He just shrugs. “Means Monty and Darling told me you’ve got some shit going on at home with…” He trails off, shooting a quick glance in Coach’s direction — who for some reason is glaring down at his phone — before looking back to me. “Isabelle. We’ve all been there, Yami. Having to deal with shit at home while trying to play, I mean. The only thing you can do is shove it to the back of your mind, lock it down tight, and focus on the game.”
“Great advice, Mav. I’ll get right on that.”
His eyebrows raise, but he otherwise looks totally unaffected by my sarcastic response. “Okay. Good.” With that, he pivots on his foot and walks over to one of the equipment managers, handing them his glove so he can get ready to bat.
One of the assistant coaches walks up to me, looking down at a clipboard. “Yami, Coach says you’re out tonight. Head tothe bullpen and keep your arm warm, we’re switching you and Tucker on the schedule. You’ll pitch the last game instead.”
I stare at him in shock. “What?”
He just shrugs and jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward Coach Stirling. “Take it up with the boss.”
Fuck.
I spend the game in the bullpen, watching my teammates struggle their way to a 6-5 win. The guys are all exhausted when they come off the field, and I can’t help but feel like it’s partly my fault.
“Yami. Conference room. Now.” Coach barks the order into the locker room before turning on his heel and stomping away.
Here we go.
My head is a mess. I hate that it affected my game, but what’s done is done. I’ll listen to Coach’s lecture, nod when I need to nod, then I’m going back to the hotel and I’m fucking calling Isabelle.
I can’t take it anymore. I need to talk to her and figure out what she’s thinking.
But the lecture I’m anticipating is not what I get when I walk into the empty conference room that was recently filled with media. Instead, Coach slams a piece of paper down on the desk between us and shoves it across the top toward me.
“Mind telling me what the fuck this is all about?”
My heart stops.
It’s a printout of a tabloid article, with a zoomed-in photo of me and Isabelle. I instantly know exactly when it was taken. Back in July, at the end of All-Star break, as we were driving home from the cabin. We stopped to grab a bite to eat, and I stupidly draped my arm over her shoulder and kissed her head. We thought no one noticed, there were only a couple of people around, but apparently, we were wrong.
“Look. Coach. It’s not —”
“Don’t insult my goddamn intelligence and try to say it’s not what it looks like. How long, Yami?”
I blink once. Twice. “How long?”
“How long have you been dating my stepdaughter?”
My spine stiffens, and my fists clench. “With all due respect, Coach, I don’t know that it’s any of your business.”
Coach raises his eyebrows, his jaw ticking. “It is when it’s impacting how you play. So get talking.”
There’s no escaping it. I wish I could talk to Isabelle before I do this, but that’s not an option. I’ve got to tell him everything.
“Isabelle and I were in a relationship in college. We were more than friends, we loved each other. She moved to Italy to get to know her father’s family and broke it off with me. We hadn’t seen each other in eight years until you brought her to Family Day back in the spring. But we reconnected and started hanging out again.”
I pause, mentally debating exactly how much to tell him. Something tells me he won’t be a fan of the idea that we initially planned to keep things casual, friends with benefits style. Good thing that’s not how I feel any longer. Maybe I can win him over with the honest truth.
“I never stopped loving her, Coach. I want nothing more than to have a second chance with her. But I also know she has dreams and goals that she might not be able to accomplish if she stays in Vancouver with me. So you wanna know what’s going on? I told her that I love her right before leaving for this trip. And I asked her to consider giving me that second chance. But I haven’t heard a word from her since I walked out the door of my apartment. And that’s fucking killing me inside.”
Coach sinks down into his chair and pulls his hat off, then rubs his bald head. “Well, shit, Yami.”
I sit down in the chair opposite him. “Yeah.”
He lifts his gaze to meet mine, and I’m relieved to see the anger is gone from his face. “She’s leaving in a couple of weeks, son.”
“Sooner, possibly.”