Page 80 of Off Limits: The Firsts

Scout.

I stare at the front of her little townhome for who knows how long, trying to make sense of the trade and the club where I’ve devoted my career.

And all I feel is defeat. I’ve busted my ass for months to get back, and just as I get there, my team trades my enemy to my team? To play my position?

I should go have a few drinks.

I should turn around, head back toward the stadium, find a dark hole-in-the-wall bar and drink myself into oblivion while I watch the game. While I watch Santiago in my position. In my team uniform.

Fuck me.

I should leave Scout out of this. I’m not at my best, not what she needs to deal with.

I look around. Spot a bar across the way and down a little bit to the left.

Drink.

Scout.

Drink.

Scout.

I need both.

“Easton? Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for the past hour!”

Relief courses through me at the sight of him standing in my doorway, still in his practice uniform, almost as if he heard the news I found out about a little bit ago and walked right off the field. He’s a little bleary eyed and a lot unsteady on his feet but it’s his face that etches itself into my mind—part lost little boy, part defiant teenager, and a whole lot of pissed-off man.

“I needed a drink. I needed you first, but figured I should have a drink first.” He half slurs, half laughs and shakes his head. “I’m not making sense. Welcome to the motto of my day: nothing makes sense.”

“Come on. Come in.” I grab onto him, pull him inside, and lead him by the hand over to the couch. “I flipped on the TV to catch the game, and he was an Ace. I’ve been out of my mind trying to get ahold of you.”

He plops on the couch but doesn’t say a single word as I prattle on, trying to ease the anxiety I’ve had for the past hour and a half over whether he was okay.

“Talk to me. Please,” I beg as I look down at where he’s sitting in front of me. I need to know what to do to help him.

The silence stretches except for the low hum of the announcers’ voices in the background of the game, and I debate whether or not I should turn it off. His discord is more than obvious, magnified by the drink or ten he’s most likely had, and I feel helpless standing here staring at him while he’s staring at his hands clasped in between his legs.

“I’m going to get you some water,” I say, and just as I take a step, Easton takes me by surprise, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me into him so that his arms wrap around my hips, and he rests his forehead against my belly, his hat falling backward off his head.

My heart breaks for him, for what he must be thinking, because I’ve been thinking the same. So I do the only thing I can: I thread my fingers through his hair and just let him hold on to me and take whatever it is he needs from me.

Half an inning expires while we stay like this and I try to figure out what it is I can say to make it better. Then I laugh at how stupid that sounds. So I say the next best thing I can think of.

“I talked to Dr. Kimble today. We’ll give Santiago three weeks to rent that spot behind your plate and show his skills. Then you’ll be back, and when you step on the field, the difference in your skill level will be so obvious, everyone will realize how much they missed you.”

He chuckles. The heat of it hits my belly as his fingers tense and flex against my hips before he slowly leans against the back of the couch. His hands pull on my hips and guide me to straddle him. I follow his lead, my eyes steadfast on his, waiting for him to look up so I can get a glimpse of what he’s thinking.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he rests his head back and closes his eyes; his thumbs, now resting on the sides of my hips, rub circles against the denim of my jeans. “I turned my phone off. Sorry I didn’t pick up, but I thought it might be best to not talk to anyone for a bit.”

I nod my head, and then realize he can’t see it. “Understandably. I’m sure your dad is worried about you. Did you talk to him at all?” He doesn’t reply, just gives a half-hearted shrug that doesn’t give me any insight.

“You know what gets me?” he asks with an audible skepticism I can understand. “What did I ever do to him? Get a better contract with a better team? There are a hundred guys out there who have better contracts . . . so why pick me to fuck with? Is it just because I’m the privileged legacy son, so he doesn’t think I deserve it? Is it because he thinks I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth and a gold bat in my hand when he had to struggle? Doesn’t he get that it wasn’t all fucking cherries being Cal Wylder’s son? That I’d give my eye-teeth to have one moment of my baseball career that wasn’t overshadowed by the fact that I better perform as expected from the Iron Giant’s son?”

He lifts his eyes and looks at me for the first time, weary and a little lost.