Chapter Two

Atlas

Wiping the sweat from my face with a gym towel, I reach for my phone, which has been buzzing nonstop with texts and calls. I don't need to check the screen to know who's been trying to reach me. With a deep breath, I decide to tackle the texts first, bracing myself for the flood of messages that have been piling up over the past two hours.

Every morning at four, I rise at dawn to start my workout routine. A protein shake fuels me before I head down to the gym in my condo building. As I step inside, the lights flicker on automatically, guiding me to the treadmill for a light jog to warm up my muscles. Once the sweat starts to bead on my forehead, I dive into lunges, lifts, and heavy medicine ball work. My final challenge is the high jump, pushing my limits before cooling down on the treadmill. This two-hour ritual is my daily sanctuary, known to everyone in my circle. Yet, there are two people who fucking couldn't care less about my routine or anyone else—my mother and my ex.

The first four texts are from Mallory, my ex, each one a variation on the same theme.

Mallory: Good morning, handsome. Have a great workout.

Mallory: Hope you enjoyed your pre-workout shake.

Mallory: I bet you are sweating now.

Mallory: I would lick the sweat from your body like it was my favorite latte.

I roll my eyes at the last message. Mallory has never been one to hold her tongue. If only she could get it through her thick skull that we are over—permanently. I've told her countless times that I want nothing to do with her. I even considered changing my number, but I know my mother would hand it over to her, whether I wanted her to or not. Ignoring her messages, I delete them and block yet another number she's used to contact me. The rest of the texts are more of the same, except for one from my brother, Van, which came in while I was scrolling through Mallory's relentless messages.

Van asks about plans for the week and mentions he'll be at the midweek game. He tells me to hit him up later today. I send him a thumbs-up emoji, signaling I'll call him later.

Now, onto the call log. Four missed calls from Mallory, the bloodsucker. Two from teammates, one from an outfielder confirming our practice, and twelve from my mother. Most of her calls are back-to-back, with no voicemails. Her calls started at four this morning and ended at six, right when my workout finished. Shaking my head, I feel a surge of annoyance. She knows my schedule—workouts, games, extra practices—yet she still calls incessantly without leaving a message or even a text. Taking a deep breath to calm my irritation, I dial my mother's number.

"It's about time, Atlas. What if something had happened to your father? I don't understand why you can't answer when I call the first time. I know you're awake. I thought something terrible had happened to you since you didn't answer. You could have been dead in a ditch, and I would have never known."

I let my mother go on with her dramatics for a bit. Samantha Kensington is known for her theatrics. My father, Thomas, just ignores her when she gets like this, which is probably why she does it so often. She doesn't care that dear old dad only cares about money and having more than anyone else. She wants to be the center of everyone's universe and will stop at nothing until she is.

"If I were dead in a ditch, I wouldn't be able to answer the phone, Mom. Now, what was so urgent that you needed to call me so many times without leaving a message or even a text?" I drone, letting her know I'm not falling for her antics. She can be as dramatic as she wants, but my siblings and I have learned to tune out that part of her whenever she speaks to us.

"There's no need to be rude, Atlas. I just wanted to make sure you asked your teammates and coaching staff if they're attending the gala. We need as many deep pockets as possible; this is for charity, and they should want to make huge donations for that reason alone. It can be a tax write-off. Not many showed up to the last charity event, and I wanted to make sure you explained to them the importance of this one."

"We were at a game six hours away, Mom. It wasn't possible for any of us to show up for a couple of hours when we had back-to-back games. They all sent donations to the foundation of the last event. I know this because they all gave their checks to me to send to you. Also, why don't you just reach out about the RSVP for the event? Wait, don't you have someone that manages all this for you?" I stand there looking dumbfounded at myself in the wall of mirrors in the gym, thinking, this is seriously why she called me. Then it occurs to me: she wants something from me. Something I'm more than likely going to reject right away. I clear my throat before interrupting her about how incompetent the hired help is and how if she wants things done correctly, she needs to learn to do it herself.

"Mom, why did you really call? What do you want? Stop beating around the damn bush and just say it already; I need to go shower before I head to the field," I say with as much respect as I can muster, which isn't much given her attitude when she responds.

