Page 52 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

Dylan glanced up at the television. It showed three images of billionaires who had expressed interest in buying the team, including Nolan Pierce.

Anger simmered low in his stomach. “And I can tell you,” he continued, “if the wrong person gets ahold of the Tidebreakers, it will be nothing but a moneymaker to them, and they’ll suck the soul out of it.

So, you’re damn right we’re going to fight to keep that from happening. ”

Dylan slid the towel from his neck, dropping it on the bench parallel to the lockers.

He didn’t bother checking the other players’ reactions or waiting for a response from Diego, who had listened with the same pissed off expression.

He went back to getting dressed and thinking about how to ensure what happened at the party was buried.

Because they couldn’t afford one more setback.

Dylan secured the brace over his shoulder, tightening it until the compression felt right—a good ache.

The knock came at the door with his food delivery as he was tightening the wrap, and a minute later, he finally settled onto the small sofa in front of the television, kicking his feet up on the coffee table with the hot to-go container on his lap.

He tried to find something to watch on television, but his mind wouldn’t release the grip on the conversation in the locker room.

As Dylan skimmed through the stations, frustration rose like a pressure wave through him. He finally shut off the television altogether and tossed the remote to the side. His appetite went with it. He rested his head back on the cushion with a drawn-out sigh, staring up at the flat, white ceiling.

He’d grown up receiving daily criticism, but what Diego had said was personal. It was easier to tune it out when it was from random pundits or disgruntled fans—hearing it from someone who had become a friend before the accident grated like salt in a wound.

Made him feel like dirt under their cleats.

Dylan checked his phone. Still no call from his lawyers.

He’d been waiting for the one confirming the footage of him at the party was officially buried.

Everyone who was there, including the production team, had signed NDAs.

As long as the studio agreed to their terms in exchange for not pursuing a criminal investigation, he should be in the clear.

But the fact that it’d been almost a week and it hadn’t been resolved yet worried him.

It felt like the walls were pressing in on him again. Dylan’s mind was a ball launched into the air, soaring through the outfield as he fumbled to catch it before it went over the fence. The tightness in his chest made it hard to breathe. A tingle rose in his hands.

The wet bar loomed in the corner. He’d requested they remove the bottle of wine the hotel had gifted him and the other players in their rooms, but they’d left the glasses.

He could call room service and have another one at the door in minutes.

It would ease the pressure, calm his racing mind so he could breathe and feel the ground beneath his feet again. One glass would take the edge off.

Dylan kneaded his palms into his eyes, then slid a hand down his jaw. Sitting forward, he moved his food to the coffee table before reaching for his phone. He opened his text thread with Lennon. They hadn’t talked much since he left. He’d been busy. And giving her space.

The guilt nearly ate him alive that he’d pull her into his mess. If she changed her mind and wanted out, it’d gut him, but he’d understand.

Dylan typed out a message—erased it. He wanted to hear her voice. His thumb hovered over the button to call her when his phone rang. His father’s photo stared back at him with a video call request.

One of the last people he wanted to speak to at that moment.

“ Shit .” Dylan hung his head, tempted by the red button to decline it. But if he didn’t answer now, he’d have to answer later. He may as well get it over with so he could have the rest of the night to—hopefully, finally—decompress.

Dylan punched the green button. “Hey, Dad,” he said, forcing a lift in his tone when his father’s moving, pixelated image appeared on the screen. “How’s … where are you again … L.A.?”

“Yep. Game’s tomorrow. Just got back from drills.” The phone was angled up at his chin, his weathered face swaying in and out of frame as he walked down a nondescript hall somewhere, presumably at his hotel. “How’s summer camp?”

“Got my fire-starting badge today,” Dylan joked back. He decided to strike a match—his father would likely find out, anyway. “Actually, I did hit a home run.”

Rhett slanted a look at the screen. “Did the accident affect your head more than we thought and you forgot what a pitcher does?”

“This pitcher does both,” Dylan reminded him, lighthearted enough. Beneath the surface, resentment chafed. Everything had been decided for him. Everything controlled. “Don’t worry, it was one game.”

His father was silent for a beat. Dylan waited for the lecture.

“Showed the rookies how it’s done, huh?” Rhett said, surprising him. He stopped, and a second later, the lock on his hotel room door beeped twice before he let himself inside. “How’d it feel?”

The adrenaline rush echoed in his body as he replayed the memory of running through the bases—the cheering, the wind across his face, the feeling of invincibility.

“Amazing.” He realized his eyes had gone out of focus and pulled his attention back to his dad, who had sat down at a table, watching Dylan with a subtle smile.

Rhett seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, too, his chin perched on his thumb and his forefinger resting over his upper lip. “You heard the news?”

“About Carmichael Enterprises? Yeah.”

Rhett’s smile faded. “I just got off the phone with Eddie a little while ago. Needless to say, he’s not exactly having a home run kind of day.

” He sighed, heavy and tired, as he leaned back in his chair.

“The commissioner’s under pressure to force a sale of the Tidebreakers if Eddie doesn’t do it himself. ”

Dylan hung his head. He knew, logically, that’s where things were headed, but the reality of it sank cold in his bones. He couldn’t believe it was happening. “What’s his plan?”

“Well, we have an idea, but I told him I needed to run it by you first,” Rhett said. Dylan didn’t like the way that sounded or the pause that followed. “Eddie’s calling an emergency meeting with the board to make his case for more time. And to get your suspension lifted.”

“You think them knowing I’ll be officially returning next season is enough to help?”

“I think you returning this season is.”

His father’s words took a moment to permeate fully. “You mean … coming back right now ?”

Rhett waited a beat. “Are you ready?”

What a complicated question. One Dylan never thought he’d have to consider so soon.

Medically, his doctor had cleared him for it, and he was almost back to where he’d been before the accident by all measurable metrics.

But almost wasn’t good enough. What if his father was right—if he went out there now, did Dylan only stand to embarrass himself?

They were banking on his return to help them turn things around and win games, as well as to draw people in and support the team. What if it did the opposite? What if it was too soon for the public to have his back?

“Cooney hurt his ankle yesterday on the field. It’s not looking good. I think we’re going to lose him, too.” Rhett gently shook his head to himself as his gaze fell somewhere distant. Cooney was one of their best pitchers. He’d stepped up after losing Dylan and Diego from the roster.

They couldn’t catch a break.

“If you need me, I will be,” Dylan said.

Rhett’s attention drew back to him. He remained quiet for a few moments, studying him. “Are you sure?” His tone left no room for uncertainty. He needed to know that Dylan was committed before they went all in on him.

Cement poured into his ribcage, filling all the empty spaces until it rose to his throat. Dylan swallowed it down, resolute.

“I’m sure,” Dylan said. “Tell me what to do and I’ll be there.”