I don’t know what I expected their new place to look like, but it wasn’t this. Instead of the spacious, stucco-style home in Arizona, they chose a cozy ranch layout in a verifiable forest. It’s so different and unbelievably quiet.

In the limited time I had today to explore Bloomfield, that’s what I learned. It’s quiet here. That and people are nosy.

“You wanna stay for supper, Fish?” Dad asks. “We’d love to have you.”

“I would, but I have meetings all day tomorrow in Cincinnati. I better get my ass back to the hotel tonight.”

Dad gives our shoulders a final squeeze before releasing them. “Well, suit yourself. But I hope you’ll come back and see us before you head back to California.”

“Oh, for sure,” Fish says. “Me and Cole haven’t even had time to cause trouble yet.”

“That’s true. We still need to light this little town all the way up, Pops,” I say, elbowing my father in the side.

He gives me a stern look. “I thought you’d grown out of all of that debauchery.”

Fish cackles as I try my best to look innocent.

“Me?” I point at myself. “Debaucherous? Dad.”

He ignores me. “Thanks for your help tonight, Fish,” Dad says.

“Hey.” I look at my father. “What about me?”

“What about you?”

“Do you think I wanted to spend my vacation out here fixing fences?” I joke.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass. You’re retired now. These are the things you do in retirement.”

Ouch.

I know he’s kidding. I was too. But that jab felt like a knife twisting inside an already ripe wound.

There’s no way for Dad to know that, though.

He smiles at me, nearly beaming. Why wouldn’t he? His only son—his only child, for that matter—is home. Retired from the major leagues. Living the dream that he’s always wished for himself.

And here I am bitter about it.

I toe a rock, kicking it across the lawn. It comes to a stop near a picnic table that my mom painted magenta.

“Yeah,” I say when I realize that both Dad and Fish are waiting for me to say something. “That’s me. Retirement guy.”

Fish studies my reaction in the same way he has ever since I told him that I was walking away from the game. His response to the announcement has been measured. He’s done all the things—offered support, congratulated me. He even threw a party for me in Vegas.

But I know Fish . . . and Fish knows me.

The party was for appearances. It was the natural thing to do, to celebrate a hell of a career and go out with a bang. And strippers, naturally, because it’s Fish.

The event hushed any whispers around the league that I was exaggerating my injury. I must’ve really gotten whacked when Tyson Balmby slid into home plate and ran his helmet straight into my shoulder. Why else would I retire at the top of my game?