by K. Bromberg
“No,” he shouts, hand slamming down on the table beside him to match the thunder in his temper. I jump from the sound as it echoes through the room, but it has nothing on the slamming of my heart against my rib cage. “You don’t get to say that to try to make this right. Don’t you get that your words mean shit to me right now? You told me I was one hundred percent and then you told them I wasn’t. You think I’m going to believe you when you say those three words to me? Pretty goddamn convenient, Scout. You can’t even handle me asking you to move in, and yet you tell me you love me to try and make things right? Are you out of your—?”
I snap.
“You signed the goddamn papers,” I scream at the top of my lungs, finally able to get a word in edgewise. He’s cut deep with his words, purposely hurt me, and it’s my damn turn to lash out. I’ve berated myself all damn day over what I did, but in the end this isn’t all on me. “You did this. Not me. It was either shipping you off to a Triple-A team in Maine or across town to the Wranglers, so I did what I had to do.”
The room falls silent as dust particles dance in the sliver of light from the foyer, and I know for the first time since I’ve stepped foot in here that he hears me. The stumble of his feet backward. The shocked open of his lips. The narrowing of his brows. “What did you just say?” Drunk meets sober. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The papers,” I say in a hiccupping sob as the emotions catch up with me. Sensing a chance for redemption at my fingertips, I step toward him. “They fell off the desk. It was a mess. The coffee spilled and papers were knocked to the floor and when I tried to help gather them, your signature was on them and I didn’t know what to do and—”
“So you decided to take it upon yourself and—”
“One paper was an agreement that if you weren’t one hundred percent they could trade you,” I stumble. There’s too much to explain, too many words to get out at one time, and the pressure of making this right has my head all jumbled.
“I’m well aware of what it said and the trade part.” He shrugs with a condescending chuckle. “You sure as shit made sure that happened, didn’t you?”
“But the other one . . . why in the hell would you ever agree to it?”
“What other one? Agree to what?” He steps forward, anger and accusation on his face.
“You gave them consent to send you down to Triple-A.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” He’s on me in a flash—smelling of whiskey and rage—with hands on my biceps, giving me a little shake before realizing what he’s doing and jolting back as if he’s been burned.
“It said something about you giving the Aces consent to send you down to Triple-A for the period of a year with a cut in salary, upon return from the disabled list, and—”
“That’s bullshit,” he yells.
“I saw it with my own eyes. You signed it. On the bottom left-hand side.”
Easton starts to speak and then stops, his eyes bore into mine, but there’s a look that slowly comes over his face. It’s one I don’t think I’ll ever forget, and I don’t understand, but it’s there and it’s real. In the intensity of the moment the thought crashes through my mind that an expression like that should never be on that handsome face of his.
And before I can place what it means, it’s gone. Wiped clear and replaced with the hardened game face I knew from watching Easton play on TV before I met him. I scramble to explain further.
“There were these papers. The ones you signed. And then ones from Cory’s folders. Notes. Scribbles. They were everywhere, and I was trying to stack them and . . . there were formal trade options. Orders for you to be sent to Triple-A. There was correspondence with Dallas over trading you. There was an email to the manager of The Portland Surge telling them to demote Gonzo to Double-A because you were going to play for them. I only had seconds, Easton. Seconds. To read and decipher and figure out what—”
“Scout.” Serious. Worried. Confused.
Petrified of his sudden silence, I add, “It was trade you or demote you and I chose to trade you.”
“You chose?” His voice a mixture of fury and disbelief as he steps back from where I stand. He walks back and forth bracing his hands against the back of his neck as his temper physically manifests in his posture. Frozen in place, I watch as he picks up the bottle on the coffee table and throws it as hard as he can. The sound of it hitting the wall is deafening—a glass bottle against a glass wall—followed by the sounds of the shards hitting the floor. It’s jarring and takes me a minute to recover from the sudden outburst.
“East—”
“This is my goddamn life,” he thunders. Rage vibrates in his voice. “Who gave you the reins to decide for me? I sure as hell didn’t? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
The doubt I’d carried around with me all day slowly slips into dread and fills every ounce of my being. When I answer him, it’s the first time I sound unsure, and I hate myself for it. “But it was Dallas. Your mom is halfway between here and there and—”
“It’s my goddamn mom. It’s my fucking choice. Who do you think you are choosing what’s best for me? That’s a lot of decisions for someone who couldn’t even handle me telling them I was falling for them, don’tcha think?”
“It was a split-second. Maine or Dallas.” Please see my side of this.
“Total bullshit.” He throws his hands my way as if he’s done with me and while I know I made the choice for him, this is on him.
“Why did you sign the papers? Why would Finn ever let you agree to that? Why wasn’t he there today?” My voice is the steadiest it has been since I walked in here. I take a step toward him, needing to know the answer since that signature is why I felt it necessary to make a decision in the first place.
“Fuck this,” he sneers. “Don’t turn this on me. You couldn’t handle any of this, could you?”
“No. Yes. I mean, I did what I thought was best—”
“Best? Best? Are you fucking kidding me?”
