Page 357 of The Lies We Play

Start Reading LOST IN OVERTIME

LOST IN OVERTIME

Alberto

Conrad Pierce, my agent, calls three times in a row.

I miss the first call because I’m in the shower, water pounding my shoulders like it can rinse off dread. The second because I want to. Because I know what this is. The trade deadline is next week, and I’ve lived this movie enough times to recite the lines before anyone opens their mouth.

I miss the third because I’m standing in front of my closet, staring at suits I never wear and jerseys I don’t own, and thinking, I didn’t even make it a full season here.

Boston is supposed to be a legacy city. Original Six. History. Loyalty.

My apartment doesn’t care.

It still doesn’t feel like mine. I’ve been here long enough to learn which floorboards complain when you cross the living room. Long enough to know the neighbor’s dog barks at midnight like it’s paid hourly. Long enough to keep protein powder in a cabinet that smells like humidity and cheap wood.

The neighbor downstairs swears this building is haunted. Maybe it is, and that’s why it fits me.

I never make friends with anyone, not even the ghosts. Honestly, I never unpack all the way.

I keep my life in stacks that can be shoved into duffels fast. I keep my heart in my chest like a locked room, because I learned early on that “home” is a word people toss around like it’s permanent.

For me, it’s always been temporary, with a lease attached.

The phone rings again.

Fourth time.

I answer because I can’t outrun the inevitable forever. “Yeah.”

“Monty.” Conrad’s voice is controlled in that way agents train into themselves—like he’s speaking from inside a booth where nothing can touch him. “Where are you?”

“My apartment,” I say, because that’s the answer he needs. As if I might be in a bar. As if I might be doing something reckless. As if the worst thing I could do is look human.

“Are you alone?”

“Yeah,” I say.

I could answer, “I always am”, but I don’t. I don’t explain that I never bring anyone here. Why would I? Why bother letting someone learn your habits, your mornings, your bad jokes, your favorite coffee order, if you’re going to disappear?

I’m too old for one-night stands.

Too jaded to pretend a relationship is possible when I can’t even promise the same zip code next month.

Also, I’m in love with a woman who can’t choose me. It’s not because she doesn’t love me. It’s because she loves too much.

Her heart is big enough to hold two men, and mine is selfish enough to want her anyway.

The entitled asshole.

Or me.

“Good.” A pause. Then: “I’m going to say it, and you’re going to let me finish before you speak.”

My jaw sets, the muscle ticking like it’s got its own pulse.

“That’s cute,” I tell him. “You think you control me.”