The hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight.

  “Aunt Carol . . . is everything okay?” Milly’s body stiffens, and she turns to face me.

  “Oh honey, I wish I had a better reason to call you, but your dad had a stroke today.”

  “A stroke?” I swallow hard, my vision starting to turn black around me. “Is he . . . okay?” Milly rests her hand against my heart, eyes shooting back and forth over mine.

  “Well, he’s in critical condition right now. We’re still waiting to hear back from the doctors, but I thought I should give you a call.”

  “Yeah, I appreciate it. Umm.” I pause. “Shit, I don’t know what to do. Is it serious?”

  “Yes, sweetie. It is. He was unconscious for a good amount of time.”

  My throat tightens and my mind quickly falls to my dad and his ragged and tired eyes. Fuck. Before I can stop myself, I say, “I’ll get a flight out as soon as I can. Text me the details.”

  “Okay, sweetie. See you soon.”

  I hang up the phone and pocket it. Milly hops off my lap as we both stand, my mind on one thing, talking to Coach and then getting to my dad.

  “Carson, what happened?”

  My voice cracking, I say, “My dad had a stroke, and it’s not looking good. I need to get to him.”

  “Of course, what can I do to help?”

  I drag my hand over my face and then reach into my pocket. “Take the dirt back to the loft for me and pack me a bag? I need to talk to Coach Disik. Can you find me a flight too? The earliest one to Topeka.” I pat my pockets and groan. “Fuck, I don’t have my wallet, it’s in the locker.”

  She presses her hand against my arm. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll book everything.”

  “Milly, I’m not—”

  “We’ll figure it out later. Go talk to Coach, shower, and I’ll meet you out front. I’ll drive you to the airport.”

  Exhaling, I bend down and glide my mouth across hers. “Thank you.”

  “Anything you need, I’m here for you.”

  Our hands unlock and she runs up the stadium steps toward the parking lot while I head into the dugout. I turn toward the field I spent the last four years on and give it one last look, as a lone tear streams down my face.

  Fuck.

  * * *

  Coach Disik is still in his office, thank God, and I frantically knock on his door until his gruff voice calls out, “Come in.” When I open the door, the look on my face must speak volumes. “What’s going on, Stone?”

  “My dad. He had a stroke.”

  “Jesus,” he whispers and leans back in his chair, the squeak of the hinges sounding off in the silence. “How bad?”

  “I don’t know much but apparently he was unconscious when they found him, and he’s in critical condition right now.”

  “Topeka?” And it still astounds me how much the guy knows about each and every one of his players, despite him playing it off like he doesn’t.

  “Yes.”

  He nods. “Well, what the fuck are you doing in here? Go.”

  “But regionals, I have no idea how long I’ll be.”

  Putting both hands on his desk, Coach Disik stands and says, “Stone, your work here at Brentwood is done. You’ve carried this team, you’ve proven your loyalty and dedication, but you have a future waiting for you that means a hell of a lot more than the College World Series. You need to get your head on straight, and you’re useless to me without it. Go to your dad, because he needs you more than we do.”

  “What are you saying?” I ask, my brow twisted.

  He steps around his desk and holds out his hand. “I’m saying it’s been a pleasure, Stone. But turn in your gear, your time here is done.”

  “But . . .”

  He holds his hand out farther, encouraging me to take it. I do, but still feel confused. “I’m a hard-ass most of the time, but I know when my players need to step outside of the field and deal with life. Your father needs you. Take this time to be with him, get him better, and then prepare yourself for the minors. Your time here is up.”

  I bite back the tears that threaten to fall, knowing what Coach Disik is telling me is the right thing to do.

  “But the guys—”

  “They’ll understand. You’ve put this team first for four years, even when you were injured.” He releases my hand and crosses his arms over his chest. “Plus, I need to see if Badcock has what it takes to stand in.”

  I snort at the use of Babcock’s nickname.

