Chapter Two

Sawyer

I glance around the house trying to figure out where in the hell to start. Boxes are stacked everywhere, my furniture still wrapped in plastic. The movers did a hell of a job, considering I was relocating from practically one side of the country to the other. Okay, maybe not quite that far, but Texas to Virginia is quite the distance.

And that suits me just fine.

A little distance never hurt anyone. In fact, I reached the point in my life where I craved it, along with the familiarity of home. Sure, people might occasionally recognize me, but nothing like in Arlington. This should be a walk in the park compared to where I called home for the past ten years, which I’ll gladly take.

The house is a new beachfront home with big windows and private access to the Bay. The realtor said it was prime real estate, which, of course, came with a prime price tag. It was still affordable, at least compared to the mortgage I left in Texas, and the view is killer. I can’t wait to find my old running shoes and start pounding the sand.

But that’ll have to wait. Right now, I need to find the box that was shipped here from the bedding store. The realtor said it was delivered a few days ago, as well as a few other items that I needed, right before we pulled out of Arlington.

The sun is starting to set, bright orange light filtering in through the bare windows at the front of the house. It reminds me that I’ll have to buy curtains, probably sooner rather than later. I take off into the living room, searching for the box and am pleased to find it, along with a few others, by the fireplace. I rip off the packing tape and retrieve the goodies inside. The sheets go straight into the washing machine, which along with the other appliances, were all delivered and hooked up before I arrived.

My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since we arrived early this morning. The movers took a quick lunch, but for the most part, we worked hard unloading the truck and getting everything moved inside my new place. They were off, headed back to Texas, by four, which has left me staring at mountains of boxes and wondering where to start.

Instead of doing what needs to be done, I grab another bottle of water from the fridge and slip out the sliding back door. This is actually what sold me on the house. The large deck, hand-laid brick walkway, and the built-in grill and fire pit. It’s a perfect place for entertaining, if I had friends here or knew anyone. There’s a decent sized grassy yard before you hit sand. The Chesapeake Bay is maybe fifty yards out, just a stone’s throw away from my back door. Hell, it wasn’t that long ago that I’d be able to toss a stone pretty fucking far into that big body of water. Now, even after surgery and months of therapy, my shoulder isn’t what it used to be and I’d be lucky to hit water after it bounced in the sand.

But enough of the pity party, I have shit to do and very little time to do it.

School starts in less than a week, and I’m anxious to get into a routine that doesn’t involve physical therapy and appointments with various doctors. This is a whole new norm for me, complete with new job, new house, new town, hell, a new state.

As I dive into one of the boxes labeled kitchen, I can’t help but wonder how much of the new is a front. Am I running from the past, from the memories that trail me everywhere I go? Probably a little. But I need this clean slate. I need it like I need air. Some place where I’m not followed and hounded. Some place that doesn’t hold painful memories.

I’m counting on this fresh start to help get my life back on track.

I needed Jupiter Bay.

* * *

I drive through downtown, shaking my head when I discover pretty much everything is closed. This place is nothing like Arlington, which had nightlife on every corner. It’s well after nine and my stomach just couldn’t take being empty any longer. Plus, I needed out of the house pretty desperately. Even after two full days on the road, I was feeling the familiarity of restlessness sweep in. When I finally spy neon lights, I pull my car into a familiar parking lot. A smile tugs on my lips as I slip from my car and head inside.

Lucky’s looks exactly the same as it did a month ago, except now there are only a handful of customers. The tables are empty compared to the way it was last time I was here. An older man works the bar and a handful of stools are taken, eyes moving from watching the baseball game on the television to scoping out the new guy who just walked in.

As I approach the bar, I can’t help but glance over to the large table in the back. It sits empty now, not like it was that night when I was completely entranced by a brunette with stunning green eyes. I watched her for several minutes before her eyes finally collided with my own, and in that moment I knew.

I had to have her.

Adjusting the sudden discomfort in my pants, I take a seat, coincidentally in the same seat I sat in the last time I was here. A few of the guys throw nods my way, but for the most part, they leave me alone, which I’m grateful for. The last thing I need is to be recognized and forced to relive the moment that changed my life forever.

“What can I get ya?” the old man asks, a warm smile on his face and a bar towel thrown over his shoulder.

“Is the grill still open?” I ask, my stomach choosing this moment to remind me that it needs food.

The guy chuckles. “Could be. Won’t take me but a minute to fire it up. Though, the pickin’s will be pretty slim. I think I can cook you up a burger and fries,” he offers.

“That sounds perfect, actually. Thanks.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Miller Lite,” I answer, grabbing a few peanuts from the bowl set in front of me.

“Be right back.”

“Thanks,” I reply, watching him head back into the kitchen.

A few minutes later, he returns and gets my beer. The Rangers are playing the Cubs tonight, but I already knew that. I know that schedule like the back of my hand. Swartz swings on a high pitch and hops it up into center. That familiar mix of anxiety and anger starts to creep in as I watch the fielder catch the ball and fire it to second base. The second baseman misses the tag, but keeps Carter on base.

I have to glance away.

My gut churns and I play it off as lack of food, but deep down I know better. It’s regret. Anger. Longing.

My sport. The one I had to give up after one bad play. One split-second decision took it all away.

Just like that.

“Here ya go,” the old man says, setting the hot plate in front of me.

“Thanks,” I say, snapping myself out of the memory. Wiping my clammy hands on my pants, I grab a fry and pop it into my mouth. A bottle of ketchup and some mustard are pulled from the cooler behind the bar and set in front of me. I load up my burger with condiments, squirt a big glob on my plate, and dive in.

As I eat, my eyes return to the television. I can’t help it.

The old man hangs around, resting his elbow on the bar and relaxes, watching the game. By the time I’m halfway through my burger, he asks the question I’ve always dreaded. “You miss it?”

Glancing his way, I see his eyes still focused on the TV. But I know he’s talking to me. Besides the fact that I’m the only one on this end of the bar, I’m probably the one former pro ball player in the joint. “Yeah,” I answer honestly.

The man nods and turns his hazel eyes on me. “Name’s Lucky,” he says as he extends his hand.

“Sawyer,” I reply as I shake his hand. “But you probably already figured that out.”

He shrugs before standing up and turning his attention back to the bar. “Holler if you need anything.”

I nod before returning my attention to my burger, which he lets me finish in silence. My mind drifts back to the game, but not the one on TV. I relive the hit over and over again, like some horrible instant replay. The crack of the bat. The line drive that sails straight down the third baseline. The dive. The landing. The catch.

The pain.

It was like nothing I had experienced before, shooting straight through my body, hitting every nerve ending. I wanted to puke, but was afraid to move. The replays showed the dive on every sports show for the next two weeks, following the story through every surgery and every hospital visit. They stayed with me until that moment I was cut from the team.

Now, here I sit, in an old bar, watching my team play without me.

My food settles like concrete in my belly and the beer isn’t helping much either. Pulling a twenty from my wallet, I toss it on the bar, throw a wave at Lucky, and head back out into the warm August night.

My past trailing closely behind me.