Page 42 of The Men of Summer Collection

The next day

Haven calls.

I hit ignore.

I’m not in the mood to talk.

Not one bit.

I need zero distractions. Need to get in the zone. This is it—do or die. The job is on the line. Coach is giving me one last chance and it’s time to go balls to the wall.

I’m not in the mood to talk. Not to anyone. Not after the text I got late last night.

Sullivan walks behind me, stops to clap me on the back. “You’ve got this,” he says.

“Thanks,” I mutter, powering down my phone, stuffing it in the back of my locker, as if that’ll erase the sting of the message.

I shove it far, far away.

I need to get away from the text. Must erase it from my mind.

With a clenched jaw and a rapid heartbeat, I make my way out of the locker room and head straight to the diamond.

Keep your head in the game.

My grandfather’s words play on a loop in my mind.

I have to play my heart out and my ass off.

Baseball is mental and I will laser in on the pitcher, the plays, the ball.

When stray thoughts try to enter my mind, I will swat them away like flies. Kill them dead. I picture the arrow on my chest. My reminder to focus on my goals.

But I don’t need the talisman for that today. I need protection from the people who let you down. The arrow is my armor today.

I take batting practice, and once it’s time for the matchup, I crouch behind the plate, pull down my mask, and call the first pitch.

The Las Vegas Coyotes batter swings and misses.

Like that, I set the tempo and give the signs. My pitcher retires the side for a flawless first inning.

In the dugout, I stare straight ahead the whole time, seeing nothing, thinking nothing. No one talks to me. No one says a word. I refuse to let my mind meander to what’s in my locker.

When it’s my turn at the plate, I shift my weight back the slightest bit like I usually do, like I’ve done my whole life, and thwack—I knock in a runner.

Take that.

I know how to fucking play.

Soon, we return to the field, shutting the Coyotes out until the fifth inning, when our pitcher gives up a walk, then a single.

They’ve got a runner on first and second when the cleanup hitter comes to the plate, takes a few swings, then gets in the box.

I call for a curveball, and it drops at the corner. The batter takes a massive swing at it, connecting with a loud crack, sending a line drive out to left field. It’s a double, for sure, and the runner on second goes full throttle to third, the base coach waving him home.

Oh, no you don’t.

Not on my watch.

Not today.

The left fielder throws to Crosby at third. I rip off my mask as Crosby relays it my way. The ball is coming in hard, careening near the plate. I step into the base path to field it. The runner barrels toward home, mere feet away, but I scoop up the ball into my glove, ready to lay a tag on the runner when?—

Boom!

The runner steamrolls into me.

And as the air rushes from my lungs, all the pain, all the hurt, all the anger comes roaring back while my brain replays Declan’s text to me from late last night.

Declan:This is killing me, Grant. You have to know. But making plans was a mistake. We can’t do this. Any of this, including November. Miami is a bad idea.

I grit my teeth, try to soften the blow, but I hit the dirt with a deafening thunk.

The pain radiates everywhere and my world starts to dim…