Page 175 of The Fall Classic

I almost ripped that guy’s head off, but she needed me more than I needed to hurt him.

As much work as I’ve done with Dr. Chang this year, I’d still rip the guy’s head off if I ever met him on the street.

Olivia. That’s what she said her name was. I sat with her for twenty minutes, maybe, until her roommate came to pick her up. She was … different then. Too open, too friendly, too eager to please.

This version—Liv—looks like someone closed the door on that girl, and I’m relieved to see it. She was a walking target.

This girl looks like she can handle herself.

She’s not as closed off as she thinks she is, though. She’s sticking close to Georgie and Alma, paying so much attention to her surroundings, watching everyone and everything. And I think I spotted some big shoulder bag or backpack underneath her chair. She looks like she’s one scare away from bolting.

I walk around the farmhouse to the front porch, where there’s a set of outdoor lounge chairs and zero other people.

Dropping to one of the chairs, I exhale roughly.

It’s not that it’s bad being here. Everyone’s cool. The hosts are nice. No one’s trying to get my autograph or hit on me or yell at me for choking in the bottom of the ninth⁠—

Striking out is part of the game. If you choked, then so did every other player on your team time and time again.

Yeah, but they aren’t me.

Those guys all love baseball, sure, but they don’t need baseball. Not like I do. They all have families and friends they go home to. They have traditions and holidays, people they like being around so much they call them “loved ones.”

I have Scottie’s family. But they all have someone else. Dallas has Marisol and their baby, Mateo. Hudson met someone over the summer and is already engaged. Scottie has Lucas.

And I have a dad who’s in and out of prison for misdemeanors and possession and a mom who would have willingly gone home with the guy who spiked Olivia’s drink.

The other guys on the team travel and have hobbies. They play stupid crap like pickleball. Some of them are talking about starting podcasts or being broadcasters or coaches when their careers end.

When my career ends, I’ll have nothing.

I’ll be nothing.

Losing the World Series was like getting cut down at the knees.

But it was seeing Coop—my oldest friend in baseball—get injured that wrecked me.

It never occurred to me that there was any other way out of the sport other than simply getting old and starting to suck.

Injury? Leaving the sport early?

Unthinkable.

“Oh, hey, I didn’t realize anyone was out here,” a woman’s voice says, a voice that sounds like it was scraped across the gravel and kept some pebbles in it.

I pull my hands off of my face and look up.

It’s Olivia—Liv.

“Hey, no worries,” I say. “I got people-d out.”

She looks like she’s debating sitting or leaving.

“You can sit,” I say, pointing out the obvious.

“Yeah, but I don’t know if I want to. I don’t know you,” she says bluntly.

“Do you think I bite?” I ask stupidly, but it’s stupid of her to imply it, so …