  “Ah, I think he has what it takes.”

  “I don’t know.” Coach looks to the side. “He has some pretty big cleats to fill.”

  I press my lips together, enjoying this rare moment with the rough-around-the-edges Coach of the Year winner for five straight years. Disik never shows emotion besides anger. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know how to smile, so I realize this is the closest I’ll ever get to him showing his appreciation for one of his players.

  “Hey, Coach Disik?”

  He clears his throat and looks at me, his once-soft features now turned harsh again.

  “What?”

  “Thank you . . . for everything. You taught me what it’s like to be a real ballplayer. You challenged me, you gave me an opportunity to prove myself worthy of my position, and you prepared me for my future. I’ll always be thankful.”

  I hold out my hand and without hesitation he shakes it but before he can pull away, I tug him into a hug, and he immediately goes stiff. I give him a quick squeeze right before he pushes me away. “Get out of here, Stone. And . . . stay in touch, you hear?”

  “I’ll keep you updated.”

  I give him one last smile and then shut the door on a chapter of my life that groomed me for what’s to come.

  * * *

  Milly picks me up after I shower with a bag full of my things and Jason and Romeo in the back seat. The entire way to the airport, I hold her hand, placing light kisses on her knuckles every chance I get while I clutch my phone at my side, desperately wishing I would get more news.

  Luckily, Milly found me a flight to Topeka with just enough time to get to the airport and get through security. On the drive, I explain to everyone what Coach said. Even though a piece of me believes if my dad is okay, I’ll possibly come back in time for regionals, the other part, a huge part, believes that even if he is okay, I should take this moment to be there for him, help him adjust back home. Coach gave me a pass, and I should take it.

  The airport signs for departures loom ahead as Milly slows down to switch lanes. The silence in the car speaks for itself: no one wants me to leave, but they all know I have to. Jason and Romeo turned white when I told them the game today was probably my last in a Brentwood jersey. Not just because Badcock will be filling my position, but because who knows if we’ll ever play together again.

  “You’ll keep us updated, right?” Romeo asks, sounding somber.

  “Yeah, I’ll start a group text. Feel free to keep the team updated as well.”

  “And if you need anything, you’ll let us know?” Jason asks, his usual joking tone completely gone.

  “I will.” If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last four years, it’s the incredibly strong bond of friendship that’s found in college baseball. These guys became my brothers.

  Milly squeezes my hand and slows down to the drop-off zone for my airline and pulls in next to the curb. Romeo and Jason both hop out of the car as Milly puts it in park. Jason grabs my bag from the trunk and Romeo snags my backpack.

  I say goodbye to them first, pulling each of them into a hug.

  “Thanks . . . for everything,” I say to Jason who squeezes me extra tight and sets my suitcase on the curb.

  “I admire you,” Jason says quietly. “So fucking much. Now go.” He gives me an extra pat and then steps aside for Romeo, who helps me put my backpack on right before giving me a huge bear hug.

  “I’ll guard your bedroom like a hawk and make sure no motherfuckers go in it.”

  I chuckle. “Thanks, bro.”

  “I’ll guard Milly too. She can sleep in my bed so no one goes after her either.”

  My brows sharpen. “Don’t fucking go near her.”

  He chuckles and pulls me into a hug. “Got your back, dude. If you need anything, let us know.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  They both hop into the car to give me a little privacy with Milly, as much privacy as a curbside drop-off can afford us. Sighing, I drape my forearms on her shoulders and bring my head to hers.

  “Fuck, I’m sorry about all of this.”

  “What? Don’t apologize. Don’t worry about me.”

  “But I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . we’re still new.”

  She shakes her head. “We aren’t new, Carson. We’ve known each other for a while now, but we just gave in to our feelings a little late.” She presses her hand to my heart. “But I feel like I’ve known this beating heart for a long time. We’re going to be good. I promise.”

  “Yeah?”

  She nods as a small tear falls down her cheek.

