“What do you guys want me to say, huh?” I ask the room. “That I sucked ass tonight? Fine. I haven’t played that bad since I was in fucking double-A, and even then, I wasn’t that bad. I know I’m the reason we lost, so let me fucking fix it instead of bashing me like a bunch of assholes.” I turn around, motioning for Will to get out of my way. His eyes follow as I pass, making my anger surge once more. “You gonna give me a hard time too?”
He shakes his head as he walks back toward his own locker, leaving me to my own misery.
I slump into the chair they always have placed in front of the open locker and I lean my head back. “I didn’t mean that,” I admit to Will, who sits down beside me. He only grunts, pulling off his jersey and placing it in the bin beside him.
“Dude, you need to chill out. We all have bad games. Tonight just happened to be a pretty bad one for you.” If only he knew that it wasn’t just my play that pissed me off, I’ve been angry since Harper walked away from me after seeing that picture of Angela all over me. I wish I knew how to get rid of her that didn’t involve the police, because the minute I involved them it will become even more of an issue. I didn’t want to admit it, but what happened yesterday is fucking with my head and I need to figure out a way to fix it.
“Pretty bad? I couldn’t catch a ball to save my life. I couldn’t even throw to first base without making an error. What kind of third baseman can’t throw to fucking first base!” My hands find their way into my hair as my head lowers. The fabric of my jersey feels like it’s suffocating me, so I pull it off and toss it in the bin beside Will.
“Josh, it happens. You need to let this go or it will fester. You know that. The more you think about it, the more you obsess over it, the worse it will get.”
I know he’s right. I told him the exact same thing last year when he was going through a rough string of games. A slump I can handle, but this is something completely different.
“Anderson!” Bob, our coach, calls from his office at the other end of the room. “Get your ass in here… now!”
I rumble a curse as I make my way across the room. Once I’m in the office, he motions for me to sit as he closes the door behind me.
“What the fuck was that out there? You realize that we pay you millions of dollars to not look like a rookie player, right?”
I agree with him. I can’t argue with anything he just said. What could I say? I have no idea what my issue is.
Bob Murphy has been the head coach of the Hawks for four years, and every year we seem to get better and better, and I know it’s because of his leadership. I also know that Bob never demands one-on-one meetings with players unless he thinks it’s completely unavoidable. I sit there and stare at the man that has been a mentor, a man I look up to, wondering if I’m going to be the one player that lets one game ruin the rest of his year.
“What do you want me to say?” My eyes meet his concerned ones. “I haven’t played that bad since my early twenties and I have no idea what’s going on.” I know honesty is the best policy here, even if it makes my skin crawl to admit defeat.
“Look,” he sighs, leaning back in his chair with his feet on the edge of the desk. “It’s just one game. Shit happens. But apparently, for you, it happens in pretty grand fashion.”
I laugh because he is fucking right.
“I know you’ve had a lot of pressure on you this season, I know it’s tough. However, I need you to put that shit aside and be the gold glove third baseman, okay? I don’t care if you have to stay here taking ground balls until midnight. I just want a better performance from you, got it?”
I dip my head as he dismisses me, motioning for me to go back into the locker room. Before I do, I head into the medical room and see Josie standing behind a massage chair.
“I was expecting you in here at least a half an hour ago,” she complains, not looking up from her sheets of paper.
“Seems like Bob wanted a piece of me first.”
She chuckles to herself, shaking her head as she taps the chair with the palm of her hand.
“Seems like you deserved it.” Josie has never been one to mince words. She tells it like it is, no matter how horrible.
“Apparently,” I groan, lying facedown on the table.
“I’m assuming it’s the right side that’s bothering you,” she says as she gathers her towels and stops at my head.
I grunt, knowing that’s all I need to do because she was watching the game like everyone else. She saw the subtle rolling of my shoulder, the way my fingers pushed on the muscle like it would help my game.
She spends at least ten minutes rolling out the muscle, using the palm of her hands, her knuckles, and her fingers to release the tension we both know isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Then when she goes to the other side of the room, breaking out her bags of ice, I flinch. Hating and loving this part at the same time.
“Sit up, Anderson. You’re almost done.”
I smirk, her tone reminding me of that tone my mother used to use when I was little. When I’m upright, that flash of cold hits my skin, and I hiss, taking deep breaths
