Page 67 of The Run Back Home

Because right or wrong, that's not what's on my mind.

She doesn't have to text me—I shouldn't want her to. And this whole thing started because I suggested I call her.

Genius.

But I'd be lying if I said I didn't expect her to use my number now that she had it saved again—because she had to save it again. Unlike me.

But who goes through all the trouble that she did just to not follow through?

I laugh as the thought runs through my mind.

Because that shouldn't surprise me. That's Lenny's M.O.—fading away instead of showing up.

Broken promises. Things left unsaid.

And I'm still the idiot who expected something different.

"Yo, Holloway."

My name rings out from outside the clubhouse door. I whip my head toward where my coach stands leaning in the doorframe. He nods toward the hall. "Come to my office."

A series of oohs and uh ohs pour out—mostly from JJ's direction. I chuckle, pulling my shirt over my head and throwing a middle finger up as I walk toward the door.

Moving down the long hallway with large, framed photos of past wins and players hanging on the walls, I replay the game in my mind like I always do. Every catch, every play—the errors you wish you didn't have to remember. But it's the best way to get better.

Baseball might not be everything anymore—not with my family close again. But it's still the only thing I've always had consistently. It led me to some of the best moments—best people—in my life.

And got me through some of the worst.

This deep, dull ache in my muscles used to be a reprieve from the pain I felt inside my chest. And I would focus on that when everything else felt heavy. Lonely. When CMU felt a million miles from what I missed most, and Golden City felt like a bandaid I was afraid wouldn't stick.

That gnawing feeling would remind me I made it. That I was living my dream despite feeling like the rest of life as I knew it was gone. And back then, those things felt bigger—more impossible to manage. But the game, my team—they got me here.

Now, I'll gladly take the physical reminder that this sport single-handedly pieced me back together.

When I reach Skipper's door, I peek my head through the frame and knock on the heavy wood just below his name plate.

"Yeah, come in," he says, his face already pressed against an iPad, running game film on the screen the way I've been doing it inside my mind. "I wanted to talk details with you for the Deaf Awareness Night."

"Oh, uh, okay." New energy floods my system, anticipation crawling at my still-damp skin.

Skip sets the tablet down and interlocks his fingers, his elbows resting on his desk. "Liam's got his guys supporting you on the back end, and Cecily in Promotions and Relations is handling the rest—really running with the whole idea. But she wanted me to talk to you about getting Vienna to sign the National Anthem."

A quick breath escapes my lips, and he cocks one brow.

"Sorry." I blink away my first reaction. "I'm just surprised, I guess. V's gonna flip."

He opens his palms. "So, you think she'll do it?"

I shrug. "I mean, I'll ask her to make sure, but yeah. I think she'd love to."

He slaps his hands back together. "Well, great. Then I'll tell Cecily she's in."

I laugh, imagining my little sister's face. Picturing how, moving forward, she'll use this as an opportunity to brag that she's performed on the same field as me. Taunting me with something like See, it's not so hard.

Pride rises in my chest as I think about her standing on the grass, camera in her face, and tens of thousands of people watching her from every angle.

For a quick second, that joy morphs into nerves. "Coach, are you sure they want a seven-year-old doing something like that? Feels, I don't know… kind of big."