I had the control and the speed and the size. Every damn thing the MLB scouts wanted, and yet I was sold out. Agents promised me they’d call. They told me they wanted me. And when they did call—from what I learned later—they were assured that my lack of respect for those in authority would only ever be a severe handicap and risk. Oh, and had they seen Marcus, my stepbrother’s stats? Asshole.

Stepping off the mound, I roll my shoulders to clear it. I can’t think about shit like that right now. I let that dream go over five years ago and made as much peace with it as I could.

“You ever thought of pitching batting practice for us?” Grainger asks.

“I have in years past,” I answer, but that’s all I say.

Because I’m not here to pitch batting practice or to improve my slider. I’m here to get the aggression out. The anger. The need for my life, my fucked-up head, to feel normal again when the goalposts for normal seem to be continually moved from one day to the next.

“I saw you at the Lager and LEGO thing. Who was your hot date?”

Fucking Chase.

“Fastball,” I say, not wanting to talk about her.

Her, being another reason I’m here, tied up, and needing to pitch.

“Changeup.” I indicate with the motion of my glove in a different way.

The woman is tying me up in knots.

“Curve.” My shoulder burns with the pitch, but I don’t care. I need this. To understand how I feel about her, how she made me feel when she showed up at my house with what looked like panic the other day . . . and my first thought was that she was leaving.

I stressed over it all day.

Stressed, when I’m not one to stress.

And that? That scared the fuck out of me, when we’re not far enough in this relationship to be scared the fuck out of.

I’ve let her in.

She’s the first one I have.

The dream reliving everything that happened last night.

Seeing Jenny and celebrating Dickman’s birthday tonight.

Chase Kincade.

Emotions.

Fucking goddamn emotions.

That’s why I’m here, in my church of sorts. In my therapist’s office. The place where I always go when I need to work through memories or demons or emotions—the ones that haunt me—and the PTSD that chases me.

“You sure you’re good?” Grainger asks.

Good? That’s not something I think I’ll ever be. I try to give back, try to give more, try to make up for not being able to save my guys that day, and yet I always feel like it’s never enough. Like no matter what I do, it won’t ever be enough.

And it won’t.