by K. Bromberg
“You’re not worth it.”
He’s not.
I’ve gotta get out of here.
I glance to Scout on the way out but don’t stop.
The guys nod as I walk past them. Looking more than shocked.
The secret is out in the open.
Can’t say that I fucking care in the least.
The sounds of the game go on around me. The last-minute player rushing in for some eye black. Manny picking up the trash left behind. The voice on the PA echoing down the tunnel and into the locker room.
But I’m glued to my computer screen where I have Fox Sports streaming so I can watch the game in real time.
My knee jogs up and down as I wait for the known jingle to end while praying Easton does well. After that confrontation with Santiago, I need to know he’s okay, but the few times I braved my way to the press box, he was surrounded by others and I didn’t want to interrupt.
But he seemed good. And after the shitstorm during the last twenty-four hours, that’s what concerns me more than anything.
“Good evening, baseball fans. You are in for an incredible night of baseball here in game three of the World Series. The Austin Aces against the Anaheim Angels. The battle of the A-teams. Both have one win apiece going into tonight’s game, but it stands to be seen, can the Aces wrap this up while here on home turf over the next three games or will we be heading back to Anaheim without a victor? The man next to me might have something to say about that. Longtime Austin Ace, Easton Wylder, sits beside me in the booth tonight ready to help call the game.”
“Good evening, Bud. Thanks, everyone, for joining us. Can you feel that energy in the air tonight? That’s the magic of baseball, folks, and we’re about to watch it come to life with the first pitch coming up shortly.”
I let go of the breath I’m holding and feel like that little added comment, the magic of baseball, is his little way of telling me he’s got this under control.
And he does.
He makes it through the starting line-ups without even a stutter.
He ends the segment with a lead into their sponsorships before the commercials.
Everything he was fearful of appears to be nonexistent this time around.
Bud and Easton banter for a while about the strengths and weaknesses of each team.
“Drew Minski is on fire with his bat right now,” Easton says. “He’s batting five hundred for the first two games and four hundred for the entire postseason. Look for him to be pitched outside tonight in the hopes he’ll chase the slider and strike out instead of crank it over the fence and add another RBI to his tally.”
Bud chuckles as the camera zooms in on Drew finishing his warm-up in the outfield. His face is scrunched up and he’s pulling what looks like a black gob of gum from his mouth. His teeth and tongue and part of his lips are stained black also. “It looks like someone has fallen prey to a prank today.”
“Nothing like a little fun to ease the nerves.” Easton laughs as Drew, still on camera, shakes a fist toward the press box.
And I know. Easton strikes again.
“You wouldn’t know anything about pranks now, would you, Easton?”
“Not. A. Thing,” he says, but those who know him, also know that tone of voice. And that he’s lying.
The silly prank is nothing on the grand scheme of things but it does wonders for me. He’s going to be okay. He’s wrestled his demons, and he’s going to be okay.
I’m not sure how he’s compartmentalizing it all, but he is. And I applaud him for it.
By the time the first pitch is thrown, Easton has more than redeemed himself from the last time and proven he’s a natural at adding color commentary.
I fight against the crowd as I make my way to the press box. There is chaos in the masses—strangers giving high fives, people whistling, the drunk ones stumbling, the kids in parents’ arms struggling to stay awake—as people make their way out of the ballpark to celebrate the Aces’ decisive win over the Angels.
I’m excited for the Aces too, but I’m more eager to celebrate with Easton on his incredible success tonight. He was flawless and funny and charismatic and engaging. I couldn’t be prouder.
Upon entering the press box, I laugh, but am not surprised to see the spotlight has turned to Easton. He can’t seem to escape it. At least this time though, it’s in a positive light. Cameras are angled his way and a sports reporter is holding a microphone to Easton’s mouth.
“We’re so thrilled to catch a moment with you, Easton. How does it feel to be back working in some capacity in the city of Austin?” the reporter asks.
“Austin will always be my home, Chris, so of course it feels great to be here contributing in some way to this excitement. Once an Ace, always an Ace.”
“Can you tell us how your shoulder is doing?”
“It’s getting better little by little, day by day. Patience isn’t exactly my strong-suit.”
“Understandably. Is that why you took a shot at broadcasting?”
“Something like that.” Easton flashes his megawatt smile.
“I hate to bring it up, but what made you do it again? Your attempt last month resulted in a lot of disparaging comments. Did you work the nerves out and want another shot? Why knowingly invite potential criticism again?”
Easton looks away from Chris for a second and somehow amid the bright light of the camera, he finds me. There’s a confidence in his eyes I haven’t seen in a while. There’s also pride. He nods his head subtly before looking back to the reporter.
