The Trade

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Do you share, Potter? Because I’m looking for a good fuck,” yells someone from the stand.

  Who the fuck let these fans in? I know the Rebels are all about the rowdy tenth man—that’s what they call their fans—but can we get some fucking crowd control here?

  Coach hits another ball, this one to Ray, who tosses the ball to Nate, who sweeps across the base and short hops me. I handle his throw easily and toss it back to home plate. I’ve been playing first base my whole life. I know exactly how the ball is going to come to me the minute it leaves a player’s hand. I’ve studied bounces and hops and high throws. I know how to keep my foot on the bag for every single one of them, especially when I feel as focused as I do right now.

  “What are you doing here?” I hear a guy shout, the same one who asked about Natalie’s boobs. “Where’s your fucking Bobbie’s shirt?”

  Block them out. Block them out.

  “You don’t deserve to be here. Get her out of here!”

  I hear a girly yelp, and just as I whip my head around to see where it came from, I see Jason flying from the dugout headed for the commotion, and hear my name shouted at me.

  “Potter!”

  I turn back to see a ball whipping toward me. I lift my glove just before the ball clocks me in the face. I stumble backward over first base, falling on my ass from the shock of not being prepared for the throw. I look over my shoulder to see Jason, in all his gear, ready to climb up into the stands . . . and that’s when I spot her.

  She’s being screamed at by two fans. Their fingers are jabbing near her face, her eyes are wild with fear, and tears are streaming from them.

  Mother. Fucker.

  I quickly scramble to the stands and grab Jason by the pants. “Get down, Orson. Don’t touch them.” The last thing he needs, we need, is him punching a fan in the face. I pull him back into the field just as security shows up and grabs both abusive men by the arms and starts to drag them away.

  “You don’t fucking talk to my sister like that! You hear me? You want to talk to her, you talk to me,” Jason says, chest puffed, murder in his eyes.

  The two fans both whimper under Jason’s threat because the dude is enormous and holding him back right now almost feels impossible. Thankfully Marcus is right next to me, trying to calm Jason as well.

  When the fans finally disappear and we get Jason to settle, he looks at me, and for the first time since I’ve met him, I see disappointment on his face. He shucks his arm away from me and heads back to the dugout, tension in his shoulders. Every player on our team watches him, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to identify the respect Jason just earned from every one of them. It also doesn’t take a rocket scientist to notice the sliver of respect they had for me vanish.

  I didn’t protect my girl.

  I look back up at the stands. Natalie is gone, and once again, I fucked up.

  * * *

  “What the fuck was that?” Jason asks, coming up to me in the locker room. “You were just going to let them berate her like that? I thought you loved her.”

  There is one thing about Jason that I’ve learned quickly: if you set him off in anger, he fucking flies.

  “I do love her,” I say, keeping my voice low.

  “Then why the fuck weren’t you the first one in the stands dealing with those assholes?” Of course, Jason decides to do this in front of the entire team after practice.

  “Because, I had no clue what the fuck was going on until I saw you fly out of the dugout. I’m trying not to listen to the jeers. Eliminating the—”

  “You knew she was coming today.”

  “I fucking didn’t,” I say, starting to get irritated. “I told her not to come, because I said it might cause a scene. I warned her, and she still came. I can’t do anything about that. She’s her own person. If she wanted to risk it, that’s on her.”

  “It’s your job to protect her,” Jason says, shoving my shoulder.

  I grind my teeth, jaw tight, my eyes narrowing in on Jason, who’s holding his ground with me. With an even tone, I say, “I’m trying to protect her. It’s why I’m doing what Coach told me to do and lying low. The last thing I need is to get into a fistfight with a fan. But you don’t think I didn’t want to? That I didn’t want to climb those stands and plow my fist into every one of those assholes who said something about her? I did. But I also know it won’t help the nightmare I’m living in right now.”

  “Might have,” Nate says from the side.

  “Worry about yourself, Nate,” I yell, unable to stop myself. “Houston is riding on your heels and if you don’t start putting in the time, you’re going to lose your spot.”

  “Fuck you,” he says with venom. “That spot has been mine for years.”

  “And don’t think it won’t be taken away. Loyalty only goes so far, trust me.” Nate winces when he gets what I’m talking about. “And for the rest of you”—I shout, since I have the attention of everyone—“I’m going to say this fucking once. I’m on this team for a reason. To contribute to winning a goddamn championship. That’s why the Rebels acquired me. It’s why they acquired Jason. They saw a weakness, and they filled it. They’re going for the ring, and I have the same mindset. You can count on me for three things: giving my goddamn all on the field, showing up every day, and being a leader on and off the field. If you don’t like it, then fuck you. I’m a Rebel. Ever since I slipped on that black and red jersey, I’ve been a Rebel, so leave me the fuck alone and let me do my goddamn job.”

  With that, I pick up my bag, shove past Jason, and walk out of the locker room.

  And for the first time in my life, I’m the first to leave.

  * * *

  The hotel room is silent and dark besides one lamp in the bedroom. I set my gear down on the floor, not even caring at this point what happens to it, and lean against the door, taking a deep breath.

