by Devney Perry
“Can’t handle all this testosterone, huh?” he teases.
“Some days, no.”
My knee jogs up and down as the familiar notes of the Fox Sports jingle plays. It’s not often I actually watch a game on television for the hell of it. I’m typically studying a player I’m rehabbing to see how they are faring and what I need to work on with them. I’ve never purposely tuned in just to watch the broadcasters.
But today is different.
Today Easton is taking a huge step out of his comfort zone, and like the text I sent him an hour ago said, I am so very proud of him for doing so.
The camera pans across the field—the green grass, stark white lines, and players milling about—before the lead broadcaster begins to speak.
“Welcome to another summer night of baseball here on Fox, ladies and gentlemen. The sky is clear, the popcorn is popping, and the bats are swinging here in Amco Park for America’s favorite national past time,” he says as the camera switches to them sitting in the broadcast booth. I squeal like a schoolgirl when I see Easton. I know I’m biased but he’s so handsome with his headset on and a smile that only those closest to him can tell hints at his nervousness. “Thank you for tuning in. I’m Bud Richman and tonight we have special guest, Easton Wylder, of the Austin Aces and more recently the Dallas Wranglers to talk with us during the pregame show. Thanks for joining us. How’s the shoulder coming along?”
“Good. Healing,” he says eyes flicking back and forth from the camera to Bud.
“Are you ready for a good battle of the bats tonight?”
Easton smiles. “That’s definitely what one would expect of tonight’s match-up.”
“Tell us, Easton, as a player, how would you size up either team if you were to play them?”
Easton talks for a few minutes about the pitching and the fielding, and I can see him physically start to relax. There’s easy camaraderie between him and Bud that’s likeable and not over the top. Easton comes off as personable and knowledgeable and I’m sure his insight is attractive to the male viewers while his looks are more than pleasing for the female viewers.
“We’re minutes away from the first pitch, ladies and gentlemen, so without further ado, I’ll let Easton have the honor of announcing the starting line-ups.”
The camera pans from Bud to Easton and there’s total silence as Easton’s face looks like he’s a deer in the headlights. His eyes widen and then become panicked as he says “uh” a couple times before looking over to Bud for help.
It’s only seconds but my heart jumps into my throat from the look on Easton’s face.
“Oops, sorry about that, Easton. It seems we forgot to show the newbie how to work the switches up here in the booth. I hate it when we do that.” He laughs like a seasoned professional while I’m screaming at the TV over how they could throw Easton into the press box and not show him the damn controls. “In the meantime, starting for the Colorado Rockies tonight, batting first and playing center field . . .”
Bud drones on going through both sets of line-ups as I pace the living room. I’m sure Easton is livid and embarrassed and all I want to do is fix it for him. That’s a huge screw-up on Fox’s part and I’m sure Finn will give them his two cents if he’s not on the phone already.
The station goes to a commercial break without the camera panning back to Easton, and it takes everything I have not to pick up the phone and call him, reassure him, and give him support.
When the commercial break is over, the camera spends most of the time on the field before finally focusing on the booth. Easton’s there next to Bud, his posture a little stiffer than before, his features a bit more stoic. Bud continues to talk and this time when Easton responds, his responses lack the energy they had before. It’s almost as if he’s holding back or scared to elaborate. And his discomfort comes across loud and clear to the viewer.
They talk about the pitchers and what to expect from each team for the night and then Bud wraps up the segment. “When we come back, baseball fans, we’re heading for the first pitch with the two teams that might end up being a preview of your National League playoffs. Easton, why don’t you take us to break and tell the nice folks at home all about our sponsors.”
And when the attention shifts back to Easton, he’s frozen again. Almost as if once the camera focuses on him, he can’t speak. Bud looks his way and chuckles softly. “Sorry there, Easton. It seems the booth doesn’t want to function for you today. I’m giving Easton instructions here to read the teleprompter and it’s not working. We’ll take this break, and I’ll make sure to plug our sponsors when we return. Stay tuned for an exciting night of baseball, folks.”
And when they cut to commercial, I force myself to breathe.
This is not good.
Not at all.
I wait with bated breath for them to come back from commercial break and when they do, the game starts.
Bud calls the game. He talks nonstop and any additional commentary from Easton is only added when Bud asks him. His personality is void. His engagement is forced.
It’s a train wreck.
As the ninth inning comes to a close and the bleeding stops, all I keep thinking is, I pushed him to do this.
Should I have backed off? Should I not have talked him into it when he wasn’t comfortable in the first place?
“Hey,” I say cautiously when he answers the phone.
“Not now, Scout. I don’t want to talk right now.” His voice is nothing short of frustrated devastation.
“Can you tell me if you’re okay?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow when I get home.”
And the line goes dead.
Easton
“Can I get you another?”
“A double, please.” I pull my hat lower and welcome the dim lighting in this hole-in-the-wall bar on the outskirts of Austin.
He slides the amber liquid across the scarred bar top. “Thanks.”
“Heading anywhere special?” he asks, trying to make conversation I don’t want him to make.
“Home.”
