1. Jackson

CHAPTER 1

JACKSON

I stomp into the house, sling my shoes down the hallway, and slam the front door behind me. If anyone ever tries to tell you that sports are easy, don't listen to them. There are harder jobs for sure, like, oh, I don't know, garbage collector or brain surgeon. But just because their lives are worse than mine, doesn't mean I don't struggle too sometimes.

And right now, I'm struggling.

It's not that I'm not good at what I do. I'm actually the best. Did you know that forty percent of all pitchers who get an elbow injury have to get surgery for it? There's a reason they came up with the term "Pitcher's Elbow." It's for people like me.

Not that I have any injuries, thank God. As the star pitcher for the Philadelphia Prairie Dogs, I can't afford to let that happen to me, so I make sure to do my stretches every day — every morning and every night. My physical therapist says that my arm is in great shape, but every day I wake up terrified that all my fingers are going to have dropped off in my sleep.

It doesn't help that I just got home from a long, long practice and I don't feel like I made any progress whatsoever. The fact is, if we want any chance of winning the World Series, I have to be the best. And if I don't work for it, I'm not going to be the best. That thought terrifies me more than anything.

"Mr. Kerr." A voice snaps me out of my brooding. It's Maria, my cleaner. "Mr. Kerr, is everything all right?" She's a young Mexican woman with brown eyes and a pretty smile. I don't know that much else about her though. I never really get time to ask. I think she lives here with her family, looking to try and keep them all healthy and safe. That seems right to me. Anyway, I always give her a big bonus at the end of the month, so at least I feel like I'm putting my money towards something good.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks, Maria," I say, doing my best to smile at her. "Just a bit stressed."

She nods like she understands. "You have a big game coming up, yes?"

"Every game's big when we're heading for the playoffs."

"Are you going to make it to the finals this year?" she asks, and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from correcting her. I suppose I should find it sweet that she's asking about my career, but I really don't want to have this conversation right now. I don't really want to speak to anyone at all.

"Let's hope so," I say distantly, then add gloomily, "Otherwise, I'm going to be a washed-up retiree who never even made it into the World Series once."

She smiles again. "There's still time, sir. This year can be the year."

"Glad someone's confident," I mutter. "Anyway," I say more loudly, "if you don't mind…" I make a little gesture to mime please go away, I'm busy.

Fortunately, Maria gets the hint. "Well, I'm finished for today. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Thanks," I say again, absently, turning away from her and listening to her shuffle away. She's a good woman. She sure puts up with a lot from me.

I hear her close the door quietly behind her as I wander to the kitchen to see what Pierre has left me for dinner. I am, like, so lucky that I can afford people to look after me. If I had to actually cook for myself, bad things would happen.

Plus, today's the day he will have been here. He comes over three or four times a week and makes me a full week's worth of meals. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Almost makes working myself to the bone worth it.

"Nice," I say to myself as I find several boxes of food stacked neatly in my fridge — noodles and stir-fry and breakfast rolls. For now, though, I grab a protein shake from the door and slam it back shut. I can't sit down to eat just yet. I still have too much restless energy.

I pace back through the house, through the main living room into the smaller, less used living room, then back through a door into the pantry. All the doors in this house make no sense, like the architect was trying to make a fun labyrinth instead of a functional house. The electrician too. I swear they wired all the light switches in a completely illogical way just to wind me up on purpose.

This pacing isn't doing anything. I finish the last of my drink and groan in frustration. Why did I focus on my fastball today when my slider needs work? Why did I let Antonio show me up? And worse, Xavier! He's barely even a reserve and still he struck more people out than me.

Should I be resting my arm? Maybe. But I need to do something. I can't just sit here uselessly all day. There has to be some way I can make myself better.

It hits me as I stomp back through the hall and spot my sneakers. If I say so, it's a brilliant idea. I'm going to go for a run. That's an arm-free kind of way to clear my head that still feels productive and gets me the hell out of this house. I'm going to lose my mind if I stay in here like this. I just need to feel my heart pounding in my chest and my lungs struggling for breath.

It might not fix everything, but it's definitely a good start.

I head back to the kitchen to grab a protein bar, forcing myself to eat all of it even though I'm really not hungry. I can't afford for my muscle mass to drop at this point, not when we're so close to the goal.

I toss the wrapper in the trash, then grab my running bottle and strap it to my hand before heading back to the hall to shove my feet back in my shoes. I'm not wearing the best clothes for this, but shorts and a T-shirt will have to do. It's warm enough out, a nice spring day. Not that I have time to care about stuff like that.

Quickly, I do a mental checklist, wiggling my toes to make sure the laces aren't too tight. I've got my water, my keys, my sunglasses. Let's go.

But I hesitate for a second at the door, then take my phone back out of my pocket to toss it onto the side table. I don't want any distractions. All I want is to go out for half an hour and not have one single thought in the world. No texts, no conversations. Nothing except the grind. The universe can give me that, right?