I should pick them up.
The little green shards of glass all over the floor. Reminders of Scout. Of the explanations she gave. The words I hurled. Of everything that is broken.
I should pick them up.
But I don’t.
I stay where I’ve been seated all night. And now I guess morning. Head pounding. Gut turning. Eyes staring.
At the empty stadium. The one I couldn’t stand to see lit up last night is vacant now. A mausoleum of memories of my career. I reach down to the new bottle of whiskey, but just run my fingertips around its rim, knowing I don’t need any more.
But I take a sip anyway. Tip the bottle to my lips to drown out her voice in my head.
Formal trade options. Correspondence with Dallas over trading you.
To block out the look on her face and the hope that slowly faded from her voice with each and every accusation I threw at her.
Orders for you to be sent down. There was an email to the manager . . . you were going down to play for them.
I can blame her all I want, but I did this. I knew some day it would happen. That my secret would ruin something I loved.
But not like this.
Not with these kinds of consequences.
I only had seconds, Easton. Seconds.
The sky is grey. Moody and gloomy and miserable.
I’m in love with you.
Another drink. Then another.
There’s too much noise. In my mind. In my heart.
Why did you sign the papers? Why would Finn ever let you agree to that? Why wasn’t he there today?
There’s no sun to light up the sky like normal. The pinks and oranges that filled it yesterday as we made slow, sweet love are gone.
I scrub a hand over my face. Try to wipe the memory away because it hurts like a bitch. The soft sighs. The throaty moans. The smell of her skin. The feel of her lips.
I’m in love with you.
“Fucking hell, Wylder,” I say to no one, knowing I should be thinking about the game. About where I’m headed. About what it’s going to feel like cleaning out my locker. About what I’m going to say to my mom when I drive out there to see her later today and prepare her for my departure.
But I’m sitting here thinking about Scout. About the position I put her in. About the decision she made. About how I blamed her because it was so much easier than telling her the truth.
The bottle feels heavy in my hand. It’s so tempting but I opt to drink it rather than throw it like I did the other.
The fight in me is gone.
It left when Scout walked out.
When I pushed her out.
When I forced her to take the blame.
I’m in love with you.
Did she mean it?
What does it even matter now?
She still betrayed me. She didn’t fight for me.
So why should I fight for her?
Get up, Easton. Take a shower. Clean yourself up. Start packing.
Stop hurting.
My cell rings again. It’s the third time in an hour.
I give in. Relent. Give up.
“Finn.”
“I just got the paperwork. What she told you last night was right. It’s Dallas. The reporters are rabid for an explanation, so Tillman’s holding a press conference at eight thirty to announce the trade. I’ll be there, and then I’m going to hound the fuck out of him in our meeting and demand to see all the documentation. I want to see what that slimebag had you sign and . . .”
He keeps rambling but all I hear is Dallas. I should feel relief. I should be able to breathe a bit easier knowing the where. She was right. It’s close enough that I can still take care of my mom. It’s close enough that I can come home. It’s the next-best scenario to being in Austin . . . and yet I won’t be an Ace anymore.
The one certainty in my life is no longer there.
“. . . and I’m going to let him know when Boseman returns, I’ll have him looking into the shady shit he pulled. I want Tillman’s balls nailed to a wall for—”
“Cancel the meeting, Finn.”
“What?”
“There’s no need to fight it. When and where do I need to report to the Wranglers?”
“I don’t understand. What’s going on?”
The same thing I’ve done my whole life. Dodge. Avoid. Distract.
“I’m done. It’s over. Accept the terms. Book me a flight. Or I’ll drive there. What-the-fuck-ever. Just tell me when I need to report, and I’ll be there.”
“But Cory needs to be—”
“No meeting, Finn,” I say firmly as my fingers tighten on the neck of the bottle and my fingers on my other hand end the call.
The sky’s still grey.
I have a feeling it’s going to be that way for a while.
But this is on me.
Not Cory.
Not Finn.
Not Scout.
All me.
The guilt’s worse than the fear.
But there’s no need to argue anymore.
I can handle this.
I brought it on myself, after all.