  “Mills, why are you crying?” I wipe away the wetness with my thumb.

  “Because, I wish there was more I could do for you.”

  “You’re doing all I need, just being there for me.”

  She leans into my body and presses her cheek to my chest. “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you too, Coach.”

  “Call me when you can.” She kisses my chest. “Keep me updated, and don’t worry about anything other than your dad, okay?”

  She looks up at me and I grip both of her cheeks, maneuvering her lips so they’re inches from mine. “Think of me?”

  “I don’t think anything could make me stop.”

  I close the distance and part my lips as she does. Our grips are tight, our mouths locked, our tongues seeking any last piece of comfort before I take off. I know this isn’t goodbye, by any means, but with the desperation in both of our kisses, it almost feels like it is, like a foreboding of what’s to come. And then, as I sit in a middle seat on the plane to Topeka, I wish I could stop the unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach. Things are going to be irrevocably different from today, but I wish I understood why I feel so desolate.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  CARSON

  “Do you need anything?”

  I shake my head, my eyes cast down on my father. “I’m good, thank you, Katherine.”

  Katherine is the day shift nurse. She’s really nice, reminds me of Aunt Carol—my dad’s sister. She gets to the point but also has a soft touch that doesn’t give you a doomsday feeling.

  It’s day two and my dad’s made no progress. When I arrived, I took a taxi to the hospital and quickly raced to my dad’s room, baggage intact. Aunt Carol met me in the waiting room and explained everything that happened.

  Dad was working his second shift of the day at the local hardware store when he was helping a customer stock up his cart with a bunch of two-by-fours. The customer said he didn’t look good and then suddenly, Dad fell to the ground, lumber in hand. They called the ambulance immediately and took him to the hospital where they quickly diagnosed his stroke. Thanks to brain scans, the doctors were able to diagnose an intracerebral hemorrhage, which is bleeding in his brain tissue, the most life-threatening stroke there is. It’s most commonly caused by hypertension. To break it down for you, my dad was working too damn hard, and it finally caught up to him.

  They conducted emergency surgery to relieve pressure around his brain, but he’s yet to wake up, having been put under a medically induced coma. He’s being monitored very closely, still in critical condition.

  After I was given every last bit of information, I did what every other normal person with access to the Internet does: I researched the shit out of intracerebral hemorrhages. Come to find out, you shouldn’t ever do your own personal research and consult Dr. Google. It only increases the worry inside you. There is too much information out there for worrisome people to get their hands on, too many worst-case scenarios that you can’t help but wonder . . . is my dad one of those people?

  One of those who won’t make it?

  From everything I’ve read, it seems like it.

  Knock. Knock.

  I look up to see Aunt Carol press the door open with one hand while carrying a bag from my favorite sandwich shop in the other.

  I smile kindly at her and give her my comfortable chair while pulling up the other one that was made as a torture device.

  “How is he?” she asks, handing me a Diet Mountain Dew. It’s cute how she remembers my favorite drink still. Aunt Carol is the closest thing I had to a mom growing up, but I didn’t see her that much, maybe once a year in the summer, because she lived two hours away and Dad never had the time to drive me to visit. But during the summer, when Aunt Carol wasn’t teaching, she picked me up and I spent time with her, but only for a few days because my baseball schedule didn’t allow for much leisure time.

  “Same,” I answer, taking what I know is an Italian sub on wheat with extra provolone. I hold it up to her and say, “Thank you. I was starving.”

  “You can leave his side to get food, maybe take a walk, get out and stretch. I’m sure your high school coaches would let you go into the cages and loosen up a bit.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to leave. I know that’s what everyone says in these positions but I really don’t.” I unwrap my sub but leave it in the paper as I lean back in my chair and take in the frail man in front of me. How didn’t I see it? The deeper wrinkles in his face, the gray in his beard, the lack of hair on top of his head. He looks like he’s aged by at least twenty years, and for what? I was set in college. I had a full ride, he didn’t have to pay for any more of my trainings, so why didn’t he slow down?