I can’t even comprehend what is happening right now. I mean I can, but I thought once I explained to him . . . I thought he would be . . . not thankful, but at least understanding. It was a choice between the humiliation of being demoted and sent across the country or being traded to a team within a two-hour driving distance of his mom.
My head is spinning. The fight not making sense and at the same time making perfect sense. I try again. “But it’s Dallas.”
“It’s nowhere, Scout, because the trade hasn’t even gone through yet.”
My heart falls into my stomach at his words. “What do you mean? I don’t—”
“You’re the first person to even utter the city Dallas . . . so that means my trade is still in talks and hasn’t been completed. You may have seen papers, Scout, but there were most likely more. Others covered in notes from talking with teams like the Orioles or Tampa or the Mariners.”
Oh my God. What did I do? Panic, disbelief, shock. All three become an eddy of emotion tearing through my system and wreaking more havoc than I ever thought possible.
“Your face says it all. So yeah, thanks for nothing. You win, Scout. I’m gone.”
“I didn’t win shit, Easton,” I yell, grasping for straws as the eddy of emotion turns into a tornado and slams into me. “Do you think this did me any favors? Do you think I got the contract? I don’t even know yet. I have to go back in the morning to find out—”
“You and your precious goddamn contract. It’s always been about the contract, hasn’t it? Not me? Only you.” Disgust is what I hear in the bite in his voice.
“No. No.” I take a step back to try and calm the situation. His temper. My sobbing. His accusations. My denials. “Please. Just listen to me. The only reason I remotely care about the contract is because of my dad.”
“Convenient.” He snorts as he turns his back on me and stumbles to the windows leaving me fumbling.
“Don’t you see I’m the one who could lose everythin
g?”
“Poor baby. Forgive me if I’m not feeling much sympathy for you and—”
“No, that’s not what I meant by—”
I cut my own words when I can’t hold back my sob anymore. It’s pointless. This conversation and trying to reason with him while he’s drunk. Fighting to explain my actions, my decisions, myself, when he’s right. It wasn’t my place to make a decision about his life for him regardless of the circumstances or my selfless intentions behind them.
I stare at him—the broad shoulders and proud stance—and think about the first time I saw him like this and what that led to. My heart aches for him. For the road he’s traveled, for how hard he fought to get back again, only to be blindsided by Cory.
Much like how he fought for me. Why is it that now when I can admit to myself I’m in love with him, I’m going to lose him? Literally and figuratively.
“Easton . . .”
I made a mistake.
I should have stalled for time.
I should have . . .
I love you.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have lied.” The derision in his tone only serves to reinforce what I already know.
“You’re not listening to me. If you’d actually hear me you’d see that . . .”
“Believe me, I am hearing you, more now than ever. It’s your actions not your words that speak fucking volumes.”
“I did what I thought was—”
“Stop. Stop saying that. It means nothing to me.” He strides to the kitchen. Glass rattles before he pulls out another bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet, and takes a long swig from it while I silently beg for him to stop. I’ve never seen him like this—helpless, hopeless, careless—and knowing I contributed to this is killing me. When he finishes his drink, he slams the bottle down for emphasis. “What you did was put yourself in a prime position with that fucker Tillman. I’d be out of the picture—no stress, no distractions, no sleeping with the player to screw up the contract hanging over your head, and no worry for you about a guy who’s going to leave you. Thanks for making sure this went nowhere. And thanks for thinking you know what I want out of my career and making a decision you’re not qualified to make. Thanks for nothing, Scout. Go to your meeting tomorrow. Take whatever the Aces give you. Be happy with the result. You screwed me to serve your dad. And while I get it, I don’t.” He flops down into a chair facing the view beyond with his back to me. “We’re done, but then again, I guess we never were started according to you . . . so, uh . . . see you around, Scout. Or not. You know where the door is.”
He makes a show of lifting the bottle in the air and then bringing it to his lips. When he finishes his drink, he slouches down farther into the chair and continues to stare into the darkness.
He doesn’t say another word.
There’s nothing else left to say.
I should pick them up.
The little green shards of glass all over the floor. Reminders of Scout. Of the explanations she gave. The words I hurled. Of everything that is broken.
I should pick them up.
But I don’t.
I stay where I’ve been seated all night. And now I guess morning. Head pounding. Gut turning. Eyes staring.
At the empty stadium. The one I couldn’t stand to see lit up last night is vacant now. A mausoleum of memories of my career. I reach down to the new bottle of whiskey, but just run my fingertips around its rim, knowing I don’t need any more.
But I take a sip anyway. Tip the bottle to my lips to drown out her voice in my head.
Formal trade options. Correspondence with Dallas over trading you.
To block out the look on her face and the hope that slowly faded from her voice with each and every accusation I threw at her.
Orders for you to be sent down. There was an email to the manager . . . you were going down to play for them.
I can blame her all I want, but I did this. I knew some day it would happen. That my secret would ruin something I loved.
But not like this.
Not with these kinds of consequences.
I only had seconds, Easton. Seconds.