"Since you didn't say you were bringing a plus one, I'd like for you to take Mallory as your date. You two make a beautiful couple, and the pictures would be amazing. Mallory already has her dress, and her appointment is set for hair and makeup. She wants to make sure she looks beautiful enough to be on your arm. Isn't she just darling, Atlas? I knew you two would be together forever when you first brought her home to meet the family in high school. I can't wait to start the wedding plan—"

"Are you fucking serious right now, Mom? After everything that bitch put me through, you think I'd even consider having her on my arm? Stop with the antics you and Mallory come up with; we are not together and never will be. She's lucky I'm willing to be in the same vicinity as her. I want nothing to do with her. If this doesn't stop, I'll put you in the same category as her; do I make myself clear, Mother?" I cut her off, unwilling to hold my tongue any longer. I can't believe she still thinks we'll work it out, that we're just having a rough patch, and will get back together. At this point, she's just as delusional as Mallory.

"Do not take that tone with me, son. I am your mother; I know what's best for you, and I'm telling you Mallory is it. If you don't want her on your arm at the gala, just say so. No need to be rude to your mother, who is only trying to help you and make you into the best man you can be."

"I have to go, Mom. I'm not bringing a plus one, nor do I need one. I'm going to support the charity so you and Dad can have the front of the picture-perfect family. With successful, beautiful children who all have it together and a marriage that people only dream of having. I'll speak to you later." I hang up the phone before she can respond to any of what I said. I know she'll be upset that I hung up and she didn't get the last word in, but that's something she'll have to deal with; I have things to do, and none of it concerns her or that bitch Mallory.

After practice, a few buddies and I grab a bite to eat at a diner close to the clubhouse. Tony Simmons, or Simms, as I like to call him, and Gabe Navarro are my fellow outfielders and closest friends on the team. When you're with the same people most of the time, it only makes sense to become close with them. Our pitcher, Zander Houston, shortstop, Danny Morrison, and catcher, Bailey Layne, come along for lunch at a Riverside Legends favorite diner, aptly named Legends.

"You doing alright there, buddy?" Tony Simmons, left fielder, asks.

"I'm all good, Simms. Why do you ask?" Hoping like hell my game wasn't off during practice. My mother and Mallory always get in my head and burrow themselves there, disrupting my focus and making it hard for me to concentrate on the job I'm paid big money to do. I pride myself on my precision and discipline, and any deviation from my routine feels like a crack in my armor. Every drill, every swing, and every catch has to be perfect. There's no room for error in my world, and their constant interruptions threaten to unravel the meticulous structure I've built around my career.

"Just seemed a little off today, nowhere near as fast as you usually are during practice, and I could have sworn you hesitated a little before grabbing that fly ball," Simms asks, worriedly.

"I got a bunch of texts from Mallory this morning, being her usual bloodsucking delusional self, and a ton of calls from Mom. When I called her back after my workout, all she wanted was to remind me why I stay away from my family home as often as possible. I'm glad my brother and sister live in their own homes, or I'd be forced to visit," I laugh, trying to cut the tension. "It's nothing I can't handle, Simms, I promise. Now, let's get that waitress over here; I feel like my stomach is starting to eat itself."

With a wave of his arm, the server hurries over, eager to serve us without delay. Sometimes, being a famous baseball player has its perks. But trust me, fame isn't always glamorous. There are days when the constant attention gets exhausting, and all we want is to go about our day unnoticed. That's the heavy price of stardom, or whatever people call this lifestyle.

After ordering our drinks—water with a bowl of sliced lemons for everyone—we fall silent, each of us focused on the menu, deciding what to eat. Once our orders are in, we settle into the nostalgic atmosphere of Legends Diner. The place feels like a time capsule from the '90s, a blend of The Peach Pit from 90210 and The Max from Saved by the Bell . With its black and white checkered floor and bright, colorful booths, tables, and chairs, it's one of the few spots where we can eat without being mobbed by fans. It's a sanctuary, exactly what we need after a grueling day of training. Legends has everything you could want to eat and is open seven days a week for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I'm not ashamed to admit there have been days when I've eaten all three meals here.

"My mom wanted me to remind you all about the charity gala on Saturday. She said some of you didn't RSVP, and she's taking it out on me. So, unless you have plans you absolutely can't get out of, for the sake of my mental health, please let her know you're coming." I laugh at the last part, making it clear that while I'm passing along the message as my mother wanted, I couldn't care less if they showed up or not. These guys are some of the best humans I've ever met, and I won't let my mother portray them as anything but.

