Chapter Fourteen
Nash
A fter yesterday’s meeting with Carmen, I thought taking time away to think while giving Avery her space would give me the clarity I needed, but now I’m more confused than ever.
I know Carmen is right. With the press sniffing around, every day I come home to Avery and Benji is another opportunity for some tabloid to dig up dirt on us. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to go down without a fight.
I need Avery to know how sorry I am for everything they’re saying about her. And even if it means laying low until this mess blows over, I want her to know that—no matter what happens—we can figure it out. Together.
I pull into the drive, fresh off our second win against Milwaukee. The house is dark as I kill the engine, and Avery’s car is gone—which is strange because the Dugout Club closed over an hour ago, and I didn’t think she was even scheduled to work tonight.
I unlock the front door, feeling breathless. “Benji? Avery?”
I flip on the lights and move through the empty space, my heart racing as I go upstairs to check their rooms. Empty. Besides the original bedding, each one is stripped bare, and all that’s left is a folded piece of paper with my name scrawled across it on Benji’s desk.
I pick it up and start reading, swallowing hard against the lump rising in the back of my throat.
Dear Nash,
Avery says it’s time to go home. Thank you for letting us stay at your house. It was really cool. Thank you for teaching me how to switch-hit and for taking me to the batting cages. I made lead-off hitter at practice today! I’m going to watch your game when I get home. I will call you tomorrow.
Your friend,
Benji
P.S. I’m so glad you’re my mentor.
I read it twice, then look around for a second note. There has to be something from Avery. An explanation. A goodbye, anything. But there’s nothing.
She left without saying goodbye? Not even a text?
I sink onto the bed and heave a sigh. Everything is too quiet. Too empty. I don’t know when I let myself get so used to Benji’s running commentary on baseball stats or coming home to Avery curled up on the couch with her laptop, but I do know how wrong the house feels without them right now.
My phone feels heavy in my hand as I pull it out to send Avery a text.
Can we talk?
Three minutes later, it buzzes with her reply.
There’s nothing to talk about. As much fun as it was playing house, it’s time to get back to the real world. I’ll have Benji call you tomorrow to go over next week’s schedule.
Her words hit like a fastball to the chest, and there’s that saying again. Playing house. Only, when Avery says it, it’s like this last month meant nothing to her. Or like the way she looked at me—the way she kissed me even—wasn’t real.
I stare at her reply until the screen goes dark.
Maybe everyone was right, and I was just fooling myself into thinking otherwise.
Avery and I come from two very different worlds.
And mine is a world where baseball and relationships never did mix.
What was I thinking, believing that a woman like Avery would put up with the scrutiny that comes with my life?
Or that she’d risk everything she’s worked for all because I caught feelings?
I wander through the house, stopping at the spot in the kitchen where we shared our first kiss. It’s a memory that feels like it happened to someone else. Someone na?ve enough to believe that mutual attraction and a few weeks of late-night texts are enough to build a foundation for something real.
It turns out Avery is just like the others. The minute things get complicated, she runs.
And I’m the fool who gets left every time.
It’s been almost a week since Benji and Avery left, and I’m a wreck waiting to meet him for the first time at Clearway’s batting cages.
When he finally arrives, he jogs across the field with his equipment bag bouncing against his side.
“Hey,” he says, dropping his bag and giving an awkward wave.
“Hey, Champ.” I toss him a ball, which he instinctively catches with one hand. “Ready to work on that swing?”
“Yeah.” He nods as a familiar smile washes over his face.
We fall into a natural rhythm, both of us carefully avoiding any mention of the past month. No talk about movie nights or breakfast conversations. And definitely no mention of Avery. Just baseball.
It’s not until we start fielding drills that I notice Benji’s new glove.
“What, no lucky glove today?” I nod at Benji’s hand, and his face lights up.
“Yeah! Avery surprised me with this one yesterday. She said she finally got her promotion. She’s a manager now!”
And there it is. Avery. The white elephant in the room.
She did it. Just like I knew she would. Pride washes over me, and before I can stop it, something warm and unexpected fills my chest.
“That’s great. She deserves it,” I say with an earnest smile.
Benji nods enthusiastically. “She has to work more hours, but she says it’s worth it. We might even be able to fix the AC in her car now.”
