Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 341(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 341(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
The principal cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably.
“I hope that all of you succeed, and that you make something out of your life. Because there is only potential from here. You can only go up, because you’re already at rock bottom,” I said. “Here’s to us.”
With that, I walked back to my seat, uncaring that I’d just made everyone super uncomfortable.
It was only a small portion of what they’d done to me.
I’d gone out of my way to never let on how bad it was.
But it was all out in the open now.
“Thatta girl, Suttie!”
I looked to my left to see Gunner standing at the chain-link fence that wound around the field.
He was wearing his Alabama baseball uniform.
I waved.
He winked and stepped back, heading back down the slope of the hill and to his old Jeep.
He started it up and drove off.
And I smiled.
Prologue II
How does Jesus make his coffee? Hebrews it.
—Text from Gunner to Parker
GUNNER
They say that you only have one worst day of your life.
They’re right.
And I had that day when I was twenty-one.
That morning, I’d made Jett, my son, his favorite meal—pancakes with a side of strawberries.
I loaded him into my truck and dropped him off at my Uncle Parker’s house.
I’d given him a bear hug, one of the ones that elicited a squeal of laughter from him, and I’d driven off to get to practice.
I was half a year out from going pro, and the only thing keeping me going at this point was sheer force of will and my son’s excitement for what was to come for me.
It was a pretty awesome feeling, knowing your son was proud of you.
Hell, he was practically a staple at the ball field.
Sadly, he started kindergarten last year, and there was no more bringing him to practice at college days for me.
It sucked.
I loved having my kid around.
I may have had him young, but that didn’t mean that I didn’t take good care of him and love him with my whole heart.
He was the best thing that’d ever happened to me and was one of the greatest things that I would ever produce in this lifetime.
“Jesus fuck,” Coach Bartlett cursed then called, “Gunner!”
It wasn’t the way he said my name.
It was the look on his face as he said it.
I knew without getting out of the batter’s box that this was about to be the worst thing that ever happened to me.
I just didn’t think that what was about to happen was going to be as bad as it was.
I was thinking car wreck with my uncle, but he was fine. Or possibly even something like the school calling to tell me that Jett was sick.
That wasn’t what I got.
“What’s up, Coach?” I asked.
Coach Bartlett looked ravaged as he said, “Gunner, something happened at the school. They’re saying school shooter.”
My stomach sank.
“Is he…”
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “But you need to go.”
I didn’t think.
Didn’t change out of my baseball cleats.
Didn’t even take my batting gloves off.
I just ran.
My old Jeep was pushed to the limit that day.
I drove as fast as the ol’ beast would take me.
I pulled up to the school, and the first person I saw was my uncle in the crowd.
“Uncle Parker!”
Uncle Parker turned, and I knew by the look on his face that my world had just ended.
I sank to my knees without any conscious thought of doing so.
Suddenly I was on the ground, and the only thing I could see was the tiny footprints in the gravel rock that the kids used to make their way to the track.
I swallowed hard as the tears started to fall.
My baby.
My baby boy was gone.
And some school shooter had taken it all from me.
My hopes and my dreams. Our future.
Gone, just like that.
He wouldn’t get married. He wouldn’t know what it was like to hold the whole world in his hands when his own baby boy was placed in his arms. He wouldn’t know what it was like to watch his son graduate pre-k.
He wouldn’t know anything.
Because he was stolen from me.
I threw my head back and cursed every god in existence.
Fuck this.
Fuck him.
Fuck this life.
Two years later
“And for his first at bat in the major leagues, Gunner Penn!”
I felt nothing.
I should’ve felt excited.
I should’ve felt elation that I was about to do something I’d always dreamed about doing.
I mean, I was stepping out onto a major league baseball field, and I was going to bat against Carl Sanderson. Carl Sanderson, the number one pitcher in the world.
Yet, I still felt nothing.
I was just existing.
“Ready, Rook?” the catcher teased.
Shawn Ortiz.
Third-best catcher in the league.
“Yep,” I said as I walked right up to the plate and waited.
No pre-bat routine for me.
I had no superstitions left.
There was no reason to tap the base three times, or only chew my gum on the left side.