  This day was one of the worst I’ve had in a long fucking time. I’m exhausted, mentally torn apart, and I’m worried that by going off at my team, I’ve dug my own damn grave, will sit in it, and start pouring dirt over myself.

  Jason called me on my way home and apologized for attacking me. He hates the entire situation too and that Natalie is involved. He’s protective of her, which I understand. If the same thing happened to Milly, I’d be climbing up the stands as well. We ended the call on a good note, but when I pulled into the hotel garage, I turned off the ignition and sat in my car for a while, staring at the steering wheel, my mind running a mile a minute.

  Natalie could have been harmed today. It could have been so much worse than what it was and yet, the look on her face, the pure terror, it’s imprinted on my brain. I never want to be the cause of that look, or the cause of her unhappiness, and nor do I want to put her in danger.

  But I don’t want to be without her either.

  I want to be able to fix this, and after sitting in my car for a decent amount of time, mulling it over, I don’t have any other choice than what I came up with.

  Pushing off the door, shoulders slumped, exhaustion eating away at me, I make my way to the bedroom where Natalie is curled up on the bed under the covers, looking at her phone. When she sees me approach, she sits up and sets her phone on the nightstand.

  Her eyes are red-rimmed and her makeup is completely gone, leaving her cheeks tear-stained. There’s defeat in her body language and regret . . . lots of fucking regret.

  I take a seat next to her and lace our hands together. She looks up at me, tears welling in her eyes as she whispers, “I’m so sorry, Cory.”

  “I know.”

  She moves in closer, her body heat tugging on my heart. I want to get wrapped up in it, lost in the feel of her. “I wanted to support you. I went there to cheer you on, even if I was the only one. I can’t stand seeing you this . . . defeated.”

  I push my hand through my hair, fear and uncertainty clouding my brain. “You could have been hurt.” It’s all I can muster as my eyes meet hers. In despair.
“Really fucking hurt.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about that. I wanted you to feel like you’re not alone out there.”

  “Well, I am.” I stand from the bed and drive both hands through my hair now. “I’ve been alone ever since I was traded to the Rebels. Having you in the stands is not going to change that.”

  “Cory,” she says with shock, “I was trying to help.”

  “But you didn’t,” I say, my voice going soft. “It just made it worse. So much fucking worse.”

  Everything is so fucked right now. I yelled at my teammates. I don’t fucking yell. I don’t tell people to fuck off. I lost my cool in the locker room, something I never do. I almost got struck in the face with a baseball from turning my attention to the crowd, another thing I never do.

  The media is hounding me.

  The front office is watching every damn move I make.

  And I’m pretty sure I’ve lost the respect of my coach as well.

  My head starts to pound with anxiety over my imploding career, confusion over how to handle Natalie, and unease over what’s to become of me and my teammates. It pounds so hard that everything around me sinks into an abyss, rocking me back on my heels until I fall into the chair behind me. I bury my face in my hands as it all comes crashing down me.

  The stress.

  The exhaustion.

  The exertion I’ve put myself through to be the best.

  The effort to be taken seriously.

  I look up at a concerned Natalie and say, “We need to take a break.”

  I see her breath catch in her chest as her eyes widen in shock. “Wh-what?”

  “A break. We need to take a break.”

  “From . . . each other?”

  “Yes, Natalie,” I snap, looking at her, catching the impact of my words. “We just need to hit pause for a goddamn second.” I pull on my hair again and when I bring my hand in front of my face, it’s full of strands.

  Fuck.

  Natalie notices and steps forward. “Cory, are you losing your hair?” She walks behind me and examines my head. I know the moment she sees them, the small bald patches where I’m losing my hair from stress. I noticed it in the bathroom the other day. I watched the hair rinse down the drain.

  I shake my head. “It’s all too fucking much right now. Something has to give.”

  “And that’s me?” she asks, coming to kneel in front of me. “Cory, please don’t shut me out because things are starting to get hard.”

  “Starting?” I laugh with no humor and stand from the chair. “Things aren’t starting to get hard, Natalie. They’ve been hard. You’re only seeing the tail end of all the shit that’s been piling on top of me and you’re not making it any easier.”

  “I told you I was sorry, Cory,” she says, her voice cracking.

  “Sorry is all well and good, but it’s not going to fix this shitstorm I’m living in. Fuck.” I fling my arm out to the side. “I lost it on my team today. I never fucking do that. I don’t ever lose my cool, nor do I get distracted on the field, and both of those things happened.”

  Her lip trembles. She takes a step closer. “It’ll get better, Cory. Don’t shut me out now. You yourself said you were glad I came here. The relief on your face when you saw me waiting for you . . . I can see that you need me.”

  “I need you to give me some space,” I say, backing away. “I need to figure this shit out, how to make things better.”

  “And doing that is by breaking up with me?”

  “I’m not breaking up with you,” I say, panic rising in my chest. “I love you, Natalie. I just need to press pause for a goddamn second.”

  “You love me?” she asks, almost looking shocked as her arms cross over her chest. “Do you even know what love is, Cory?”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, if you loved me, you wouldn’t be asking for a break. You’d be asking me to help you.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  She reels back, as if I slapped her.

