Even in September, Chicago day games always held the possibility of being steamy and hot.

Today was exactly that. My Friday afternoon game started at 2 p.m., and it was a rough one. We’d already clinched the division, so the outcome of the game didn’t really matter.

Good thing, because I was getting my ass kicked on the mound today. Arizona had just smacked another double, and Don was making a slow walk to the mound.

I took a deep breath and fanned myself with my cap. There were a dozen things on my mind, and baseball was not at the top of the list for a change.

Tate was gone, off to live with a druggie father.

And Andrea. Because of me, she’d gotten fired and was heading back to Tennessee.

My own boss had told me before the game that he and I needed to have “a very frank sit-down” in his office.

To make things even worse, I was getting rocked on the mound by fucking Arizona, who had the worst offense in the entire league. I was playing terribly, like a rookie, like I’d never thrown the ball. The crowd was getting pissed and had even started booing at me or chanting to bring in Hugo.

Don arrived at the mound at the same time Dwayne did.

“Napleton, you ain’t got it today,” Don said, shaking his head.

“That’s for damn sure,” Dwayne retorted, shoving his catcher’s mask up on to the top of his head. Even though he, like the other guys, had been supportive and sympathetic to my personal life being an epic clusterfuck, he still expected me to do my job. And I was failing them all magnificently.

Baseball is a mental game, and I was inside my head, my brain’s energy consumed by everything but the game. I didn’t even know why I was here. There was so much shit going on, and everyone knew about it. Andrea needed her space to clear her head. I needed to play baseball to clear mine, but it wasn’t working this time. “I don’t know what to tell you, Coach.”

Don looked down at the ground and hocked a big loogie. “I’m gonna be honest. I’m just buying time for Hugo to warm up in the bullpen. You’re done after this batter.”

I nodded. I’ve never been a man to say superfluous words, and there was nothing I could say about today’s performance. I was legitimately getting my ass rocked.

The plate umpire walked up to break up our little pow-wow on the mound. Before the ump arrived, Don turned and headed back to the dugout without another word.

“Hey,” Dwayne said, patting my arm. “It’s all mental. It’s all up here.”

He pointed to his temple.

I nodded. “I know. That’s the fucking problem.”

The batter dug into the box. I took the sign and nodded. Curveball. Low and away.

I wound up and threw.

C’mon, ball, go down. Down and away.

It stayed right up in the zone. I swear I saw the batter licking his lips as it came to him.

He cracked a homerun so far into the seats, even our home crowd made a collective wow sound.

My manager called to the bullpen for Hugo, and I walked off the mound into the dugout.

Nobody talked to me once I took my seat, which was good. I wanted to give the world a haymaker punch. Fuck my life.

After watching Hugo win the game for us, I sat in my manager’s office with a load of ice strapped around my right shoulder and arm.

“So Coach, you called me in here. I know you got some bad news. Why don’t you just tell me?” I said, wanting this over with.

Lloyd sighed and pressed the intercom. “Mr. Yerac? He’s ready for you.”

I froze. “Mr. Yerac? Why the hell does he need to be here?” Though I was pretty sure I knew what this would be about. I just didn’t know to what extent I was in trouble.

“You know he’s always been a very hands-on owner,” the club’s manager reminded me. “And this is one of those times he has taken matters into his own hands.”

I had a very, very bad feeling about this. The doorknob opened, and the old man walked in slowly.

“Thank you, Lloyd,” Mr. Yerac said, his expression grim. “You can go ahead and leave me with Mr. Napleton.”

Lloyd nodded and left us alone. Mr. Yerac took a seat at the desk across from me. I stood.

“Why don’t you sit, Jake?”

“I’m fine. I like to take my bad news standing up.”

He nodded.

“Well Jake, we’ve had a good run, haven’t we?”

“Stop dancing around and just come out with it, Harry.”

“Fine. If that’s how you want to play it.” Mr. Yerac paused, and I braced for it. “The news that broke today. I don’t know how or where it came from, or if it’s true that you…kidnapped a child.”

I gritted my teeth. “It’s not true in the slightest.”

“Be that as it may, since the story broke this morning, there’s been a shitstorm from all kinds of organizations calling for your suspension from the league. And I don’t mean a five-game one like before. I’ve been on the phone with the league commissioner all morning. This is really, really, fucked.”

Mr. Yerac rarely swore, so I knew he was angry. I shook my head at him, frustrated. I couldn’t believe people thought I’d actually kidnap a kid. Marissa had done her best to field the press, but she wasn’t a PR pro like Andrea, who would have started pushing back on the negativity. Plus, she was personally implicated, which made it harder for her to fight back. “People like to run their mouths and they don’t do their research. I think if people knew who I really was, they would be surprised.”

“Would they, Jake? You’re a dirty player. That’s what you’re known for. You like throwing high and inside. You shove people’s faces into the dirt. Off the field, you apparently kidnap kids. Oh, and let’s not forget that you punch out fellow players at bars for no apparent reason.”

That really had me seeing red. “If you’re referring to Grant Newman, that man is an asshole and a bully,” I said, seething, “and I still don’t regret knocking that motherfucker out. I’d do it again if I had the chance.”

Mr. Yerac’s face hadn’t altered from its cold and stern expression. “You know what? I’m done here, speaking with a tattooed thug like you. I’ll just get to the point of why I’ve brought you here. You’re done in this league. I doubt you’ll ever play again. We’re letting you go.”

The air came out of me like I was a deflating balloon.

He’d said all this so calmly, like he’d rehearsed it. Maybe he had. God knew I’d been in trouble often enough, and it was ironic that it was all coming back to bite me in the ass. But I’d realized that possibility a long time ago.

“You’re…releasing me?”

“That’s right. Under clause 507b. Since you probably didn’t read that part of your contract, it means that you’ll get none of the money that’s due to you. As long as we can prove that your character is a financial damage to the team’s image, which we can now prove, it’s all become very simple, Jake. I’m told that charges are already being drawn up by the father of this boy as we speak.”

I took a step toward Mr. Yerac. “You think I give a shit about the money? Because I care about two things here: the truth, and the fact that I’ve worked my ass off to make sure we make it to the World Series this October. I’m the best pitcher we’ve got, and we can’t win without me. You know that.”

“Don’t try to challenge me, boy,” Mr. Yerac said with a frown. “You think I give a damn about winning the World Series? Or the rest of the team? I’m not saying I want to lose, but in the end, what’s important is our bottom line. And the money we’ll save by getting you out of your contract far outweighs what we’d make by getting into the World Series.”

My blood boiled. I wanted to smack the man.

But that wasn’t how things were done in the front office.

I didn’t care about the money. Though not playing baseball, and so close to the biggest prize in the game…at the moment, I knew none of it mattered. It was done. I also didn’t have any choice but to take responsibility for it. Whatever anyone said, I cared about the fact that I’d let down the fans and my teammates, but most of all, I cared that I was disappointing Tate and Andrea.

I was a dirty South Side motherfucker at heart, and now I was back to square one. If Tate’s father had a good lawyer, I could even end up losing all my money.

I was back to being the man I thought I’d grow up to be: the black sheep nobody wanted. As much as a man tried, getting away from his roots was impossible.