Page 91 of Fair Ball

If ever.

I flick on the water in the shower and test the temperature with my hand before shucking off my underwear to step into it, the spray cold enough to wake me up.

Makes me remember that Millie likes her showers just this side of warm.

I’m not sure if she noticed, but I bought all unscented soaps and laundry detergents. Not that it matters anymore.

Still, I scrub myself down with it, wishing I could wash the images from the backs of my eyes.

But they’re still there by the time I wrap a towel around my waist. Millie standing naked in the bathroom as she took the Plan B pill after begging for just the tip. Millie naked on my bed, spread legs, waiting for me. Millie on my couch, panting and writhing.

Millie smiling.

Forever smiling.

I ignore the text from Malcolm that arrives as I put my clothes on. This one warning You won’t like my next steps. So you better pick up your phone to call me.

Malcolm King and his next steps can go fuck themselves. My reputation as the bad-tempered Spare is solidified, and I see no point in trying to change it. If the Thunder want to discipline me for my behavior, I don’t care.

In fact, it would be easier if everyone stopped pretending I can be fixed. If good and perfect Millie couldn’t do it, no one can.

I shove a protein bar down my throat, ignoring the dying plants on the counter, and fill up Harold’s food and water. He hates me, even more now that his favorite person hasn’t been around. He barely acknowledges me anymore. No dickhead or requests for Elton. Only heavy side-eye and continuous requests for Millie.

After grabbing my bag and the protein smoothie I made myself, which doesn’t taste as good as when Millie made it, I head down to my truck to drive to the stadium. We play New York, and with eleven weeks left in the regular season, we’re all buckling down to steal a play-off spot.

Or we should be doing that, in theory.

Except when I turn up at the clubhouse, it’s full of laughter and music. Millie’s favorite song from her favorite movie. “Let’s Hear It for the Boy” blares from a speaker by Yadi. As usual, he’s dancing bachata, even over this ’80s pop tune, and I can’t find it in me to laugh. Not when Suarez twirls Jacobson around, and not when Rutch does a near-perfect impression of Kevin Bacon’s dancing.

I fucking hate them all. “Turn it off.”

They don’t hear me, so I try again, louder. “Turn it off.”

Yadi pauses in mid-move, one foot off the floor like he’s forgotten which way it should land. “Manin, come on! Dancing will make you feel better.”

“I said turn it off!” Without thinking, I pluck the closest ball to me and let it fly. It hits the speaker, sending it soaring back against the wall so it smashes. Good.

I’m heaving, ready to fucking swing if any of them says a word to me, but they stay silent. Every set of eyes fixed on me.

My pulse thunders in my ears as I stare each of them down, and even Yadi’s taken aback. Normally, he’s the last one to be scared of me, but right now, he merely blinks, mouth turned down. I charge past all of them and throw my bag in my locker before turning right back around to stalk out to the field. Maybe a few laps will cool me off.

It doesn’t.

Sweat drips down my back, and I roll my shoulders. Exhaustion weighs heavy on me, even though it’s only the second inning.

The hometown Philly crowd has become nastier and nastier with each of my pitches, and I’m not sure what came first. My terrible throws or their terrible fucking attitude.

They shout about me being crazy. Scream about me being taken out of the game. One woman shrieks about how my mother should have swallowed instead of being on her back, and while it’s creative, it doesn’t make me pitch any faster or straighter.

My one good throw tonight was to ruin my teammates’ good time earlier.

Since then, it’s been all downhill.

“Come on, Ashwood!” Bettina barks from the dugout, his voice barely cutting through the haze clouding my focus.

I nod, more a reflex than a conscious decision, then wipe at my mouth with my shoulder. Check the runner at first, and shit…I think I’m sweating alcohol.

I only hope Millie isn’t watching. Hope Noah and Shannon aren’t either.