Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Chase: I’m putting in a trade request.
Ridge: You can come over, Chase. We’ll let you try. Don’t be sad.
Nico: I’ll even let you be the bunny!
“Chase is going to kill them,” I say, chuckling. I grab my phone and head for the kitchen.
The group chat has turned out to be one of my favorite parts of the Royals team so far. And, unfortunately for Chase, it wouldn’t be nearly as fun without Nico and Ridge. Although he complains about their shenanigans and pitches a fit about their goofiness, I noticed during practice and at the game yesterday that he respects the two of them more than he does most of the others.
The living room is filled with sunlight as I pass through it. A light breeze sweeps through the apartment from the windows I opened after my Sunday morning run. For the first time in a very long time, I feel almost … settled. And, God, it feels good.
I take a bottle of water from the refrigerator and unscrew the lid. Before I can take a drink, my phone rings. I look down and smile.
“Hey,” I say, pushing the speakerphone button and setting the phone on the counter.
“How the hell are you?” Brooks Dempsey asks from the other end of the line.
A rush of familiarity settles between us. There’s no awkward pause, no stilted conversation. My body sags in relief.
“I’m good,” I say, taking a quick sip of water. “I contemplated coming down to Sugar Creek this morning for church but decided against it when the alarm went off.”
“That’s where I’m coming from now. I ran into Hartley while getting my ass reamed by Violet Crowder about not attending Sunday School, and he said he talked to you this week. I figured I’d see if I still had your number since you never call me anymore, you fucking asshole.”
Thankfully, the lightness in his tone doesn’t match the statement, just like his words don’t match someone fresh from church. Still, I feel like an asshole. A guilty one, at that.
“I’m just fucking with you, Adler. It’s not like I’ve called you either.”
I exhale. “What’s up with that? What have you been doing? Hart said you tore up your shoulder or something.”
“Yeah, tore my rotator cuff. I was going full speed with this new guy the coach brought in to train with us. He blocked an overhand right, and it ripped my shoulder to shreds.”
“When did that happen?”
“Six weeks ago. Doc says I’m out six months before I can even train again.”
“That sucks,” I say, knowing how hard it must be for Brooks to stay out of the gym. I screw the cap back on my water before I knock it over. “So what are you doing now? Hanging out back home?”
“For a while.” A door opens and closes in the background. “I haven’t been back here in a long time, and I figured I might as well use my downtime to visit Mom and everybody. You know?”
I nod even though he can’t see me.
A part of me can’t help but wonder if we feel similarly. We both left home to do something fun and wound up getting caught in the drama of it all. Brooks in Vegas, working to stay focused while living in a sparkling city known for sin. And me in Denver, white-knuckling life in a city that harbors the worst memories of my life.
Does Brooks feel detached from reality? Does he regret many of the choices he’s made? Does he have a sense of loneliness spreading deep in his soul that he can’t figure out how to ease?
Or … maybe I’m just weak.
“I get that,” I say, securing the towel around my waist. “I haven’t visited Sugar Creek in a long time.”
“You’d better get your ass back here now. No excuses.”
I laugh.
“Patsy’s is still going strong,” he says, laughing, too. “She got rid of the dollar shots on Monday nights, and hardly anyone line dances on the weekends anymore. But the place still smells like cheap cigarettes and piss, so it’ll still feel like home.”
Memories from nights at Patsy’s Bar and Grill come back to me like clips from movie reels. Late nights at the booth below the mounted deer head, sipping beers and making plans. The time Brooks and I decided to hold a dart tournament that resulted in an emergency room visit for an out-of-state hunter who vowed never to return. Patsy’s bright pink lips, the burgers she served only on the weekend from a grill that probably hasn’t been cleaned since the seventies, and the table in the back by the dance floor with names carved in it spanning decades.
“Do you remember my eighteenth birthday?” I ask.
He barks another laugh. “Roughly. It’s still a haze.”
“How in the hell did we get away with that?” I lean against the counter and think back to one of the craziest experiences of my life. “How did you convince Patsy to let us in, because you know damn good and well that she knew we weren’t twenty-one.”