“That’s a good question, Chris, and one I struggled with for quite a while. Most people don’t know this about me but I’m dyslexic and up until this last month, I struggled to read anything. Case in point, how bad I botched my first broadcast with Fox.” He blows out a breath while Chris just looks at him stunned and more than willing to let him speak since this startling confession will most likely end up as a trending sound bite on all sports and social media channels. All I can do is stare at Easton, feel immense pride, and hold a hand over my heart to send him silent support. “I’ve skated through my whole life by faking it, making excuses, what have you . . . and that broadcast was a wake-up call for me. The teleprompter worked just fine that night. The fault lay with me, not a tech. I was too embarrassed to ask for help but that night was the dose of reality I needed to seek help. So I had my agent approach Fox and ask them to let me have another shot at it. Understandably they were reluctant, but in the end they agreed to give me another chance.”
“What made the difference this time around?”
“Owning my problem instead of running from it. With the support of my tutor and my girlfriend, I’ve studied like hell to prove to myself that I could do this. That I could overcome the one thing I’ve been ashamed of my whole life.”
“Well that definitely wasn’t the response I was expecting when I asked that question,” Chris says.
“You and me both.” Easton laughs nervously. I can tell he’s suddenly uncomfortable and I love him all the more for it.
“Needless to say, you did a great job tonight.”
“Thank you. It was a lot of fun. Who doesn’t like to talk baseball?”
“True. So is this something you’d like to pursue at some point after your playing days are over?”
“With my shoulder this year, I’m sure to some it looks like that’s already the case.”
“But you are planning on returning, aren’t you?”
“You never know what the future holds. Thanks, Chris.”
Easton ends the interview.
But never provides a concrete answer to the question.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Finn’s voice searches for answers. There’s a trace of hurt there too.
“It’s not exactly something you brag about.”
“It’s me, East. The one who knows you better than most.” And he’s right, he does. “I could have . . . I don’t know.”
“There’s nothing to say
. Signing that addendum and fucking this all up was a huge wake-up call with serious consequences. I mean, it is what it is, so just know I’m still a work in progress.”
“You’re always a work in progress,” he jokes.
“Fuck off. I’m the best client you’ve ever had.”
“Speaking of being my client . . . Why is it you went on national television and alluded to the fact that you might be hanging up your gear for good when you haven’t even told me, your agent?”
I shrug, although he can’t see it, and laugh at how very different this same conversation went last night with Scout, long after our celebrating ended when she asked a very similar question.
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Easton?”
“Nothing set in concrete, no.”
“What about set in mud?” The way she looked at me. With narrowed eyes and a tilt to her head said she knew I was contemplating stepping away from the game.
My only response was to chuckle softly, pull her closer against me, and kiss those perfect lips of hers.
“That’s what I thought,” she responded to my non-answer. “There’s something to be said about going out on top.”
“Easton. Are you there?” Finn asks, shocking me from remembering what happened next. Laughter. Kissing. And then me being on top. Of her. “Your silence is telling me you’re actually considering it.”
“People are going to hear what they want to hear, Finn. You know that.”
“Well, Fox heard you all right,” he says.
“I hope so since it was their reporter asking the question.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
“I’m not trying to be one,” I say but don’t say much more.
I’ve seen the papers this morning. The headlines. The next biggest story in the baseball world besides the Aces taking one game up on the Angels in the series is whether or not Easton Wylder is retiring.
“Like I said, you sure made a statement without saying shit. And Fox heard you loud and clear, but they’re not the only ones.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve received two phone calls this morning. One from Fox Sports offering you a contract as the regular sportscaster on their telecasts. The other from Boseman himself. Asking you to come home to the Aces, where you belong—his words, not mine—but this time as their permanent on-air commentator for all their games.”
“What?” My head spins with the news.
“You heard me. For a man who hasn’t even announced his retirement yet, you have two incredible offers if you want to take them. Ones anyone in their right mind would kill for.”
“Wow.” It’s part sigh, part holy shit.
“It seems you have some serious thinking to do during the off-season.”
“I do.” I feel like thinking about my future is all I’ve been doing lately.
It’s all fun and games to think about retiring, but when it could be a reality it’s scary as fuck.
But I now have options.
Ones that allow me to stay in the game I love. Keep that magic in my life. And give me the other opportunities I still want out of life.
I think back to that little girl playing catch with her dad at the field.
That’s what I want.
With Scout. I definitely want her there too, sitting in the dugout with a little boy named Ford in her arms.
A family.
Our family.
One I can be around for.
Be a part of.
Not miss out on because I’m always on the road.
This game can be rewarding. I know that better than most. But it has nothing on having a family.
I hang up and look at the world outside my windows, and for the first time since I met Scout, I know exactly what I want.
Funny how my decision has been there all along.
I was just looking in all the wrong places.
Easton uses the remote to turn the TV off. The room is bathed in darkness except for the lone foyer light.
I called it ambiance for the romantic comedy we just watched.
Easton called it perfect let’s-have-sex mood lighting.
