing I need to be grateful for and that’s Jason. He has this uncanny knack of making someone feel better with a stupid comment. He’s constantly pulling at least one smirk from me every game, and it usually has to do with my demise. I see what he’s trying to do, make light of all the shit being flung my way, and I appreciate him for it.
I also appreciate the fact that he has never once mentioned Natalie. He has separated the two of us, and that’s the reason I occasionally lean on him when I need to.
Marcus walks by and pats me on the knee. “Good hit, boss.”
I nod at him but don’t say much. Then I turn to Jason and say, “That’s the fifth time one of the guys has called me t
hat today.”
Jason tosses some sunflower seeds in his mouth and says, “Because in their eyes, you’re the boss.” Jason focuses his green eyes on me and says, “As much as you don’t want to believe it, the guys on this team like you. They see your hard work, your determination, and they’ve come around to the fact that they were idiots at the beginning of the season.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say sarcastically.
“Don’t pull that woe is me shit with me,” Jason says in a sterner tone. “Want to know the reason why you don’t know this? It’s because everyone is too goddamn nervous to approach you. You don’t give off a very welcoming vibe. But trust me when I say this, they appreciate you and they see you.”
I glance up at the dugout where I catch a lot of the players up against the fence, cheering on the team, encouraging one another, and here I am, sequestered in the back. Was Milly right, am I really punishing myself, putting this all on me with my actions?
“I see that beautiful brain of yours working and trust me, when you’re asking yourself, is Jason really right about this?” Jason pats me on the shoulder and says, “I am.” He hops off the bench and then points his finger at me. “And you can get to know the guys even better when you come to my fundraiser in a few weeks.” Jason looks me dead in the eyes when he says, “I’m counting on you to be there.”
I nod, unsure how to process what he said, so I do the one thing I know how to do best—block it all out and focus on the game. Play the game. Live the game.
* * *
Still June
I breeze into the training room with one thing on my mind, ice.
I need fucking ice.
I was clocked in the back today, right between the shoulder blades by one of the pitchers on the Baltimore Storm. Imagine that, my old team apparently holding a grudge against me as well. Guess what, chaps, I had nothing to do with my godforsaken trade. And yet, they still pegged me.
The Trade Page 35
