Page 36

LOGAN

D ean sat beside me, knees pulled to his chest and arms wrapped around them, silent for nearly an hour.

“As far as I know he promised my mom that he was going to leave Mrs. Shore and then it all got screwed up. The second she got pregnant, he was done; he wanted her to get rid of me, and maybe she should have. It would have saved us all the trouble.”

Dean flinched at the dark humor.

“When she threatened to go to Mrs. Shore, he started paying her off with monthly checks but…” I sighed.

“She loved him,” Dean said softly, finishing the thought for me.

“Stupidly so, she was na?ve. The way she talks about him to this day is like he’ll come home to us, as if we were some happy family.” I picked at my sweater. “She blames my… grandfather,” I stumbled over the word. “And Mrs. Shore, like they’re holding him captive,” I chuckled. “When she realized he wasn’t coming back, she started drinking, and then it shifted into drugs to numb it all. She felt pretty again, adored. But she was a revolving door for junkies and abusers.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, the taste of copper spreading across my tongue. “When the money was tight…” I took a long, shaky breath just to steady myself. I had never told anyone any of this, and I wasn’t even sure why I was sitting here telling him. But he was so quiet and patient with me that I wanted to tell him more even if I knew it was a bad idea.

All I could think was, he’s going to think you’re fucked up beyond repair , as he waited for the next part of the story.

“The world is full of fucked up people, ones that find pleasure in things they shouldn’t, like little kids and hurting people…” I said with a tiny sniffle. "I don’t know how she did it, but she found all the worst of them, and she’d lock me in that room with them for the price of a bump of coke. She’s never been any better than Charles, she just was delusional enough to think she was.”

Dean’s jaw was tight as I explained to him what happened in that room, the details of nearly nine years of my life laid out on the turf in front of him as I quietly begged him not to leave me there. A silent plea to see past how messed up I was and see the person I could be, the person I had left on the other side of that locked door.

“I drank myself stupid for a lot of it, which sounds crazy.” A defeated chuckle left me. "A fourteen-year-old blitzed off vodka. But I understood why she did drugs then. It was the only thing that blurred the screaming and pain. The visits only stopped when I could get a job. I worked hard and gave all my money to her while I changed my grades, and did my best to get sober. It was hard, it’s still hard every day to know where I came from. And before you say shit about leaving her behind, I can’t…” I said, looking at him. “They all left her, it’s why she is that way and I…” I choked up and closed my eyes, my fingers brushed over the irritated scratches on my forearm.

“I know she’s done bad shit, but she’s sick—and I’d be just as bad as him if I walked away from her,” I said, eyes still shut.. I wasn’t able to look at him, to see the pity or anger in his eyes. I couldn’t handle his judgment.

“Josh,” Dean’s voice was quiet, and he silently shifted over closer to me. He held out his hand flat to me. "It’s necessary .”

He looked at my hand clenched around my forearm, and only then did I notice my nails digging into my skin. Little crescent shaped indents that melted into the lines my mother had left behind. I scowled and uncurled my hand allowing him to slip his palm under mine and tangle our fingers together.

I swallowed the urge to run. Bracing for that little voice inside my head that threatened to rage at another's touch, but it never came. I could feel the blisters on his fingers from the bat and all the healed scarring against my skin, but the nausea that typically followed wasn’t there. My heart slowed down as I stared down at our hands, and I was finally able to take a full breath.

When I took the chance to look over at him I noticed that there was no malice or judgement, just Dean Tucker being himself. Kind, soft and incredibly patient.

All the while being infuriatingly handsome. Each dumb golden blond curl I counted was a step toward calming down. Each shade of blue that danced in his eyes, all framed by long, thick lashes, reminded me to breathe through the pain that threatened to swallow me whole in the moment.

“I used to hate that smell,” he said quietly, his eyes flickering to our hands.

“What?” I asked.

“The pine tar you use for the grip on your bat, I fucking hated that smell and now…” He smiled. "I don’t know, I kinda like it.”

I hated how effortlessly he existed in these tense moments.

Like his only job was to make sure I felt… seen.

He was changing the subject for me so that I didn’t have to feel tied down by the trauma. I pulled my hand away gently and cleared my throat, pushing off the ground.

“We should change for practice before the team gets here,” I said, brushing my face with the back of my hands just in case the tears streaming down my face were real. Dean watched me for a second, hesitant to rise, but followed a moment later.

He thankfully left the issue alone after that. Other players flooded the stadium for practice, and before long, I was running out the negativity in angry sprints that caused the sweat to pool between my shoulder blades.

I watched as Dean talked to Arlo on first base and wondered if he was as twisted up as I was inside about everything. The second the guys started to arrive, it was like a whole new version of him came out. There was a bright smile on his face that hid any trace that an hour ago we were fighting about who was more screwed up.

It pissed me off to no end that he could flip the switch like that.

Even worse, everyone had shown up today, the field was overwhelmed with noise and unnecessary bodies. Silas leaned against the banister beside Ella, the two of them going over notes. They were keeping a close eye on Cael, who was still tensing up everytime he had to swing a bat but he was getting better at hiding it. All the injuries on the team were minor, strains and pulls, nothing to be overly worried about going into the season.

Our next game was against Lorette and I already knew that it was going to be a disaster. Tension was high without the added pressure of it being the first time I was facing my old team. In a usual circumstance, it would be fun to see old teammates, to catch up and enjoy the sport as rivals. But I hadn’t left on good terms, I didn’t even leave of my own free will. I was banished after being attacked in the locker room and protecting myself.

