Page 8 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

“Your dad’s probably too prideful to say this, but the team isn’t the same without you,” Eddie continued. “Have you caught any of the games this season?”

Dylan gave a small nod. The accident wiping out three of their strongest players, not to mention all the negative media attention, had taken its toll on them.

They were the third-lowest-ranking team in the league at the moment—a shock for a team that had made it to the postseason the last ten years in a row.

If anyone could pull off a mid-season comeback, it was his father, but that was increasingly unlikely with every lackluster game.

“Rob and Emmanuel have … strong opinions on how we should turn things around, and they’re not in line with your father’s,” Eddie confided, referring to the team’s general manager and director, respectively.

“I’ve been overriding their decisions to stand with Rhett.

He really believes in the farm we’ve cultivated, and the numbers reflect that.

Our minor league team is consistently in the top ten.

But they’re not ready for the majors yet.

He wants to keep thinking long-term, and I get it, but … ”

“You’re worried you won’t be able to hold on to it long enough to see it through.”

“And I can’t guarantee the new owner will see eye to eye with your dad.”

The distant murmur of laughter in another booth trickled through a blanket of silence that settled between them.

Dylan’s injured rotator cuff began to ache, tension corded deep in his shoulders.

The neoclassical music drifting through the restaurant did little to ease the pressure steadily building within him. His grip on the glass tightened.

“What about Diego?” Dylan asked.

“What about him?”

“Why not give him another chance?”

“Diego’s a rookie,” Eddie said. “He’s not worth the bad press when we can replace him with someone else.”

“A rookie who’s easily one of the most promising we’ve seen in years. He’s young, he made a mistake that night,” Dylan reasoned, shame coating his throat. The fish churned among the acid in his stomach. “We all did.”

“And you see what it’s taking for us to rehab your image when you have an entire legacy and proven track record behind you.”

Dylan dropped his gaze. He wished he could go back in time and stop himself from getting on that damn boat—from getting so wasted he blacked out.

He’d never let it go that far before. Three bad games in a row had sent him into a spiral and he’d just wanted to relieve the pressure.

He’d chosen the wrong night to lose control.

He was still paying for it.

Eddie placed his chopsticks down, wiping his mouth with the thick cloth napkin from his lap. “The team’s morale is waning, and you know once that starts to go, it’s the beginning of the end,” he said.

Dylan did know. All too well.

“They need you. Rhett needs you.”

“I’m doing everything I can to get back out there, but now that the league’s in control, it’s up to them if or when—”

“They’ve said they’ll consider lifting your suspension before spring training if you keep your head down and get your numbers back up.

You’ve got time. Not a lot, but enough.” Eddie leaned in, slightly lowering his voice.

“The commissioner is an old buddy of mine from college. We golf together. As long as you make a good enough show to placate the board, we’re golden. ”

Dylan rolled the chopsticks between his fingers, doing the math in his head. That gave him until February—about seven months. It should, in theory, be enough for him to completely heal and get his throwing speed back up to par.

The scar on his shoulder twinged again as if on cue, planting a seed of doubt.

“We need you out there. I’m afraid we won’t make it another season without you,” Eddie said, sensing his doubt.

“I don’t want to add extra pressure on you, but you’re one of our star players for a reason.

You’ve been the league’s MVP. You were the youngest pitcher ever to win the Merritt Strickland Award.

You were famous before you were even drafted. People come to games to see you.”

Dylan smiled absently, looking out toward the restaurant. “They used to, anyway.”

“They will again. Everyone loves a comeback story. And I know you’ll be like your father when he shattered his knee. He didn’t just break records when he came back. He won the championship. It lit a fire under him. You’ll be the same.”

“No pressure, right?” Dylan ribbed with a slight lift of his brow, to which he saw Eddie drop his head to the side with a guilty smile. “I appreciate your confidence. I do. I guess I’m just surprised you have as much in me as you do after everything.”

“We all make mistakes, Dylan. You took responsibility for yours. That’s why I’m fighting for you,” Eddie said firmly. “Not because you’re a Strickland, but because you’re a good man. The kind who deserves a second chance. The kind I want on my team.”

Initially, Eddie’s validation warmed him. But a second later, that familiar pressure rose under it, pressing through and steadily expanding outward. Dylan’s hands began to tingle. His chest tightened.

Not now. Not here.

He refused to have a panic attack in front of Eddie. He tugged at his shirt collar, loosening it to give himself more air. He thought of the breathing exercise Erin taught him. Inhale for four seconds. Hold. Exhale.

Get a grip, Strickland.

The waiter stopped by to deliver their entrees and top off their water glasses, giving Dylan an excuse not to respond. The brunette hostess led a couple to a nearby booth. As she turned her back on Dylan, waiting as the couple settled in, his thoughts drifted to Lennon again.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t enough for you.”

The last words she’d said to him before she walked out on him haunted him, wedging a fresh knife in his spine.

If only he’d been man enough to tell her the truth.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Eddie warned.

Dylan pulled his focus back to him. “Sorry?”

Eddie glanced purposefully at the hostess, who sent a small smile over her shoulder at Dylan before slowly walking back to the front desk, then back to his star player, his implication becoming clear.

“There are many different vices to distract a man. Right now, you need to keep your head clear. Stay focused. If you need to … blow off some steam, do so casually. And smartly. That’s all I ask. ”

Dylan let out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

Casual relationships were all he’d had since his marriage.

Mostly one-offs, occasionally interspersed with a short fling he’d cut off once he sensed the woman wanted more, despite always making it clear from the start that he didn’t.

The only one who could get under his skin was more than a thousand miles away.

“Trust me, you don’t have anything to worry about there,” he assured Eddie. Dylan reached for the sauce to pour over his ribs.

“Dylan,” Eddie said, the seriousness of his tone calling Dylan to look up again. “Can I count on you to be ready by February?”

The vice-like pressure around his lungs pulled tighter. His grandfather’s fierce, determined expression on the mound loomed in his periphery.

Dylan nodded, projecting confidence he didn’t feel. “Yeah. I won’t let you down.”