“We should go to bed,” I murmur but make no attempt to move from where I’m snuggled perfectly in his arms. He doesn’t respond and yet I know he’s not asleep because his finger is tracing aimlessly up and down my bicep.
“Hey. You okay?” I ask, curious about where his thoughts have been.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Mm-hmm.”
We fall back in silence as my mind races a million miles an hour to try and figure out what’s made him so preoccupied. I can list several things—his dad, his mom, Santiago, if he’s retiring or not—but remain quiet, lulled slowly to sleep by his even breathing and warm arms.
“I don’t know how to fix this.”
“Fix what?”
“My fucked-up family.”
“Oh.” He’s avoided talking about it for over a week and just when I’ve given up trying to make him so he doesn’t keep it all bottled up inside, he says this.
“The movie was all about family and how it makes you crazy but you kind of have to go with the flow or in the end you’ll end up all alone.” He pauses as he links his fingers through mine. “And it got me thinking about things. About you and how well you are taking everything with your dad in stride. I know it’s tough and I know at some point you’re going to break while I stand by and hold all your pieces, but you appreciate every single second of the time you have with him. You have one parent who will be gone soon and I’m sitting here with two parents I haven’t even talked to because I don’t know how to move forward.”
“It’s two totally different circumstances, Easton,” I say to try and redirect the discord in his voice. “You can’t compare them.”
“I know but at the same time, I feel selfish . . . but I don’t know where to go from here.”
“You’ve had an awful lot thrown at you in the past couple weeks. Unfortunately, there’s no guidebook on how to handle it or what steps to take.”
“I know.” He sighs and presses a kiss to the top of my head.
“Your mom,” I prompt in the hopes that I can somehow help him. Although I’m the furthest thing there is from a therapist, I tackle the easiest one first. There’s no hope for any type of relationship with Santiago—as there shouldn’t be—and his dad’s a tough one I’m not sure he’s ready to deal with yet . . . so, his mom, it is.
“What about her?”
“What’s changed for you with her?”
“Nothing really, I guess. She’s still her. She’s still in love with her bottle, and she’s more convinced than ever that my dad is going to come back for her.”
“So you don’t love her any less than you did before, right?”
He falls silent as he mulls over my question. “No . . . but I’m angry with her. According to my dad, her drinking is what drove him away. It was the catalyst for him to look outside their marriage and ultimately break it apart. She’s an alcoholic—that will never change. I have a lot of resentment for both of them right now, and I’m not sure how to deal with it.”
“If she called you right now and needed your help, would you go?”
I feel his body tense and know he’s trying to figure out where I’m going with this. He’s hesitant to answer but he finally does. “Yes. Of course.”
“Then nothing has really changed there. She is your mom, Easton. It’s her you love and her addiction you hate. Give it some time. You just found out a lot of things, but that doesn’t change anything between you.”
“Blood is thicker than alcohol,” he murmurs with a sigh followed by a disbelieving laugh.
“There’s that,” I say, thankful he still has his sense of humor.
“My mom is the easy one. Things get a little more complicated from there.”
It’s my turn to chuckle, knowing he’s talking about his dad. “That’s a wh
ole mess of complicated.”
“You’ve got that right.” He sighs deeply. “How do I forgive him?”
“No one said you had to.”
“But isn’t that the only way to move forward?”
“I wasn’t aware you wanted to,” I say, leading him.
“I don’t know what I want. Can I partially forgive him? Can I empathize with the lonely husband who had an alcoholic wife? In recent years, I’ve been the one who has taken care of her like he once had to. I know firsthand it’s a lonely place to be.”
“That’s a huge first step,” I murmur. “It’s very mature of you to think that way.”
“Well, hold that thought because the immature side of me is going to come out now. I don’t know how I can move past him being so blinded by his need to keep his reputation intact, that he brought his problem to my doorstep.”
“True but—”
“Better yet, let’s not talk about this,” he says as his hands run up the sides of my ribcage, thumbs strategically placed to graze over my nipples.
“Mm. Talking is overrated at times,” I murmur, appreciating his knack for changing the subject. It’s his way of telling me he’s not ready to figure out what to do about his dad yet. And that’s perfectly fine.
“It sure is,” he says right before his lips meet the curve of my neck.
“Then I suggest you put those lips of yours to good use, Mr. Wylder.”
“I’ve got a whole lot more I can put to use than my lips.” He nips my earlobe. “But they sure are a good start.”
“That one is so ugly. Are you serious?” I think she’s lost her mind. I stare at the picture on the computer and just shake my head. The dog is a mess. A rescued pit bull used as a bait dog in dogfights. One ear is half torn, the other almost gone; her face is covered in scars with one eye permanently closed. She’s so damn ugly she’s adorable.
“We’ve both been battered and bruised in this lifetime, but that doesn’t mean we’re not worthy of love, does it?” she asks with tears welling in her eyes; reinforcing every word she’s said.