I was a pariah.

A loose canon.

An animal to them.

The thought of tomorrow was making me sick to my stomach, and there was nothing I could do about it but wait it out. Dean’s laughter echoed across the field as he wandered from Arlo, who gave him the middle finger, and joined Nicholas and Coach.

I stopped to catch my breath, doubling over in the grass as the rest of the team continued the sprints around me and everything felt like a blur. It was unfair that they could all just carry on the way they did.

You’re not my son .

The secret of who I was didn’t bother me—I could deny being a Shore until my last breath. But having my mother remind me constantly... That was different. She had a way of getting under my skin quicker than anyone else. With such ease, she disrupted what progress I made; every step away from that apartment was a day cleansed of its torture and trauma. But she found me wherever I went and now… Dean was tangled up in it.

There was no doubt that he would keep my secret; he was good at shoving down the bad stuff, ignoring it like it never existed in the first place. The way he joked around with Cael in the outfield as they tossed a ball around proved that much. But I had a feeling he’d weaponize his knowledge to hold me to my promise.

I needed to make a meeting with Riona before he called my bluff.

Practice went well and before going back to the nest I found myself knocking on her office door. She looked up from her desk with a smile, those bright eyes and friendly smile a Cody staple. She looked like Coach—if he were a woman who dressed much better.

“Joshua Logan,” she set her pen down and leaned back in her chair with a smug look on her face. “Thank you.”

“For what?” I said, my tone already annoyed. Every member of the Cody family had this annoying personality trait that made them feel untouchable. They spoke in goofy Texan riddles and never got to the point of things without making a point .

“Ryan owes me fifty bucks,” she said. "He said you wouldn't darken my doorstep until long after the Lorettes’ game, but I was sure you’d make it in here before.”

“You made a bet with Coach on when I’d come see you…” I narrowed my eyes on her, but I found myself wandering further into the office. It was nice inside, clean and comfortable. It felt like being in someone's home, a dark plush couch, a few matching chairs. It smelled like citrus and flowers.

“And Silas,” she added. "He also owes me money.”

“What was his wager?” I asked, suddenly a little more curious.

“Oh, he was sure you’d never come up here,” she said with that same smug smile. "But here you are.”

“Here I am,” I nodded and pulled my hand from my sweater pocket to offer it to her, despite not wanting to touch her. It was polite, and shaking hands usually kept people from asking questions. Rude is the word they often used when I refused to do so.

She finally stood, and she was taller than I had expected, her blonde hair short to her scalp, and big jade earrings dangled from her ears. She looked down at my hand and back up to me without shaking it.

“What has he told you?” I snapped, my tone sharper than intended.

“Who?” She asked, it was her turn to narrow her eyes on me.

“Silas,” I said, retracting my hand. She hadn’t shaken it for a reason, and I wanted to know what Silas had said to her, and I wanted to know now.

“The last time I spoke to Silas about you was to make that bet,” she chuckled softly. "Your hand was shaking, and I’ve noticed from press conferences, player lineups… You rarely offer your hand to anyone. You don’t even high-five after a home run.”

She was good, I’d give her that.

“You went back and watched old press tapes?” I asked, incredulous.

“I like to know the players,” she said. "You can learn a lot from a person from how they act under public scrutiny.”

“That must be hundreds of players,” I scoffed. "There’s no way.”

“Two hundred and sixteen athletes come in and out of this office, to be exact. I’m the therapist for all the teams at Harbor, it was very important to Seymour Shore that players were of healthy body and mind,” she explained.

“Feels phony,” I said, just being honest with her.

“You can say what you want about Seymour, but phony, he’s not.” She defended him.

“I get it, you’re under the Shores payroll so you pump their egos, get a little extra on the side…” I said. "Makes sense, it’s why Coach Cody has a job. What did you have to do for yours?”

Riona laughed at me as she wandered around her desk and leaned against it beside me. She kept a fair distance, but she constantly kept her eyes trained on mine.

“Six years of school while raising a daughter on my own, living out of a car, and fighting through about nineteen other very highly qualified candidates.” She answered the question without skipping a beat. “I don’t pump egos, Mr. Logan.” She smiled, keeping her voice professional. “I deflate them because typically overconfident, brash egos attached to men who are usually described as bullies can only mean one thing.”

“What’s that?” I asked her, knowing I probably wouldn’t like whatever shrink answer she decided to throw at me next.

“Trauma,” she simply said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’m not traumatized,” I argued and rolled my eyes.

“But you are an overconfident, brash bully with an inflated ego?” She asked, a smirk curling at the corner of her mouth that mimicked the same one Cael had.

“That’s your assumption,” I said.

“Alright, so why did you come up here then, Logan, if not for open communication and a good bickering session? I’m sure if you ask him nicely, Arlo or… Mitchell, maybe, would verbally spar with you. Mitchell pretends to be a softy, but he’s…” she widened her eyes and scoffed as she rounded her desk again, going back to her chair.

“I was going to set up a meeting, but this clearly isn’t going to work,” I muttered, stepping back.

“On the contrary, Josh, I’ve never seen you so uncomfortable,” she said, picking up her pen and flipping the page in her book. “Tuesday, after practice.”

I shook my head, my tongue pressed to my teeth. She was going to be my worst nightmare, but I liked how easily she ignored my gruff nature, and it was almost fun to argue with her, if that was what we were doing…

“Tuesday,” I repeated with a nod, then turned and left her office.