Grand Slam (The Boys of Summer 3)

The media frenzy is in full force when we pull up outside. I’m barely able to get the car door open without bumping into someone. Microphones are thrust into my face while requests for comments are thrown at me, and protesters are pumping their signs up and down, yelling at me. Everything from rapist and pervert to creep is being slung my way, and they’re demanding that I be released from the Renegades. Across from them, there are a few die-hard fans screaming obscenities at the protestors.

There’s a police presence but they’re not concerned with me getting to my door. They’re holding back the fans and the protesters from going at each other. Irvin’s driver tries to help, but he’s jostled by the media and ends up back in his car. I don’t blame him. It seems to be the safest place right now.

One officer yells to let me by, and I want to thank him and invite him for a cup of coffee, but he’s doing the job he’s being paid for. In all likelihood, he doesn’t give a shit about me.

When I finally reach my door, I feel something slam into my back. Even before I can turn around, another object smashes into my door. My house is being egged, and all the police are doing is telling people to knock it off.

I feel like turning around, giving them the bird, and telling them that their wish has been granted. Boston will no longer be my home.

As soon as I step inside, I lock the door and close the blinds. Once again, my home is dark and drab. I don’t bother trying to clean my suit jacket once I take it off. Instead, I throw it away, not needing an article of clothing to remind me that the town I adopted as my own has turned its back on me.

My phone is ringing with multiple calls. Ethan’s and Cooper’s names are in my notifications, but I ignore them. I have nothing to say. They should run far away from me so I don’t ruin their careers as well.

The one call I do answer is from my father, who sounds drunk.

“Shit’s not getting better?” he asks. Not “Hey, son” or “Are you okay?”

“No,” I say as I sit down and kick my shoes off. If it weren’t for Irvin, I would’ve been at the press conference in my pajamas. He had enough foresight to stop by my place and grab a suit for me to wear.

“Fly to the Keys; spend the rest of the winter on the yacht.”

“I can’t leave or I’d be there in a heartbeat. I asked for a trade but my agent doesn’t think it’ll be feasible. After today, I have a feeling they’re going to let me go.”

“That’s bullshit. You’ll sue them.”

“I don’t know, Dad. Shit’s just…”

“Do you want your mother and me to come to Boston?” he asks.

The thought is nice but not what they want to do. While the offer seems genuine, he’s a selfish son of a bitch who enjoys his yacht and won’t survive one day with the cold weather here. Not that I can blame him.

“Nah, you earned your retirement. Think of it this way. Either I’ll see you for spring training or you’ll have to pick me up at some port, because I’ll be staying with you until I find a new job.”

There’s some shuffling in the background, and then my mom’s voice comes on the line. “Your house is on the news. You should go to the window and wave so I can see you.”

“No, I’m not doing that, Ma.”

“It would make me happy.”

“Not today, Ma. I don’t want anyone outside to think I give a shit.”

“Well, if I were there…”

Right. If she were here, she’d be on the porch with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth and a rolling pin in her hand, looking like she belonged in a bad Aerosmith video. I know they mean well, but sometimes my parents are better left where no one can see them.

“I know, Ma, but I want you to have fun and relax. Everything will work out.”

My parents continue to pass the phone back and forth until I tell them that I need to eat, and by eating, I mean drinking. This new liquid diet that I’m on is super in keeping me so fucking numb that I don’t have a clue as to what’s going on. It allows me to talk to myself and surprisingly give appropriate answers, and I’ve even found out that I can sing. Maybe tha

t should be my next career move, the former baseball player who turns into a drunken singer.

Sounds pretty fucking legit if you ask me.

Twenty-Eight

Saylor

As soon as I step away from the podium, I have nowhere else to stand except next to Travis. This is where I should be, but after the other day and the unpleasant look he gave me inside the courtroom this morning, I’m inclined to say that he’d rather I be elsewhere. I try to keep my focus on the reporters, watching their mannerisms and reactions to what Irvin is saying. I knew he had discussed the potential of a lawsuit with Travis and am honestly not surprised they’re moving forward. Someone should be held accountable for the injustice that has been brought upon Travis, not to mention how this has disgraced his name.