I swallow hard, suddenly too aware of how much I still care. “Sounds like things are looking up for you guys.”
“Yeah.” His smile falters slightly. “It’s just...”
“Just what?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Think you can show me that grip adjustment again?”
I take a step back, mentally and physically. It’s better this way. More professional. I have to remember why I started this mentorship in the first place. I need to show Coach I’m a changed man if I want him to start taking me seriously.
We spend the last hour drilling fundamentals, and I find slipping into coach mode easier than ever.
This is what the press should be writing about—Nash Fontaine, reformed playboy, responsibly mentoring Chicago’s youth.
No blurred boundaries. No messy emotions.
Even though nothing about this kid makes keeping my emotions in check an easy task.
When it’s time to wrap up, Benji starts packing his gear while I collect the stray balls scattered around the field.
“Same time next Thursday?” he asks, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
He jogs back toward the parking lot where Avery is probably waiting, and I realize with unsettling clarity that no matter how hard I try to revert to seeing this mentorship as just another PR obligation, Benji really is like a little brother to me.
And this city, with its gritty diamonds and determined kids just like him, is starting to feel like something even more unexpected.
Home.
Another week passes, and I’m sitting in Coach Donnovan’s office with Carmen, surrounded by the scent of leather and Pine-Sol that seems to permeate every baseball facility I’ve ever been in.
I’ve arranged my face into what I hope passes for professional interest as Coach flips through a file folder on his desk.
“These polling numbers are impressive, Nash,” he says, sliding a page across the table. “Your approval rating with fans is up fifteen points since last month.”
Carmen smiles and nods. “Whatever you’ve been doing these past few weeks, it’s working. That tabloid mess has completely blown over. Almost like it never happened.”
“Just focusing on my game and being the best mentor I can be,” I say, leaning back in my chair.
“Speaking of which,” Carmen adds, “tell Coach about those outreach ideas you mentioned yesterday.”
I sit forward, a surge of excitement rushing through my veins as I explain the new project I’ve been working on to Coach Donnovan.
“It started with noticing how a lot of kids in Benji’s league are playing with hand-me-down equipment.
Until about a week ago, he was playing with a glove held together by duct tape. ”
Coach raises an eyebrow. “The kid you’re mentoring?”
“Yeah.” I pull out my phone, scrolling through notes I’d jotted down after our last practice.
“Since the Street Sweepers’ contract with Play It Forward only has us volunteering on a short-term basis, I was thinking about setting up something more permanent for the off season.
Only, the idea is to offer a program where underprivileged youth have access to quality equipment—in addition to mentorship, of course.
I thought maybe if there were a system in place where they could earn points toward their gear of choice, they’d have a better chance of excelling in the long run.
Think community service, academic achievements—the sky’s the limit.
I just hate the idea of other kids from more affluent families having a leg up because of what their parents can afford, you know? ”
I continue outlining each aspect of the program, from how local businesses could sponsor equipment banks to how high school players could volunteer as long-term mentors, and by the end of my pitch, I’m practically salivating.
“This is solid, Fontaine. I’m impressed,” Coach says with a chuckle. “It’s nice to see you’re investing in something other than your own stats for a change.”
“Absolutely,” Carmen agrees. “The PR benefits alone would be worth it, but something about this feels different. More… authentic.”
They’re both looking at me with something that feels uncomfortably like respect. The same kind I used to chase through home runs and headline-grabbing plays. It should feel good. It does feel good.
But why does my chest still have this hollow feeling?
“This kid must be something special,” Coach says.
I smile. “Benji? Yeah, he’s a real diamond in the rough. Just needs the right opportunities.”
“Given your platform, I see real potential. I have contacts at several sporting goods companies who would jump at the chance to partner with you on something like this.”
Carmen pulls out her laptop, and for the next thirty minutes, we hash out preliminary details, including potential sponsors, logistical challenges, and roll-out plans. Aside from helping Benji, it’s the first time in my life I’ve found purpose.
I never thought being Benji’s mentor would result in doing something that made me feel so alive. But later that night, when I pull into my empty driveway and walk into my empty house, the reality I’ve been trying to avoid crashes down around me.
The truth is… there’s an Avery-shaped hole in my life that no community outreach program can fill, and I don’t like it.