Isaiah
I knock and wait, hands braced on the edges of the doorframe because my body feels too heavy to hold itself up. I tried to go home, but as soon as I pulled into my parking garage, I backed right out and came here. I didn’t want to be there alone.
I did the right thing with Kennedy. I know I did, but it doesn’t make it any easier, knowing I gave her the option not to be with me.
Typically, I hide the bad moments, lock myself in my apartment so no one sees them. Shit, hiding in the women’s restroom while I was having a bad day is what got me here in the first place.
But I’m tired of it. I’m exhausted from trying to convince others that I’m unbreakable. That I’m the fun one who doesn’t get too worked up about life, doesn’t take anything too seriously.
I am breakable, and I’m currently at my breaking point. So, I came here instead of hiding away.
“Hold on. Someone’s at my door,” I hear Monty say before he cracks his door open, phone pressed to his ear. He takes a moment to look me over before exhaling a sigh of relief. “He’s here. I’ll call you back.” He hangs up the phone to give me his full attention. “What the hell is going on, Isaiah?”
“Can I come in?”
He looks me over, most likely noting how fucking wrecked I am, before fully opening his door to allow me inside. I barely make it into his entryway before he’s cupping the back of my head to pull me into a hug.
“You good?” he asks.
“Not exactly.” I smack him on the back a couple of times, hugging him in return before pulling away.
With a hand outstretched on my shoulder, I can feel him trying to read me, trying to figure out what’s going on. “Come on,” he says, nodding
towards his couch.
I fall into it, letting my heavy body sink into the cushions. Monty heads to the kitchen, grabbing me a water, before settling in on a chair across from me.
“Care to explain why my phone has been blowing up all night due to trade rumors about you?”
“Sorry about that.” It’s my automatic response whenever I feel like I’m making someone’s life more difficult than it needs to be.
“I don’t need you to apologize, Isaiah. I just want to hear from you, not some random TV analysts, that one of my players, who I view as part of my family, is possibly asking for a trade.”
I take a long drink of the water, letting it cool my burning throat. “It wasn’t supposed to get out like that. I was going to talk to you as soon as I told Kennedy, but then my fucking agent opened his big mouth. He’s wanting to build some noise around it, I guess. Get it on other teams’ radars.”
The hurt is so fucking evident on Monty’s face. For being this solid guy who comes across as a hard-ass unless you know him, he looks devastated.
“So you are,” he states. “You’re trying to leave.”
“No.” Head hanging low, I keep my eyes glued to my lap. “Not necessarily.”
There’s a heavy pause, a clear indication that Monty wants me to keep talking.
“I’m only going to leave if Kennedy wants me to go with her. I’m not going to shop offers or anything like that. The only teams I’m willing to play for are either Chicago or the team she gets a job with. San Francisco, in this case.”
His brows furrow in confusion, shaking his head as he tries to understand. “I heard she didn’t get an offer from them.”
“She did, though. She only said she didn’t because she was trying to stay.
For me.”
Understanding washes over him. “And you don’t want her to.”
“Hell no. Fredrick has gotten out of hand with her. I’m tired of it. I’ve watched him treat her like shit for years, and now she has an opportunity to get away from him and have the career she worked so hard for. I’m not going to be the reason she doesn’t take it.”
Monty doesn’t say anything, so I look up to find him watching me. “What?” I ask.
“I wish you would’ve said something before. I’ve seen bits of it, but nothing big enough to bring to upper management. But if it really has gotten that bad, you need to file a formal complaint so we can handle it.”
I can’t do that, and she won’t do it for herself. Years ago, I promised her I wouldn’t say anything, and regardless of Dr. Fredrick getting reprimanded over his treatment of Kennedy or not, the real issue is her current job title.
“When does she have to decide?” he asks.
“I don’t know. It’s already been over a week since she turned them down so I’m hoping when she tells them she changed her mind, the position will still be hers. They wanted her out there as soon as possible to train under the current . . . medical staff.”
“And they won’t let her stay until after the season is over? That’s almost unheard of to ask for that kind of commitment from a junior position.”
Fuck.
I hate lying to Monty, but I’ve held Kennedy’s secret for so long. I’m not going to spill now. Besides, everyone will find out as soon as she leaves.
