Page 97 of Fair Ball

“Jo’s my girl. Gus is my cat,” he says, like I give a shit. I don’t.

“I don’t need you two here.”

Long tips his beer toward me. “Malcolm thinks so, and we’ve learned it’s best to do what he says. It’s better for everyone.”

“Besides,” Tremblay adds. “We’ve been watching your games. You’re playing like shit.”

“And we’re here to help you pull your head out of your ass,” Long finishes, and if it wouldn’t get me in even more trouble, I might chuck my beer at his face.

“I hate you,” is the best I can do, and Tremblay merely shrugs.

“That’s cool. My second-favorite trope is enemies to lovers.”

I reach for the remote. “What are you babbling about?”

“I read a lot of romance books. My favorite trope is fated mates, but I love a good enemies to lovers. Even better is if they’re fated mates and enemies.” He literally giggles. “So good, bro.”

I pin my gaze on Long, waiting for him to take accountability for his friend. But he only lifts a shoulder like he’s heard this all before.

Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

Blowing out a breath, I stretch out on the couch since these two are clearly planning on staying, and I find a station that plays some nature show.

“So, what got you into birds?” Tremblay asks, pointedly setting Harold back in his cage.

“I’m not into birds.”

Long arches a brow. “You have a bird as a pet…which is cool and all, but a little niche, don’t you think?”

Tremblay scrunches his face. “You put on a show about birds of prey, but you’re not into birds?”

“No.” I toss the remote to Long, who catches it easily. “I got the fucking thing because I needed an excuse to hire Millie.”

They both nod sarcastically like it makes total sense for a person to go out of their way to adopt a foulmouthed cockatoo only to give their new assistant something to do.

I cross my arms, and Long changes the channel to ESPN highlights, but since they fucking started it, I decide to finish it. “She broke up with me, and that’s the end of the story. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Tremblay sips on his beer. “What’d you do?”

When I don’t answer, the two idiots guess.

“Cheat?”

“Lie?”

“Didn’t give her enough time?”

“Too focused on your career?”

“Too much pressure on her?”

“Can’t handle the stress of away games?”

The back-and-forth sends me to the moon, and I’m off the sofa, yelling, “She wanted me to go to therapy!” before I’ve even thought of it.

They stare at me in surprise as I pace like some caged animal, letting loose now. “There’s something wrong with me, okay? I don’t know. I don’t know. But I don’t remember a time when I haven’t felt like this.” I paw at my chest as if it’s possible to show them the thing that’s been causing me so much pain my whole life. “I don’t want to be all poor me, life sucks, so I just shove it down. Keep it in. That’s what real men do.”

I tunnel my fingers into my hair, breathing heavier, that tension rising up from my stomach, knotting in my throat. I try to swallow past it, but it’s difficult, and I slap my hands on the back of the couch, hanging my head between my shoulders.