They all nod, understanding that I don't need to know if they're going, just that they got the message.

The server returns with our food, and we all thank her enthusiastically as she sets a plate in front of each of us. Simms got a veggie burger with sweet potato fries, Gabe opted for a chicken Caesar salad because he doesn't like to eat heavily after practice, Danny and Bailey both went for chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans, and I got my usual—double stack of French toast with a side of bacon. We don't usually eat like this during the season, but today was brutal, and when days like this come around, we treat ourselves. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, we're as happy as pigs in mud while we eat our chosen meals, even if we regret it later when we're working off the calories. It's worth it, though.

"So, tell us about the gala, Atlas. What charity is it for? What's the dress code? What's the atmosphere going to be like? Are there going to be beautiful single ladies up for grabs? You know, the important stuff," Bailey asks, stuffing another helping of potatoes into his mouth.

We all laugh at his line of questioning, knowing it always ends up in the same place—women. I wipe my mouth, take a sip of water, and respond, "The theme for the gala is Starry Nights. Wear a suit. The atmosphere will be like a starry night, surrounded by posh, uptight people trying to get you to donate more money than you're willing to. And yes, I assume there will be women from all walks of life. The charity is raising money for education, specifically to set up scholarships for underprivileged kids who can't afford the education they need to succeed. Imagine a kid who's academically advanced but stuck in a public school that can't challenge him. We all know what happens when we get bored—we find trouble. It's the same for these kids. These scholarships will help them attend schools that nurture their genius. It's one of my favorite charities my parents support because I believe no one should be held back by something as mundane as money."

I let out a deep breath, lost in the thoughts about the children I've met over the years who face these challenges. When I look up, the guys are all smirking, their eyes glinting with amusement.

"What? You asked questions—I answered them," I shrug, trying to brush off their reaction to my passionate rant.

"That's a really cool charity, Atlas. I'd be happy to show my support and donate," Zander says, the others nodding in agreement. I'm lucky to have grown up here in Riverside, Oregon, gone to college here, and been drafted to the MLB team, the Riverside Legends. These guys—actually, the whole team and staff—are phenomenal people and mentors. I just nod and go back to my French toast. The conversation shifts to the upcoming game, what we're wearing to the gala, who we think will be there, how much we believe the gala will raise, and other mundane things like our plans leading up to game day.

After we part ways, I head home for a nap before evening practice with the outfielders. As I walk through the automatic doors to my building, the security guard waves me over. A million things run through my mind about why he needs to talk to me, but I can guess it's about one person. Mallory.

"Good afternoon, sir. I just wanted to let you know that Ms. Mallory was here earlier, trying to use the elevator to get to your condo. Every time she used the key card, it brought her back down to the first floor. I let her take that trip four or five times before I walked over and met her frazzled stare when the elevator doors opened the last time.

"I asked where she was trying to go, acting as if I had no clue who she was and if I could help. She told me she was trying to get to her fiancé's condo, but her key card was malfunctioning. When I asked for the fiancé's name, she said I should know who she was and went on about a bunch of nonsense. I asked to see the key card to find out the issue, and she handed it over.

"When I scanned it, I saw it was from the stack I made and told everyone on staff to give out if anyone besides your teammates, coaches, or siblings asked for a replacement. I programmed it to go to your floor, so it seemed legit at first, but the doors wouldn't open. It sent them back down here to me," Leo laughs, recounting the events. I watch with appreciation for the man who understands why I don't want her here.

"That's amazing, Leo. Do you know who gave her that key?"

"Sad to say, sir, it was your mother who was assigned this key card two days ago. If it makes you feel any better, I had her removed and told everyone on staff she's prohibited from the building. I even put her picture up with our other rejects, showcased on every computer screen background, and posted in each break room. She won't get any further than this area, no matter if she gets another key card or not."

Leo looks dejected that my own mother would do something like that. She's willing to go to great lengths to get what she wants, but this will never be something she gets. I shake Leo's hand, thank him, and let him know I'll leave tickets at will-call for him and his son for the upcoming game. He smiles and returns to his desk, and I head to my condo for a well-deserved nap.