Tillie Jean pushes a chair in between Cooper and Robinson and hands the rookie a beer, sloshing the liquid over the side as she puts it down. “Tough break, kid, but you’re not the first to fall under her spell. Aunt Glory’s half the reason for the huge rivalry we have with that dumb town up the way that I’m not allowed to call dumb anymore now that Grady’s married to someone from there. Max, I didn’t get to tell you earlier—I love your shirt. It really brings out the muscles in your—a-wah-wah-wah.”
Cooper jerks his chin at me while he holds a hand over her mouth. “Got your back, Max. Starting to understand what’s wrong with the dart board, and it’s not the dart board, right?”
Stafford lines up a shot and comes within a hair of a bull’s-eye. “Yeah, the problem’s totally not the dart board.”
Robinson scoots his chair further from her. “TJ, why don’t you ever compliment my muscles?”
“Boo-da-fwa-wa.”
Her eyes are dancing again, clear as day despite the late hour, and it briefly makes me wonder what she’s sipping out of her glittery coffee mug before I remember I shouldn’t wonder about her at all.
I’d still bet my favorite glove she’s talking nonsense behind Cooper’s hand, though, and also that she’s probably going to lick it any minute now.
He yelps and jerks his hand away.
Stafford snickers. “Can’t handle a little lick, Coop?”
“I hit his tickle spot,” Tillie Jean whispers loudly, lifting a hand smeared with dried green paint and wiggling her fingers. She follows it with a giggle. “And don’t worry, Max. I’ll get him back for you taking his glitter bomb. TJ’s on the case.”
Cooper laughs. “What, you’re gonna tie your own shoelaces together?”
“Not telling. But you are going down, my dear brother. So, so down.”
“You’re going down.”
They need to stop talking about going down. And yeah, that’s one more reason I hate Tillie Jean Rock.
“If you’d been the one to walk through your front door like you were supposed to be, you’d be glittering, and Max would still be secretly in love with me.”
They both look at me, Cooper like dude, I’m sorry I have a sister, Tillie Jean like c’mon, Max, what’s it take to get a reaction out of you?
I jerk my head toward the bathroom. “Back in a minute,” I tell Stafford.
I’m not coming back. I’m slipping out the back door. The bar’s too crowded, the people too happy, and I’m on edge.
Happens sometimes.
Shouldn’t be here. I’m in a mood. Need to get back to the house I rented for the winter, read a little, write some shit down, breathe, and start fresh in the morning.
But I need to take a leak first, and when I walk out of the john, I bump into Cooper’s dad.
He smiles, just like he always does, and once again, I’m reminded of all the reasons I hate Tillie Jean.
She has no idea how good she has it with a father like hers.
“Hey, Max. Good to have you here.” He claps me on the shoulder. “I know you kids are planning on working hard, but don’t let the pressure get to you. Already proved yourselves this year, and you know baseball. Never know what’ll happen.”
Relax relax relax. “That’s half of why we love the game.”
He chuckles. “No matter what next season brings, you boys made us all proud.”
Hello, sucker punch number two.
It’s not that I didn’t play my heart out on the field.
I did.
It’s more that it’s always someone else’s dad telling me they’re proud. Not sure why that one hurts tonight—I let it go a long time ago—but there it is.
It’s one more cosmic smack in the junk on a night that I should’ve stayed home.
I nod to him, step around him, and head toward the party room and the back door to freedom, but I barely get inside before I bump into someone again.
And this time the bump comes with a hint of rum and a subconscious twitch between my shoulders, followed immediately by a cold splash of something all down my shirt and jeans.
“Oh, crap!” Tillie Jean leaps back, looks up at me, and makes a face that would be hilarious on any other woman in the world. Lips pursed out in an O, eyes bulging under wonky eyebrows, you’re gonna kill me now, aren’t you? replacing her usual hey, big guy, what’s up? swagger. “Oh, crap crap crap, I did not just do this again.”
“TJ, give the guy a break.” Cooper rises from his spot halfway across the room as Tillie Jean grabs a napkin and attacks me with it.
“I know, I know, you’re gonna start thinking I’m doing this on purpose,” she mutters while she swipes my shirt.
My favorite Boring Distillery T-shirt that’s been washed the exact right number of times to make it soft as butter, and that they discontinued a year ago, is now coated in brown paint water.
Ruined.
Fucking. Ruined.
“You—” I cut myself off with a grunt as she goes south of the border with the napkins, and I leap back. “I got this. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
I’m not fine.
My pulse is kicking up and my muscles are clenching and there’s that itchy spot between my shoulder blades that I can never reach, getting itchier by the minute.
Bar’s too crowded.
I know they’re all good people. I know they mean well. I know tomorrow is a new day and everything will be fucking fine, but I’m not into it tonight.
“Hey, Aunt Glory, send me a bill, yeah?” Cooper calls to the bartender as he nudges Tillie Jean out of the way. He makes eye contact—panic attack, man? I got you—and jerks his head at the back door. “C’mon. Let’s go goat-tipping.”
“Stay,” I mutter to him. I’m not having a damn panic attack. I refuse. I’m just pissed. “Just need clean pants and a new favorite shirt.”
“Sure. Then—”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He holds my gaze, and I want to punch him. Again.
Not because he’s an asshole.
More because I am.
After an eternity that’s probably only half a second, he nods. “Nine at my house. Mountain sprints, baby.”
“Can’t wait.”
I wave to Trevor and Robinson, nod to the bartender, and escape as fast as I can without looking like I’m trying to escape.
The cold post-season air hits me as soon as I step outside, and I suck in a full breath that doesn’t quite quell the agitation. Ripping my shirt off and basking in the chill doesn’t help either. I’m still too hot.
I’m always too hot, but tonight, it’s worse. I’d rip my pants off too if I thought that would help, but it wouldn’t.
No sense asking what’s wrong with me.
It’s always the same.
Fucking anxiety.
Usually I have it under control. But since we made the post-season, it’s been sneaking up and hitting me worse.
Not hard to figure out why.
Play for a team that finishes with the worst record in baseball nine years out of ten, people don’t expect much of you. You still work hard, but you get to play hard too without much thought. Even before I was with the Fireballs, I played for a team that underperformed.