“That doesn’t sound like it’s a good thing.” He chuckles.
“Not tonight it’s not,” I murmur as I take a long swallow and let the burn run its course.
“You piss off your old lady?”
“Something like that.”
I glance down at my cell as another text comes through from Scout, and after staring at it for a bit and wondering how I’m going to face her, I power down the phone.
I’m not ready to talk to her yet.
To disappoint her again.
To let her know this man she loves is not who she thinks he is.
“Easton? You okay, son?”
The question of the fucking day and I don’t even have the effort to answer it anymore. Only twenty-four hours since my broadcasting shitshow, and I’m still hiding. But Manny just waits before quietly taking a seat a row behind me while I keep staring at the empty seats around me. The pristine grass in front of me. The dirt groomed to perfection.
“Thanks for letting me in here.”
“Of course. Any time. This place is still your home. You’ll always be an Ace in my book.”
I mull over his words. They might be true, but right now I don’t feel like I belong anywhere.
“I miss the magic,” I finally say. My confession surprises me, but I’ve never spoken truer words.
“You’ve had a rough go of it this year,” he says softly.
“I used to sit here as a kid. Before the seats filled up for the game and the guys took the field for batting practice, I used to sit here and feel the magic in the air. It was like I knew something special was going to happen that night.”
“I remember well. Finding you out here. I used to always wonder what you were thinking about.”
“What if I can’t ever get it back, Manny?” I itch for another drink. Anything to numb the fear robbing my courage that led me here instead of home . . . where I should be. It’s easie
r to keep running—hiding—than to face the truth that has finally caught up with me.
“Sometimes things happen in life that at the time seem one way, but in reality it’s the magic recharging so you can find it again.”
“Not this time.”
He makes a noncommittal sound but doesn’t say anything. We sit in silence in the magic kingdom of my childhood as I try to figure out how to take the next steps I need to take.
“Scout’s looking for you, you know. She called here worried.”
“Yeah.”
“She’s a good one.”
“She sure is,” I sigh.
It’s a fucking shame I’m not.
Scout
“Where have you been? It’s been four hours since your flight landed, and I’ve been worried sick.”
I rush out to the foyer just in time for him to brush past me without meeting my eyes or saying a word. There’s relief in seeing him safe and sound, but that slams head first into anger when I smell the stale scent of alcohol. I’ve been worrying myself sick while he was in a bar somewhere drinking?
“Easton?” I follow him to the bedroom where he drops his bag on the floor and then walks right past me again on the way out without speaking.
This is bad.
He has to have seen the commentary online. The twitter storm of jerks using shitty hashtags #EastonEatsIt #DumbJockEaston, the memes already circling his wide-eyed stare into the camera. The pundits have had their say from behind their keyboards and harsh is putting it nicely.
I scurry after him despite his obvious desire to be left alone, because that’s what you do when you love someone. You try to help them.
“Please. Talk to me,” I say as he stops at the wall of windows and stares blankly at the view beyond. I reach my hand out, wanting to offer comfort, but hesitate.
“Don’t.” It’s a warning. A threat. A reflection of his mindset.
He wants a fight. It’s in the set of his shoulders. The clench of his fists. The aggression in his posture.
The silence stretches, his anger and malcontent sucking up the air around us until it begins to eat at me too. For being worried when he couldn’t bother to be considerate and let me know he was okay. Because he’s shutting down, shutting me out instead of turning to me like one is meant to do in a relationship.
“Do you know what it’s like to live your whole life as a lie?” When he speaks, the words are barely audible, but the resignation mixed with spite is what rings the loudest.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Tell me, oh Scout who wears the rose-colored glasses, how exactly would you rate my performance last night?” The question is so loaded there’s no way I can answer it and satisfy whatever it is he’s looking for.
“That’s not fair to—”
“That bad, huh?” His chuckle is self-deprecating at best. “So bad you can’t even lie to me and tell me it wasn’t horrible and that I’m not the laughingstock of baseball right now? The dumb jock who can’t manage to put two sentences together?”
“But you did,” I say trying to figure out my phrasing so I don’t light a match to ignite his temper broiling just beneath the surface. “You started out strong. You did an incredible job giving insight and feedback. You were a natural. And then the teleprompter didn’t work and Bud didn’t teach you the controls—”
“Do you know what it’s like being compared to Cal Wylder my whole life?”
“No one’s comparing you to him in this situation.” I’m desperately trying to follow his sudden shifting thoughts. “You’re not your dad, Easton.”
“You’re goddamn right I’m not,” he thunders, every syllable a combative verbal assault. “I could never be like him. The perfect fucking man who does nothing wrong and turns everything he touches to gold like Midas.”
The doorbell chimes, alerting us that someone is coming up the elevator.
“Ah, would you look at that? I’m sure that’s good ‘ol Cal right now coming to pat me on the back and thank me for being the fucked-up son tarnishing his perfect goddamn reputation.”
“Easton.” It’s a plea for him to think before he opens the door and unloads his temper on his father.
He pushes the button to open the doors and says, “Welcome to Easton’s fucked-up party!”
