Life in Hiding

9 ~ Who

My relationship with baseball hasn't improved and time is slowly running out.

I leave for my last travel ball tournament ever in two weeks. The thought of dozens of scouts watching me pitch like the bedwetting newbie I'm acting like is horrifying. What's even worse is the lack of excitement I have all together.

The thought of a chapter of my life ending was expected to fill me with some level of sadness. The end of a long, bumpy road that's been paved for me since I came out of the womb. The fact that my parents won't be here to witness it should rub some salt in the wound. I've even prepared for that.

However, I feel nothing. I'm indifferent to what it means for me and that scares me.

Maybe that's why I'm no longer bothered by the fact I'm in the middle of another bullpen and I'm sucking almost as much as I did last week. I've had 10 balls go straight over Zayne's head and another eight in the dirt.

Not even caring that I send the last pitch perfectly down the middle, I yank my glove off. Desperate for the leather to be removed from my hand.

"Sage, hold up!" He calls and I stop, waiting for him to catch up. He pushes his dark hair out of his eyes. "Talk to me."

That hasn't been working for my therapist, I don't think it's gonna work for you. "About what?"

"About the shit show I've been catching." He snaps, throwing an arm out to block me from leaving.

"It's just a rough adjustment, no biggie." I assure him.

Eyeing me skeptically, he spits out some sunflower seeds.  "Look, something's holding you back. Figure it out and let it go."

You play the same sport as your father.

Smirking, I ignore the erratic pounding of my heart. "I'll be sure to send it your way."

Snorting, he flicks me off. "Glad to know you're good, Asshole."

"I'm feeling like a thousand bucks, boy, and don't forget it." Counterfeit.

Heading to the car, I try to shake the lingering ghosts from my mind on my drive home. The windows open to let the crisp autumn air freeze out my thoughts.

My room fits how I really feel. My drums are piled in the corner where Scarlett tried to rearrange them. It's not right but as soon as I was assured I didn't break them, I left the pile alone. Albums of my childhood are sprawled across the ground, evidence from how I scrounged through old pictures to remember what it felt like to love baseball.

Desperate to have that wild smirk spread across my lips as I roll the ball between my fingers without having my stomach roll in disgust.

Bending over, I pick up a picture of me pitching when I was 13. Without checking the back, I know this is from the championship game where I struck 9 batters out in a row. Dad was ecstatic. I can still remember his hooting and hollering all the way to the car, insisting we had to celebrate.

I didn't comprehend why he was so happy, there were other batters that got hits off me. Even if we won.

My phone rings and I answer it as the image filters back to the ground.

"Hello?"

"Miss me?" A smug voice fills my ears.

"Please, with all your calling I feel like you're a needy girlfriend." I snap, trying to ignore the fact I've been dodging Ashton's calls like the plague.

"I have needs, Rhodes, fulfill them and keep me happy."

"But I thought I was the wife?" I pout. "They say happy wife, happy life, so please me."