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The last time I did this was over three years ago.

I was in a relationship back then with Stacy, but it was rocky at best even though we’d been together for several years by that point.

Still, I was a player without a care in the world, ready to tackle a new season with the same enthusiasm I had in my first.

Now I’m thirty-three. A little older, a little wearier, a little slower, and a whole lot more jaded.

We’re practicing at a training field near the park, and the fields are open to the public. Pitchers and catchers typically report first, but being that this is our inaugural season, everyone on the team was ready to start practicing. We’ve had plenty of time on our home field as practices got underway, but this is different. This is the first attempt at putting together our team as we face our first real opponent. The first taste of what to expect this season. The first time we’re all here and ready to put in the work.

Everyone else is having fun. Everyone else is laughing. Everyone else is enjoying their time as we stretch together, as we run sprints, as we warm up, as we throw balls and hit balls and field balls.

I’m not laughing. I’m not having fun.

Baseball used to be fun, but that was before my manager caught me kissing his daughter and decided to make my life a living hell.

“Thatcher, get on the mound,” Troy yells from the dugout.

Thatcher?

We discussed Rush Ross pitching first, not Holden Thatcher.

It’s practice, I remind myself. He’s just seeing what everyone on the team has.

“Cade, take right,” Troy yells next, and our starting right fielder—Duke—runs off the field and into the dugout.

What the hell is Troy doing?

My notes to him last night explicitly agreed with his practice plan to have the boys bringing up the back of our forty-man roster hit to the starters so we could practice our team dynamic.

Instead, he’s changing everything up.

Does this mean he’s changing up the starting roster?

I run toward the bench he’s calling the shots from. “What’s going on?” I ask.

He’s wearing sunglasses, but I swear I still see him glare at me. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“I didn’t ask you to, Troy. I’d just like to know what your plan is.”

“Get back on the field, player,” he says snidely.

My brows dip together as I’m almost unsure whether I heard him correctly. I freeze for a beat, and then he repeats himself.

“I said get back on the field. I’m the manager, and I will manage. You get back to your spot on third unless you’d prefer a seat on the bench.”

I blow out a breath as anger ices my veins, but I know better than to talk back to my manager.

Still…if that’s how he’s going to play it, I’m not sure I’ll be sticking around to take the brunt of his anger.

A small crowd of maybe a hundred or so fans watches our practice, and I focus on making sure my elbow is ready to play. It feels good being out here, but I can’t seem to walk out from the cloud that’s pressing down on me.

I sign a few autographs as I walk off the field toward the team bus that will carry us to some classrooms at a local university where we’ll have a team meeting. I sit and stare out the window on the way. I’m quiet as we make our way to a lecture hall. I listen during the meeting without opening my mouth even once despite the fact that Troy once expressed to me how I’m supposed to be the leader of this team.

And when it’s all over, I spot Nick in the back of the room.

He’s not a player.

He’s not a coach.

He’s a trainer. He’s a neutral party who can listen to my concerns and potentially give me advice since he knows everyone involved.

It’s either him or Mike, and if I go to Mike, I’m as good as gone.

I head over toward Nick and ask, “Can we talk?”

He nods once, and I follow him out of the room and to an empty classroom next to the lecture hall.

“What’s going on?” He perches on a student desk.

I lean on one across the room from him and fold my arms across my chest. “I can’t do this.”

“Can’t do what?” he asks.

“I can’t act like everything’s okay. I can’t be degraded by my manager when he brought me here to lead this team. It’s only been one practice and I’m already thinking about throwing in the towel. I want to go home to Gabby. I want to get her back. I want to beg her to be with me even after the way I ended things, but if I do that, I’m letting the entire organization down because her father made me choose. I don’t know what to do, man.” By the end of my rant, I’m tugging on the ends of my hair.

Nick is quiet a minute as he studies me, and then he asks, “Why’d you start playing ball?”

My brows draw together. I cut the open wound and bleed in front of him, and that’s the question he asks?

I shrug as I let go of the strands of my hair. “My father,” I answer honestly. “He always had a game on. He bled Cubbie blue, and I’d sit on his lap when I was little while he watched the game. As I got older, he’d explain things to me. He took me to my first game when I was five, and I still remember it. My brother, he didn’t care as much. He liked going to the games but only because he got to eat all the snacks. But I…I fell in love with the game because it was something that my dad and I could share.”

“What would he think about you walking away?” he asks.

My chest tightens. I wish he was here so I could ask him, but he isn’t.

And so I have to go by instinct. I have to do what I think he’d want me to do, and I think he’d want me to play. But I also think he’d want me to be happy…and I’m not sure I can continue to play and be happy at the same time. Not without Gabby.

Do whatever will bring you the most joy.

She said those words to me the night we met when I was deciding whether to take Troy up on his offer.

I thought I made the right choice, but this for sure isn’t it. There’s no joy here.

The cut is fresh, and I know that. In time, it won’t hurt so bad. But right now, I can’t see a light at the end of the tunnel, and I can’t imagine a time when I will.