  I scratch the back of my neck and say, “Aunt Carol, can I ask you something?”

  “Anything, sweetie.” She doesn’t touch her sub either, but instead uncaps her iced tea and takes a small sip.

  “Why didn’t he slow down? Why did he keep working all hours of the day?”

  Aunt Carol’s eyes soften as she takes in her brother on the hospital bed, the silent beep of the machines connected to him filling the silence. I watch as she slowly scans her similarly weathered eyes over his aged body. Wrinkled skin, crow’s feet, sun spots, he’s only fifty, so he shouldn’t look like he’s seventy. Finally, Aunt Carol softly says, “He has a lot of debt, honey.”

  “From what?” What could he possibly be in debt from? He always said we were fine, especially when I asked about certain field trips with my team to different events in high school, where he’d pull a twenty out of his wallet and tell me to have fun. If he was in debt, would he really do that?

  Aunt Carol nervously wrings her hands together, staring at her lap. “I don’t know if I should tell you this, as your dad was always very secretive about his expenses and I’m sure he didn’t want to share any of it with you. He didn’t want to burden you with his troubles.”

  What troubles?

  I’m so confused and maybe I’m being naïve, but he never indicated there was any trouble. I think back over the last few years, my childhood, growing up with everything I needed—baseball was expensive, I knew that because I saw the worry in my dad’s eyes whenever I came home with a new invoice from my coaches. But he always took care of it . . .

  I chew on the inside of my lip and ask, “Does it have to do with baseball?”

  That’s when she shuts her eyes and tears slip down her cheeks. From her crocheted purse, which I’ve always known her to carry in the crook of her arm, she pulls out a white embroidered handkerchief and dabs at her tears.

  Fuck, was it baseball? Did my sport do this to my dad?

  “It was a lot, sweetie.” She answers on a deep breath. “Your mom’s medical bills were a giant burden accompanied with the baseball expenses. He took out a loan to help ease the burden, thinking compiling the debt would ease his wallet, but he didn’t read the fine print, and is paying so much interest that it’s more than the payment itself. He’s in way over his head.”

  What? How is that even possible? My dad is a smart man, and I thought he had always ensured his affairs were in order. It’s one of the things he always stressed: make sure my bills were paid before I had fun. All Brentwood baseball players have full-ride scholarships and when you live off campus, you get a giant check at the beginning of every semester for room and board. Since Brentwood is an expensive school, we received a hefty check. When Dad helped me open a bank account for the first time, he stressed to me to save as much as I could. To have fun, but not to waste my money on frivolous things. And because I lived off campus for three years out of the four, I saved a really nice chunk of change thanks to splitting the grocery bill with a bunch of guys, low rent with utilities included. Because my dad filled out the financial-aid packet, I was granted extra money for clothes from the NCAA. I learned from him, so why didn’t he learn from himself?

  “Wh-why didn’t he say anything? I could have given him money, taken on another job at school, done something to help. Why did he keep sending me ‘fun’ money when he didn’t have any for himself?” My heart plummets considering all the times Dad texted me to tell me he’d put some more money in my account and to go have fun. He made it seem like everything was okay when in fact, he’s been slowly killing himself to provide for me. I never needed that money. He did.

  Not hungry anymore, I put my sub to the side and bury my fingers in my hair, trying to comprehend this new information.

  “He loves you so much, Carson. You’re his pride and joy, and I know he has a hard time expressing that sometimes, but you should see how proud he is, the newspaper clippings he had me put together in a scrapbook for him, the pictures he’s printed of you online, the articles. There is nothing that makes him happier than seeing you happy.”

  “But I was happy, I didn’t need him to—” My throat tightens and I quickly stand. Fuck. Why? Why do that, Dad? “I, uh . . . I need to take a walk.”