Folding forward, I lean my elbows on my knees, hands laced together. “I just don’t want you to be upset with me if I explore free agency. The last thing I want to do is disappoint you, Monty. I know we’re not like you and Kai, but you’ve been a massive part of my life since you came to Chicago, and I don’t want you to think you have anything to do with me leaving.”
“Isaiah,” he sighs. “Our relationship isn’t like the one I have with Kai because you are not your brother. He makes it pretty fucking obvious when he needs my help, even if he doesn’t directly come out and say it, but you . . . you act like a little shit half the time because that’s what you want the guys on the team to believe, so I play into it. But I know that’s not you. I see who you really are, and whether you like it or not, whether you leave or not, you will always be part of my family. You and your brother. I feel blessed that you two have let me fill a role that someone else left, you know?”
Fuck, I love this guy.
“And I’m not disappointed in you. Furthest thing from it. I’m proud of you. It takes a real selfless man to give up what you’re offering to give up, to make sure the person you love finds what makes them happy.”
I try not to think too far into everything I could be giving up. My brother is here. My nephew. My teammates. My coach. The list goes on.
I’ll spend my off-season in Chicago, be able to see everyone then. But the one person I can’t give up is Kennedy, and I just hope she’s not planning to give up me.
It’s with that thought that Monty’s door flies open and Kai comes storming into the room.
“What the fuck is going on, Isaiah?”
“Sit down. Chill out.” Monty’s tone holds no room for argument. “Let the guy explain himself.”
And so I do. I tell my brother everything I told Kennedy. Everything I explained to Monty. I watch the frustration on Kai’s face begin to melt away, replaced instead with a bit of sadness, but mostly understanding. I watch as the anger he had turns to sympathy for my situation.
“Well, fuck,” he exhales, sinking into the couch next to me. “Don’t be pissed at me.”
He shakes his head “I’m not, Isaiah. All I’ve wanted my entire life is for you to be happy. And I know that’s why you fake that shit-eating grin sometimes because you don’t want me to worry about you.” He pauses with a sigh. “But just because I’m not happy about this doesn’t mean I’m not happy for you.”
“It’s just . . . you did a lot for me. You gave up a lot for me, and I don’t want you to feel like I’m leaving you.”
“I made a decision about my career that’s best for my family. I can’t blame you for doing the same.” He smacks my leg. “And shit, I’m retiring. You know how much time I’m about to have on my hands to come see you? We’ll make it work. You never have to worry about that.”
I nod in agreement.
“You two hanging here for a while?” Monty asks. “Is that okay?”
“Of course. I’ll order us some dinner.”
Monty’s off the couch with his phone in his hand, leaving my brother and me alone.
There’s a heavy silence before Kai speaks up again. “Mom would be proud of you.”
I nod quickly, clearing my throat to unclog the emotion stuck there.
“And I am too.”
Monty orders enough Chinese takeout to cover his dining room table. The three of us spend the night hanging out, eating dinner, and watching today’s game highlights from around the league. We don’t talk about the possibility of me leaving. We don’t talk about Kennedy, but for the first time ever, I also don’t pretend I’m okay.
I spend the entire evening without a smile on my face, and it’s nice in a way, to not be okay. Freeing, even.
But regardless of the distraction, there’s only one question repeating in my mind and that’s me wondering what the hell I’m going to do if Kennedy doesn’t want me to go with her.
There’s no rain tonight.
Just the rumblings of thunder and the flashes of accompanying lightning.
It’s a dry thunderstorm and if it didn’t freak me the fuck out, I might be able to find the beauty in it. Purple streaks paint the sky. Bright light beams behind the iconic buildings of the Chicago skyline.
But it doesn’t lessen the anxiety. Like some kind of switch, it revs me up, forcing my heart rate to jump, encouraging my nerves to fire.
As much as I love this place, maybe leaving the Midwest wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I wonder if Northern California deals with random summer storms like these.
It’s part of the reason I didn’t go to family dinner tonight. I knew the storm was rolling through, but even more so, I knew her absence would’ve been impossible for me to ignore. It’s hard enough going to sleep each night, knowing she’s not in my bed, let alone sitting around a dinner that finally felt complete because she was there.
It’s been two nights since I’ve seen her. Been two nights since I’ve even
heard from her.
We had the entire day off from the field yesterday, so I didn’t get the chance to run into her in the training room. Today though, today she called in sick to Sunday morning batting practice.
She’s never, not once, called in sick to work.
