“Myla, please, just go back into the house, and I’ll call you out when it’s done.”

“What’s the big deal? Is the pitcher throwing a perfect game or something?”

All the innards in my body seize and shrivel into dust as she mutters the words you should never fucking mutter. Throat dry, lips parched, unable to form the right words, I very slowly swivel my head to look at her.

And from my expression, she must understand what she just said. “Oh, that’s the big deal? He’s throwing a perfect game?”

“Stop,” I squeak out. “Don’t . . . don’t say that.”

“Say what? Perfect game?” She seems clueless, but is she really?

It’s like a bullet to the chest, every time, whittling me down until nothing’s left of me.

“Yes,” I gulp.

“For God’s sake, Ryot, you’re so superstitious.” She tucks her towel under her arm. “Me saying perfect game is not going to determine the results. He’s either going to pitch a good game, or he’s going to blow it in the end. But saying perfect game won’t change that. Watch. Perfect game, perfect game, perfect game, he’s throwing a perfect game . . . see, everything is fine.”

Everything is not the same.

I have nothing to say.

I can’t move.

And when she goes to the pool where she climbs in and splashes around, playing her music, all I can hear her say over and over again is “perfect game.”

It’s sounding off in my head as the Bobbies take the field in the top of the ninth.

It’s in my head when Harris has two outs and two strikes on the last batter.

And it’s in my head as Harris lets a home run go, ruining the entire fucking game.

* * *

Do you know something Myla absolutely hates? Probably more than me at the moment?

Sports talk shows.

Any kind. On TV, the radio, and podcasts. She doesn’t understand why people pick apart every little piece of a game. I tried explaining that it’s not picking it apart, but that it’s constructive analysis that helps further the listener’s knowledge.

Yeah, she despises them.

I found this out early on in our relationship and invested in a good pair of headphones so she didn’t have to listen to my multitude of podcasts that break down every single game to the nitty-gritty.

Well, guess who lost their headphones—on purpose?

This guy.

And guess who’s blasting his favorite podcast while cooking his very own steak and potatoes? Me. I am.

Sure, this steak that I hand-picked from Whole Foods might not be as tender and juicy as the one from last night. And perhaps these purple fingerling potatoes that I thought were cute in the produce section won’t have the same seasoning as the ones from last night, but they’re better than a protein bar, pretzels, and a banana, and they will taste a lot like redemption.

“Oh my God!” Myla yells as she walks into the kitchen. “Can you turn the yammering down?”