  Trying to calm my voice, I say, “What I mean is, there is nothing you can do to help. This is on me.”

  “It’s not, Cory. You’re trying to shoulder too much of this by yourself. This is not all on you. These are outside factors you can’t control.”

  “I can control them. I’m not doing a good enough job because I’m distracted.”

  She rolls her tongue over her teeth. “Are you saying I’m a distraction?”

  “You’re not helping the case.” The words are flying out of me before I can stop them, before I can consider the consequences of saying them.

  “So, you’re telling me, if I were to step away, put a pause on our relationship, that you would be able to better control what the media says about you? Because last time I checked, ninety percent of the stories they print are lies.”

  “Natalie—”

  She holds up her hand. “And you’re saying that if we put a pause on this—us—you’re going to be able to relax more, alone, in this hotel room, all by yourself?”

  “Nat—”

  “And if we take a break, you’re thinking that by doing such an idiotic thing, the guys on your team will look at you differently? Like you more?”

  I blow out a frustrated breath and then yell, “I don’t fucking know, okay? I just know that something needs to change.”

  She presses her lips together and then slowly says, “And that change is me?”

  “It’s the only change I can make. It’s not like I can just go play for another team. It’s not like I can quit going to work because it’s hard. It’s not like I can change out my teammates or beg the media to stop being fuckwits to me. None of that is changeable.”

  “But I am?” She points to her chest and then shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re an asshole, Cory.”

  She starts moving around the hotel room, gathering her clothes and cosmetics, angrily throwing them in her suitcase. Panic consumes me and I reach out, grabbing for her hand.

  “That’s not what—”

  “That’s not what you mean?” she says for me. “Then what are you saying, Cory? Because from where I’m standing, it sounds to me like I’m expendable, the factor in your equation that could be eliminated making your life easier. You act as if I’m a hindrance rather than an asset.”

  “You’re not a hindrance, Natalie, it’s just . . . fuck. It’s too fucking hard, and I’m facing the end of my career here.”

  “So, your career is more important?” Tongue-tied and completely panicked, unsure how this unraveled so quickly, I don’t say anything. “I see. This whole thing between us”—she waves two fingers at my chest and hers—“this was what? A test for you? To see if you could be in a relationship? Or was I simply an available vagina to fuck?”

  “You’re the one who fucking pushed this into something more.”

  “What?”

  Oh fuck. What the hell am I saying? I press my hand to my forehead. “This is getting out of control.”

  “Just like everything else in your life, right, Cory?” She shakes her head and goes to the bathroom where she collects her things. She tosses them in her suitcase and says, “I’ll make this easy on you. You’ve got your break. Take all the time away from me that you need, but I’m going to tell you, when you think you’re ready for this ‘break’ to be over,” she says using air quotes, “I’m not going to be waiting for you with open arms.”

  She zips up her suitcase, and I stand in front of her so she can’t leave. “Just fucking wait, okay?” I let out a long breath. “Let’s talk this through.”

  “I think we’ve done enough talking.”

  “Natalie,” I say gruffly, capturing her arm and forcing her to look up at me. “Please. I love you.”

  “No, you don’t.” She rips her arm from my grasp and pushes past me, her suitcase trailing behind her. “If you loved me, you would never have suggested we take a break. If you loved me, you would have leaned on me to figure out a
way to work through the nightmare you’re living in. Together.”

  “I tried.” I throw my hands up in the air, anger surging again. “But you don’t fucking listen. I told you not to come. You came. I told you to stay here. You went to practice. You escalated the problem, and that didn’t help.”

  “Sorry for caring.”

  “That’s a passive-aggressive apology.”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “Am I supposed to bow at your feet and beg for your forgiveness? Keep dreaming, Cory.”

  “I’m asking you to understand where I’m coming from.”

  She whips around in her pursuit to the door. “How could I possibly understand where you’re coming from when you’ve consistently told me not to worry about it, that you’re handling everything?” She waves at me and says, “Clearly you don’t have everything figured out, so instead, you’re going to take it out on me, on us.”

  “This isn’t a forever ask, Natalie,” I plead, my emotions a fucking wreck. “This is just a brief pause so I can get my shit together, so I can be the man you deserve.”

  Hand on her suitcase, she says, “I can tell you with absolute certainty that you are not the man I deserve. The man I deserve knows, even through the hard times, that I’m an asset, not a hindrance. He knows that of all the women out there, one who has a professional baseball-playing brother actually understands this more than any other woman. You clearly have some growing up to do to understand that.” She heads toward the door, opens it, and looks over her shoulder. “Don’t worry about pressing pause on us, Cory, let’s just call it what it is . . . over.”

  With those parting words, she exits the room, the door slamming behind her.

  In a roar, I scream, “Fuck,” and I pick up a glass off the table, throwing it into the wall, only to collapse to the floor where I pull my knees into my chest, rest my head on my arms.

  What the fuck just happened?

  I needed to press pause, not break up. I have to sort this out. I love her.

  “I can tell you with absolute certainty that you are not the man I deserve. The man I deserve knows, even through the hard times, that I’m an asset, not a hindrance.”