And that scares the hell out of me because I know she’s not.
She’s in that apartment, packing her bags, and I’m just sitting around waiting to find out if I’m going too.
I know I told her to take the weekend, but there’s a huge part of me that didn’t believe I wouldn’t hear from her for two full days. And the more time apart, the more I fear that the decision she’s coming to is the one that doesn’t include me.
I felt sick to my stomach getting those divorce papers drafted, but that will be nothing in comparison to how I’ll feel if she actually signs them.
Yes, I want her to have a choice, but that doesn’t mean I’m not entirely desperate for her to choose me.
Another boom of thunder rattles my windows, and it takes everything in me not to reach for my phone to call her. To call Kai. To call each and every one of my friends.
But I told my brother not to check in on me tonight. I need to challenge myself and I’m not going to get any better if I continue to allow either of us to enable my anxious thoughts.
But fuck, if it’s not difficult sitting back and simply hoping that Kennedy isn’t out driving tonight.
I grab my phone, but not to call anyone. I scroll through my pictures instead, hoping for the distraction. There are some of Max, some of the stupid shit my teammates have done around the clubhouse, and an unhealthy amount of her.
She likes to call me a stalker and fuck, I think I am.
The first is recent, her laying on my chest in bed, smiling up at the camera as I snapped our photo. Another of her eating a bowl of pasta I made her, a single spaghetti noodle hanging down from her lips to the bowl. One of my favorites is of her and Miller with their arms around each other, crouching with Max between them, all three of them with beaming grins. And lastly, there’s another of her trying to use a folded-up newspaper, her crossword no doubt, to cover her face and hide from me, but when I play the live version, you can hear her laughter clear as day.
When I keep scrolling, I come across older ones. Photos from last season.
She’s in the background of some that were taken around the field.
I have a photo of Cody flipping me off while taking an ice bath. She’s off to the side, wearing her team polo shirt and a frown.
There’s one of Max sitting on the dugout bench, grinning up at me. She’s in the background, sad eyes blankly staring at the field.
Another of her and Miller from last year when they first met. Kennedy’s arms are crossed over her chest, her entire body stiff as she bends in an attempt to get her head close enough to Miller’s and in the frame. But her body language is so uncomfortable and the desperate look on her face screams that she wishes she wouldn’t be.
So much has changed these last couple months, and if nothing else, I can bask in the knowledge that through our time together, she learned how to be comfortable in her skin. She learned that there are people out there who love her. And she learned that I’m one of them.
I get back to the more recent photos and the screenshot I took of the cover of the Chicago Tribune’s sports section.
It’s the morning we got married, neither of us having any fucking clue what we were in for. Her in her white dress and denim jacket and me holding her heels above my head.
Yes, I was infatuated, but it was nothing in comparison to the love I have for that girl now.
A hit of thunder rolls in a loud boom, and I close my eyes, trying to drown out the sound, when my phone dings in my hand.
With a text from Kennedy.
The Mrs: Hi.
My chest settles.
Me: Hi.
The Mrs: Are you okay?
The Mrs: I know you told me to take the weekend, but if you need me to come over, I’ll be there.
It takes everything in me to keep from calling her up right now just to hear her voice, but I don’t because I told her to take the time to think.
I don’t call her because we both need to know that I can get a handle on my anxiety without her help, whether we’re together or not.
Me: I’m going to get through this one on my own, but I fucking miss you.
There’s a long wait before the next text. Gray dots dance along the screen before they disappear and reappear.
The Mrs: I’m proud of you.
The Mrs: And I miss you.
Me: Did you eat today?
The Mrs: Don’t act like you weren’t the one who had food delivered to my house three separate times today. Yes, I ate.
The Mrs: And thank you.
Me: You weren’t sick today, were you?
The Mrs: I just needed some time away from there.
Away from me? I want to ask, but I refrain because she sends another text.
The Mrs: My laptop is there. It’s sitting on the dresser in your closet.
Her laptop with the CliffsNotes version of the research her old peer had sent over. Techniques derived from a specific type of therapy, rewritten in a way for me to understand.
The Mrs: Call me if you need me and I’ll be there, but Isaiah, you’re a lot stronger than you let yourself believe.
And so I do it. I get through the night without allowing my anxiety to check in on anyone, without calling her for help, because she needed to know that I could do it on my own.
