Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
You weren’t expecting that, were you, motherfuckers?
“Don’t say another fucking word to her,” he growled through his teeth. “Not about her either. Not even to each other. Or I will beat you both to a pulp. Do you understand me?”
This wasn’t the last time Madden would issue a warning on Eve’s behalf.
Their high school was a big place with equally big mouths and a lot of bravado.
But when he’d called himself her protector, he’d meant it.
That promise didn’t have an expiration date.
Chapter Seven
Present Day
Madden stood in front of the mailboxes in the vestibule of his new apartment building, keys in hand. After his meeting with Yankees management, they’d arranged for a real estate agent to show him some options. He’d taken a three-bedroom on the Upper West Side instead of choosing one of the downtown bachelor lofts he’d been shown, which seemed to surprise the agent, but thankfully he didn’t comment.
What would Madden say, anyway?
I want to be prepared in case Eve and the kids ever come to stay.
After two weeks of no communication with his elusive infatuation, that far-fetched dream made little sense, even to Madden.
Dropping the heavy baseball equipment bag from his shoulder, Madden unlocked the mailbox, pausing before he swung open the slender brass door, issuing a prayer that this time there would be a letter from the New England Donor Council informing him that his donor was ready to be identified. That they were open to meeting him or at least accepting some form of thanks, be it a phone call or an email. Every day that passed without expressing his gratitude seemed to make it deeper and more urgent.
He opened the mailbox door.
Nothing but a takeout menu for the falafel joint down the block.
Clearing his throat hard, Madden locked the mailbox once more, nodding at the smiling older man in the peacoat who opened the inner entrance door that led to a small, carpeted lobby with elevator doors.
“I hope you had a productive practice, sir.”
“You don’t have to call me sir,” Madden muttered as he passed. “Like I said.”
The doorman hummed. “I don’t know if I mentioned this, but I’m a Mets fan.”
“You mention it every time I enter the building.”
“Ah. Sorry about that.” The man tapped his temple. “Short memory.”
“Huh.”
Madden tucked his tongue into his cheek to hide his smile from the doorman while the elevator doors snicked shut, but his amusement dropped like a stone as soon as his reflection looked back at him from the polished steel doors. Professional baseball wasn’t what he’d expected. To be honest, he hadn’t spent a lot of time thinking about the hours, the expectations, the physical toll, and how all that would differ from the AAA level.
On the heels of messy trades, bad press, and demanding fans, a lot of the pro players seemed to have developed a cynicism. Unlike his AAA teammates, the pros were guarded and calculating. The pitchers liked things done a certain way and that meant his signals were often being ignored or criticized in practice. And honestly, he was struggling to find the motivation to try and break the tension. To make an effort with his teammates and learn the peculiarities of each pitcher, so they could connect on the field.
He’d always played the sport to belong.
For a long time, that sense of belonging had been enough to overshadow his niggling resentment for the sport. This sport that had so easily given him a new identity. Poof. No longer the black sheep. No longer the bastard, scourge of the household. In baseball, he was renewed, absorbed into the fold.
Now, far from the comfort of camaraderie, the Madden he’d left behind became harder to ignore. An unresolved version of himself that wasn’t so content with hiding, going with the flow. Letting the past fade into nothing.
The part of himself that had been numb for so long was experiencing signs of life again. More and more, while on the field, he found himself wanting to . . . fight. Speak up. Stop living in the background. To claim the sport, instead of the sport claiming him.
Madden unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped inside, dropping his equipment bag just outside the kitchen to his right. After rooming with two AAA teammates in Florida, having so much space to himself disoriented Madden for a moment until he got his bearings.
Two weeks without speaking to Eve. His jaw seemed to tick in time with that thought. Two weeks was too long. He’d given Eve some distance so their conversation could settle, but it was time to check in on her.
Madden sat down on one of the boxes he’d yet to unpack, extending one leg so he could slide his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants. Her name was number one on his speed dial, before Elton. Before anyone. He liked this acknowledgment that she was number one to him in this way, a way he could see with his own two eyes and not have it be a dream, even if he was the only one who knew.