The sky is grey. Moody and gloomy and miserable.
I’m in love with you.
Another drink. Then another.
There’s too much noise. In my mind. In my heart.
Why did you sign the papers? Why would Finn ever let you agree to that? Why wasn’t he there today?
There’s no sun to light up the sky like normal. The pinks and oranges that filled it yesterday as we made slow, sweet love are gone.
I scrub a hand over my face. Try to wipe the memory away because it hurts like a bitch. The soft sighs. The throaty moans. The smell of her skin. The feel of her lips.
I’m in love with you.
“Fucking hell, Wylder,” I say to no one, knowing I should be thinking about the game. About where I’m headed. About what it’s going to feel like cleaning out my locker. About what I’m going to say to my mom when I drive out there to see her later today and prepare her for my departure.
But I’m sitting here thinking about Scout. About the position I put her in. About the decision she made. About how I blamed her because it was so much easier than telling her the truth.
The bottle feels heavy in my hand. It’s so tempting but I opt to drink it rather than throw it like I did the other.
The fight in me is gone.
It left when Scout walked out.
When I pushed her out.
When I forced her to take the blame.
I’m in love with you.
Did she mean it?
What does it even matter now?
She still betrayed me. She didn’t fight for me.
So why should I fight for her?
Get up, Easton. Take a shower. Clean yourself up. Start packing.
Stop hurting.
My cell rings again. It’s the third time in an hour.
I give in. Relent. Give up.
“Finn.”
“I just got the paperwork. What she told you last night was right. It’s Dallas. The reporters are rabid for an explanation, so Tillman’s holding a press conference at eight thirty to announce the trade. I’ll be there, and then I’m going to hound the fuck out of him in our meeting and demand to see all the documentation. I want to see what that slimebag had you sign and . . .”
He keeps rambling but all I hear is Dallas. I should feel relief. I should be able to breathe a bit easier knowing the where. She was right. It’s close enough that I can still take care of my mom. It’s close enough that I can come home. It’s the next-best scenario to being in Austin . . . and yet I won’t be an Ace anymore.
The one certainty in my life is no longer there.
“. . . and I’m going to let him know when Boseman returns, I’ll have him looking into the shady shit he pulled. I want Tillman’s balls nailed to a wall for—”
“Cancel the meeting, Finn.”
“What?”
“There’s no need to fight it. When and where do I need to report to the Wranglers?”
“I don’t understand. What’s going on?”
The same thing I’ve done my whole life. Dodge. Avoid. Distract.
“I’m done. It’s over. Accept the terms. Book me a flight. Or I’ll drive there. What-the-fuck-ever. Just tell me when I need to report, and I’ll be there.”
“But Cory needs to be—”
“No meeting, Finn,” I say firmly as my fingers tighten on the neck of the bottle and my fingers on my other hand end the call.
The sky’s still grey.
I have a feeling it’s going to be that way for a while.
But this is on me.
Not Cory.
Not Finn.
Not Scout.
All me.
The guilt’s worse than the fear.
But there’s no need to argue anymore.
I can handle this.
I brought it on myself, after all.
It took
everything I had not to stop by Easton’s on the way into the ballpark. To go there and hope he would be somewhat sober and tell him he’s an asshole for saying what he said to me, and admit I’m a jerk for assuming to know what he’d want in the decision I made. We could scream and fight and get it all out and then I could sit there with him while he waited to hear about his trade. I’d help him bide his time to try and get us back on an even keel, and then when the word came through, reassure him it was going to be all right.
But I didn’t stop.
Because hung over might be just as bad as drunk. And because he made it clear I’m the last person he wants to see.
I’ll let him have that.
I’ll give him some time.
But if he thinks I’m going to let him be done with me that easily, he’s crazy.
He fought for me. To gain my trust. To make me want more with him. To make me see not everyone leaves. To ensure I fell in love with him.
And now it’s my turn to earn that back from him.
I’m just not quite sure how to do that when we might be living in two different cities.
Easton’s worth it. I need to figure out how to make it work, but every single ounce of effort is what I’ll give.
God, yes, I was hurt last night and still am by some of the things he said. But after replaying our fight in my head over and over while I stared at the ceiling in a bed less familiar to me than Easton’s, I realized there was a missing piece to the puzzle. It was the look on his face that kept flashing in my mind. He’s not telling me something and I can’t figure out what that something is.
I’m petrified I won’t be able to fix this. Fix us. My stomach is in knots over where to start.
Then there’s my dad and his damn contract. He’s the reason I’m sitting in this waiting room obligated to meet the man responsible for this turmoil and one who I don’t trust in the least.
A daughter’s duty versus a woman’s wants.
“It’s going to be a few more minutes yet, Ms. Dalton,” the receptionist says motioning to the closed conference room door with the Aces logo on it.
“Thank you. I’m going to use the restroom then.”
The bathroom mirror only serves to reflect what a shitty night of sleep I had and how poorly I did covering it up with makeup. And the sad fact is I hate myself for being here. For picking the contract over trying to make things right.