THEY JUST TALK. I DON’T even think they know what they’re talking about. Their mouths move and shit spills out.

“Let’s be fucking real,” I say to the television hosts, lifting a bottle to my lips. “None of y’all played ball. Of any kind.”

This beer tastes as bland as the first ones. Plural. Lots of plural. Well, it tastes way more bland after the seventh inning stretch of whiskey I added to the mix. I’ll feel this tomorrow.

Tomorrow. The chorus from some play my mom took Ford and the girls and I to one summer rings through my memory banks and I find myself humming the tune. How do I even remember this?

My laptop glows in front of me with housing options in San Diego. I hate them all. I even try to convince myself that the beachfront bungalow is everything I’ve ever wanted. That it probably comes with beachfront bunnies. That the beach equals no clothes and lots of girls.

I fail.

Every house I find, I think about stupid shit. Like Dani. And how she won’t be there. And how much that fucking burns right now. Blisters my heart. Poisons my soul. Then I drink more. Maybe eventually it will drown out. Or I’ll pass out. I’m good with either option.

Something catches my attention but I can’t focus on it. I’m in a lovely state of buzz, a muddy, fuzzy warmth that sort of bubble wraps everything. But it’s there. Something is, anyway. When I reach over to put my drink on the table, my ass lifts off my phone and I hear it ringing.

“Aha!” I say, nearly falling off the couch. Stabilizing myself, I answer it. “Hello?”

“Hey, Linc,” Graham says.

“Hey, G! What’s happening, man?”

“Well,” he says slowly, “I called to see how your meeting went and to ask you a question. But after hearing you, I have a brand new set of questions,” he chuckles.

“Did you say you needed to ask me something? You need advice? I didn’t drink that much, did I?”

“No advice. I’m not that fucked,” he laughs. “I wanted to know if you knew Mallory Sims. But that can wait.”

I try to remember the name. “Mallory Sims. Should I? Because I really don’t associate anything with that name.”

“She’s a friend of Sienna’s.”

“She must not be hot because I got nothing.”

Graham laughs, clearly amused. “Okay, moving on. What the fuck is wrong with you tonight?”

“With me?” I ask, swaying a little.

“You drinking tonight.”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because . . .” I say, my eyes sinking closed. “Oh! Because I got traded to San Diego.”

“Really? Wow. How do you feel about that?”

“Drunk. I feel drunk, G.”

“When do you guys move?”

My ass tumbles off the sofa and I land on the ground with a thud. For some reason, I find it hysterical and nearly drop the phone as I laugh.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Graham asks.

“I fell off the couch,” I say, catching my breath.

“Shit, Linc. Take it easy.”

“There’s nothing fucking easy about this.” I hate the way my voice wavers and sounds weak. I’m not weak. I’m Lincoln Fucking Landry.

So why do I feel like crying?

“You don’t like the trade?”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about the trade,” I say, more coherent than I anticipated. “Less money. New city. Opportunities. It’ll be fine. But Dani won’t go.”

The line stills. I give Graham a second to really feel that . . . and myself a second to get back on the couch again. This time, I lie down and secure the phone against my ear with a pillow.

“Why isn’t she going?” Graham asks.

“She hates fucking baseball. I told you that a long time ago. Remember?”

“But that’s not enough of a reason.”

“And her dad is the fucking GM.”

The sound of understanding slips by his lips and he sighs. I sigh too because I can. Because I don’t know what else to do. Because it’s not crying and is acceptable.

“I’m sorry, Linc.”

“Me fucking too.”

“There’s no way to make this work? Did the Arrows offer you anything?”

“Basically, no. I mean chicken scratch. Just a little more than average. How can I take that much of a cut, G? My entire stock, my brand, goes down if I accept that.”

“True.”

“I just . . . you know . . . ugh.”

Graham takes a long minute. “The real problem—is it the trade? Or Danielle?”

“She won’t go,” I say, sadly.

“And you have to go.”

I’m not sure if that’s a question or a statement. So I don’t respond.

“You can have a job and a girl, Lincoln,” he says. “But sometimes you can’t have the job and the girl.”

“But I want both. I need both,” I insist. “Baseball is who I am. It flows through my veins. It’s how I define my life. But she makes me feel so alive, so much more than a ballplayer,” I say, struggling to find the words through the haze of the alcohol. “I love her, Graham. I fucking love her.”

“Then you might have to let the job go.”

“Ah!” I yell through the room. The only light comes from the television and the blabbering idiots on the screen. It’s late. How late, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters right now except the pain stinging every aspect of my life.

“Why don’t you sleep off whatever you’ve been drinking and see how you feel in the morning?” he suggests.

“I’m going to feel like shit,” I sigh. “I need to go back to Arrows headquarters tomorrow and let them know which way I’m leaning. If I’m going to San Diego, they need to get the paperwork going.”

“You okay tonight?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“We always have choices, Linc.”

“Take that philosophy minor and shove it up your ass,” I laugh.

Graham chuckles and releases a heavy breath. “Call me if you need anything. Or if you just want to talk.”

I scratch my head. “You wanted to ask me something?”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” I yawn, stretching out on the sofa. My eyes get heavy, the voices on the television mute. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

My phone tumbles to the floor as I fall in a deep, nightmare-filled sleep.