Page 4 of Playing With The Mountain Man

Like every other day, the evening flew by in a rush of errands, dinner, and bedtime. Once I’d read River a story and tucked him in for the night, I grabbed myself a handful of chocolates and made a cup of tea before settling on the couch with my book. Normally this was my stolen moment of me time, but tonight, no matter how good the book was, it couldn’t hold my attention.

Frustrated, I flicked off the lights and went into the bathroom. I hadn’t planned on standing under the hot water and letting it rain down on me, but the moment the hot water touched my skin, I felt a peace wash over me.

I got out, dried my hair, moisturized my body, and pulled on my fresh pajamas. Then I checked and double-checked that the house was locked up. Despite everyone assuring me that there was no crime in Wattle Creek, I wasn’t taking any chances. Finally satisfied, I slipped into bed.

That night was the first in three years I hadn’t dreamed of Sean. Instead, a man with a bushy beard and cognac-colored eyes I could get lost in was the leading man in my dreams.

Chapter three

Cody

This week was never fucking ending. It didn’t seem to matter how many miles I ran, how many cold plunges I took, or how far I pushed my shoulder, ignoring the stabbing pain radiating through my body, I couldn’t shake the feeling.

My phone rang, and I ignored it.

Again.

My boss had been calling for days, but I didn’t want to hear it. I knew I was behind and owed him an episode, but the thought of shutting myself inside the tiny room and recording my thoughts on the upcoming season sounded like another form of torture I wasn’t ready to endure.

My podcasting career started as a joke among my teammates. They accused me of always having an opinion and told me to find someone who cared to talk to. The first one I pushed out was recorded on my phone and posted online as a ‘fuck you’ to their comments. But then came the feedback. By the end of the season, I had sponsors, players clambering to be guests, and a thousand-dollar microphone.

When my season and my career came to a crashing halt four games from the end of last season, I wanted to throw it all away. I couldn’t see how I could do it. Talking about the game I’d loved, chatting with people who still got to play while I was stuck on the sidelines nursing an injury. But the money and the offers kept coming. Not that I needed it. I’d made more than enough through my playing career to never have to work again, but I knew myself well enough that I’d go insane with idle hands. As far back as I could remember, I’d been busy. Even in middle school, I went from classes to training, then home. Now, without a schedule and no one to keep me in line, I was floundering.

It was barely seven, and there was a chill in the air. March in the mountains would take some getting used to.

My phone rang again.

I snatched it, setting aside my coffee.

“Morning,” I answered grumpily.

“Cody, you’re avoiding me,” my boss called me out.

“No I’m not,” I lied. I was absolutely avoiding him. I was avoiding everyone and everything if I was being honest.

“When am I getting the next episode? Brandon tells me you haven’t even started recording it yet,” Ben tossed out.

“I … I …” I didn't have an answer.

“What’s going on, Cody? This isn’t like you. We usually have everything ahead of a deadline, and not once have I had to chase you up. It’s one of the reasons you were one of my favorites to work with.” He softened.

“Oh, I’m still your favorite,” I reminded him, trying to distract him so I didn't have to answer.

“I said you were one of my favorites. At the moment, you’re just another pain in my ass who’s letting me down.”

Ouch! That stung. My stomach sank.

I groaned and ran my hand over my beard. Beard? Since when was I the guy who wore a beard? When I’d first moved into my cabin high in the Kodiak Mountains, I’d stopped shaving without thought. It was more out of laziness than anything, but as it kept growing, I’d just let it go. Even when the strands of silver started showing up, I couldn't be bothered dealing with it. Then I realized it was the best disguise I could’ve asked for.

“You’ll have an episode by lunchtime tomorrow,” I conceded.

“Do you even have a guest lined up?”

“I’m sure I can figure something out,” I told him, not at all worried. After playing in the MLB for the last twelve years, I had enough numbers in my phone. I had no doubt I could rustle something up.

Leaving me with threats of breach of contract, he hung up.

A smart man would’ve taken it as the kick up the ass he needed and got on with it, but I’d never been accused of being a smart guy. So instead, I pulled on my hiking boots, tossed a few things in my backpack, and ventured out into the woods.