1. Cat

1

CAT

The crowd roared as the sand and clay crunched under my feet. Dropping my bat, I took off toward first base – the sound of my wood bat cracking against the softball ringing in my ears.

The helmet dampened the sound of our opponents' chaotic coordination as they struggled to keep up with me. Everything was distant, the mayhem of the game alluding me. I sent the ball deep into the outfield, only bothering to check where it had landed once I was rounding first base.

"Go home! Go home!" My coach's cry came from the third baseline.

Nodding, I clenched my jaw and pumped my arms harder, turning on the gas to my speed. I rounded second without a thought, hearing the ball starting to soar through the air toward me as I hit third.

From third, my faceless coach pointed to home plate. An eager catcher, covered in head-to-toe padding and a metal face guard, held their glove at the ready.

I hesitated, unsure if I could make it. But my coach insisted, their voice indistinguishable. "Run, Collins."

So I did. I let the cleats into the sand, trying to suck in as much air into my tired lungs as possible. But just as I was nearing home plate, the catcher stood upright and ripped off their mask.

My forehead wrinkled as my feet skidded to a halt just a few feet from safety. "Cleo?"

As the words left my mouth, an umpire hollered, "Yooourrr OUT!"

My body jolted awake as the muffled crowd cheered through the TV. Cold air traveled through my nostrils as I blinked away the sunlight.

As I sat up, the empty beer bottles next to me on the couch clattered together. My hands wiped at my face. When I opened my eyes again, my team – it still hurt too much to say former – rushed onto the field into an open embrace.

The commentator was nearly yelling. "And that's it! New York Rise manages to take home another Championship even without their former star pitcher, Cat Collins."

Shaking my head, I set the glass bottles on the coffee table wherever there was room. I grabbed the remote and turned off the TV, unable to take another second of them celebrating. The throbbing headache teasing my temples certainly wasn't helping my temper either.

I stood from my spot on the couch, an indent on the expensive furniture from my ass being planted on it nearly every day for the last two years.

I wiped my mouth with the seam of my white tank top as I walked to the kitchen. Looking toward the windows, I winced in the bright afternoon light. My apartment, purchased after our first championship, looked out on the Manhattan skyline.

Pulling up my phone, I scrolled to my agent's number. I clicked her name and waited as the dial tone sounded in my ear. It rang and rang. After the third, I knew she wouldn't answer.

Under my breath, I cursed. "Fucking asshole."

Once her voicemail answered and the familiar beep cued me, I cleared my throat. "Hey, Tommy. I just wanted to touch base about next season. Give me a call back as soon as possible." I hung up the phone, setting the hunk of metal on the marble countertops. Rubbing at my aching temples, I hoped that I had managed to not sound as hungover as I was.

My fingers tapped against the cold stone of my kitchen counter. Turning to the fridge, I flung the door open and grabbed a cold beer from the top shelf. I scanned for something to eat but all that was left inside was a many days old pizza.

Aligning the bottle cap with the edge of the sturdy counter, I smacked my hand down on the top and popped the cap off. A crisp hiss came from inside as I brought the cool glass to my lips.

I set the beer down on the counter, the glass clattering harder than I meant it to. Picking up my phone, I started scrolling through my socials. Immediately, I was bombarded with dozens of posts of the Rise's Championship win; pictures of the ladies holding the gold trophy and carrying each other on their shoulders flooded my feed.

Shaking it off, I switched to my burner account. There was really only one person I wanted to see and they had blocked my main account years ago.

I didn't bother following anyone on the unmarked "meowyme" user. The feed on this account was just endless cat memes and ads. Tapping the search tab, I typed in their name. In just a millisecond, Cleo Fontaine appeared. Under the username "thatcleofont", they posted once every few weeks.

I tapped their profile and started to scroll. There was only one new post since the last time I checked their page. Clicking into the post, I let my finger slide between the pictures. They were mostly pictures of the bookstore, the one they'd inherited from their parents. But slipped in among the shop, was a picture of Cleo in a t-shirt jersey. It was bright orange.

Laughing to myself, I smiled at the phone. They fucking hate orange.

My mind started to wander, thinking about what it would be like to watch them play now, as an adult. The last time we'd really gotten to be on the field together was early into college.

They were probably slower now like I was. As if I were there myself, I could picture them coming back to the shop after practice – covered in sand and sweat. I would lean on the counter and smile at them, asking how the game was. They'd tell me about their game-winning home run and head upstairs for a shower.

I'd tend the shop while they got cleaned up, then they'd come downstairs and I could watch Cleo fill the new books onto the shelves.

The doorbell would ding with a customer who would greet both of us. I wouldn't be a stranger but instead a friendly face.

But my phone buzzed with a text from my brother.

Just checking on you. We'd love to have you visit. Miss you.

I turned it over, letting the screen face the counter.

As I bit my cheek, I looked across my living room to the framed jersey above my couch. The light green lettering of my name and number lay on top of the black fabric: Collins 23. There was still a sand and clay stain from the Championship game visible through the glass.

The daydream of Cleo's shop was nice, a comfort on my darkest days.

But my jaw clenched. It isn't the life I chose.

They would never want to see my face again, not after the way I left them. And now, I would live with that for the rest of my life.

Taking a swig from my beer, I let the bitter taste fill my mouth. I needed to get back on the field, it was the only way to make losing Cleo worth it.