But it’s not Cal standing there.
It’s sorority-letters girl.
Her face softens when she sees Easton, while every part of me tries to make sense of why the girl from the lobby has access to the penthouse.
Access that only Easton can grant.
“Easton.” Her voice is soft, sympathetic. “I wanted to make sure you were okay and didn’t need me . . .” Her words fade off when she notices me standing there.
“Not now, Helen,” he says with a kindness he hasn’t afforded me since he walked through the doors. He glances over his shoulder at me—eyes wide with panic—and then back to her. “I can’t . . . just . . . not now.” His hands fist and he gently hits the side of the wall with one as if he’s not sure what else to say.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .” She says something else he responds to—quiet murmurs I can’t hear from where I stand—which give the appearance they know and are comfortable with each other. She steps back into the elevator, glancing quickly my way with concern in her eyes before averting her gaze as the doors shut.
I stand in silence, stunned and confused over how they know each other when I’ve basically lived here for the past three months and a “Helen” has not been mentioned once. But I sure as hell have passed her downstairs more times than I can count. In my scattered emotional state I jump to the worst conclusion and even though I know it can’t be true—that Easton is cheating on me with the sweet co-ed from the lobby—my stomach revolts.
“Who was that?” Accusation is loaded in those three words.
“Let it go, Scout.” He shakes his head and continues to stare at his fist still resting on the wall.
“No. I’m not going to just let it go. Who the hell was that?” I become more insistent as the seconds pass. My heart races and that bone-deep mixture of disbelief and fear start to reverberate within me. Am I right? Has he fooled me all along?
Is the player really a player?
“Scout.” It’s a warning I don’t heed at all.
“Don’t Scout me. I love you, Easton. I love you when I never thought I could love someone, but I don’t deserve to get the shit end of the stick from you just because I’m the one here. I’m so confused right now. You had a rough go yesterday. I get it. You want to be pissed and go have a drink or ten before you come home. Fine, but next time remember there’s someone here waiting for you. Worrying about you. And that means you have to think of them even when you’re at your goddamn worst. You have to pick up a phone and tell them you need time and space—be considerate—so they don’t work themselves into a frenzy worried sick you’re not lying in a ditch somewhere dead when you’re MIA for four hours. That’s what you do when you’re in a relationship, Easton. Unless this is your way of telling me we’re not in one.” I choke over the words, the thought suddenly sinking in. “If that’s the case, Helen’s visit makes a lot more sense to me.”
“You’re delusional,” he barks and just stands there, blinking his eyes a few times as if he’s struggling with what I said. Then for the first time since he’s walked in the door, he finally meets my eyes. I see defeat in them. I see sadness. But most of all right now I see fear and that exacerbates the panic I feel. “You actually think she is . . . that I am . . . fuck!”
“What?” I plead. “Just tell me.”
“Goddammit!” he says throwing his hands up as he paces back and forth, agitated and needing to move. “She was coming because of last night.”
“Last night?” My head spins to understand how she’s connected to his broadcast last night, and his inability to explain freaks me out. “What about last night? You won’t even talk to me about last night but you’ve ta
lked to her? Who the hell is she?”
He emits a frustrated growl like nothing I’ve ever heard from him before. It sounds like a man on the verge of breaking, and I don’t understand it and I’m scared by it.
“The teleprompter wasn’t broken. They didn’t forget to teach me shit.”
“Okay.” I stretch the word out as I try to make the correlation between that and her and whatever is going on here. “Easton, I don’t understand what—”
“You want the truth?” he shouts as he turns to face me. I always have.
“I thought you were telling me the truth.”
The little laugh he emits does anything but reassure me. “Ah fuck it . . . I can’t do this anymore.”
My heart tumbles to my feet and I feel like I can’t breathe. “Do what anymore?” I whisper, afraid of the answer.
Us.
This.
What?
He paces again. I can see his agitation. Can sense his hesitancy. Every step he takes freaks me out further. Have I lost him? I silently wait for him to say it. To tell me he can’t do this with me anymore. That we’re over. I feel sick.
After a minute he stops a few feet in front of me, his face a picture of despair. “I fucked up last night.”
Tears well. My pulse pounds. My mind spins. “You slept with Helen?” I can barely get the words out and when I do I’m met with his laugh. Loud. Hysterical. Disbelieving. And every part of me revolts at being mocked. I’m in his face within two seconds, my anger getting the better of every single part of me. “You asshole!”
He catches my hand before my slap connects with his cheek. I struggle to get away from him as my emotions tumble out of control and into a vicious eddy whipping through me.
“No, Scout. You don’t get it,” he finally grits out as if it pains him. I swear to God he better start explaining, because his words are implying one thing and his actions are saying another. “I’m not cheating on you.”
“Then what is it? What is so damn secretive that you can’t talk to me about it?” I pace from one side of the room to the other, my adrenaline amped and emotions frayed on all edges. “You tried to be a sportscaster. It didn’t go well. Big fucking deal. You move on. You find something else. You let it go. How fucking hard is that?”
