Chapter Twenty
Tristan
Tristan slowly fed his last token into the pitching machine in cage two. He’d seen Alyssa bustling back and forth—and he’d seen her go into Dylan’s cage. Were the rest of these guys ever going to leave? The rain hadn’t abated one bit, but practice would’ve ended twenty minutes ago, and Swing Away closed in another hour. How long could he stand here and pretend to be busy?
How long was Dylan going to do the same thing?
Kyle ambled down the walkway, stopping outside Tristan’s cage. “How’s it going?”
Tristan paused his game. “It” probably meant his batting practice, and he shook his head. “Zen’s playing hide-and-seek so far.”
“A lot on your mind, huh?” Kyle gave him a knowing look. “Come to practice early tomorrow. We should talk.”
Tristan nodded and went back to his game. First pitch—whiff. Second pitch—whiff. Third pitch—whiff. Fourth pitch—whiff.
Tristan ground his teeth and paused the machine. He was so worried about Dylan pitching against Allen, he was making his own problems worse. It was his own fault, for sure, but that didn’t make it any easier.
“Hey.” Alyssa appeared at the cage door. “Slow down.”
She gave him a quick smile, then walked back to the front counter. Slow down. That was a good motto for just about everything right now. Taking a deep breath, Tristan restarted the machine. When the next pitch came, he hesitated a half second before swinging.
Ting!
Ting!
Ting!
He glanced at the counter, and Alyssa gave him this “told you so” smile. He nodded.
Tristan went two out of three for the last few pitches, then stopped to stretch. How was it that two words from Alyssa could unwind everything inside him? He had it bad, that was for sure.
“Looking good.” Dylan rapped on his cage door. “Finished? We could go to dinner?”
“Um, you know what? I might stay and hit another round. Mom said something about pizza tonight, so I think I’m safe to go home.”
Dylan frowned and glanced at Alyssa. “I’ll stay with you.”
“No, it’s fine.” Tristan forced a sheepish expression. “I’m tired of showing my slump off to you guys. I’d like to hit alone for a while.”
Dylan’s frown deepened. “You were looking pretty good just now. Sure you want to keep hitting? You shouldn’t overdo it.”
Tristan shrugged, willing his friend to leave. “I’ll be fine. See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.” Dylan glanced at him over his shoulder before stopping to chat with Alyssa.
Tristan pretended to stretch until Dylan was safely outside, then he packed his stuff and walked up front. “I thought they’d never go.”
“Me, too.” She gave him a tired smile. “It’s late, but maybe we could grab dinner? Unless you need to run.”
He leaned on the counter, drawing close. “I don’t have anywhere else to be.”
He gave her a light kiss, and she sighed softly. “I was hoping you’d say that.” She turned toward the office behind the desk. “Dad, crisis averted, and all the guys are gone. Can I head out?”
“Sure,” came a muffled reply. “See you at home later.”
Alyssa grabbed her purse from under the counter and came around to take Tristan’s hand. “So where should we—”
The bell above the door jingled, and Dylan swept in. “I forgot my bag.”
He stopped as soon as he saw them, hand in hand. Tristan’s gut clenched at the confusion and hurt on Dylan’s face. “Man, look,” he started. “I wanted to tell you, but…”
“But you didn’t.” Dylan’s expression hardened. “Alyssa, you could’ve told me you were seeing someone.”
“Hey, you’re mad at me, okay?” Tristan stepped in front of Alyssa. “In all fairness, she turned you down, just like you thought. She let you down easy. I’m the one you should be pissed with.”
“You could’ve told me. I would’ve understood.” Dylan shook his head, and his face was flushed. “Fuck it, I’m out.”
He turned and stomped out into the rain, leaving whatever he’d forgotten behind—if he’d left anything at all. Maybe it had been an excuse to come back inside. Tristan rubbed a hand over his face. “You okay?”
No answer.
Tristan turned to find Alyssa standing absolutely still, tears on her cheeks. “I’m sorry. He’s your friend, and now…”
“Now it’s my mess, okay? I’m the one who decided to keep it from him.” And it would be Tristan’s fault if the team lost on Friday—whether it was Dylan’s pitching or his own lack of hitting. He put his arms around her. “It’s not your fault.”
She shook her head, and her phone pinged in her bag. “Shit, I knew it wouldn’t take long, but that was fast.” She pulled out her phone, looked at it, and squeezed her eyes shut. “I was right. Dylan already texted Lauren. She knows, too.”
“God.” Tristan rested his chin on her head. “What do you want to do?”
“I need to go see her.” Alyssa pulled away and swiped at her cheeks. “Look, there’s a lot going on. Maybe…maybe we should back off for a while. Until this blows over.”
It was such a reasonable thing to say, and Alyssa was nothing if not a reasonable girl. Still, it hurt. “You mean you don’t want to see me anymore?”
“Not forever.” She swallowed hard, and he could tell she was close to breaking down again. “Just…until the playoffs are over. Or until we can help them understand.”
Knowing what little he did about Lauren, he didn’t see her understanding ever. Dylan might come around, but he was going to make Tristan pay for it for a while. Tristan pushed down the ache pounding in his chest, hating what he had to say. “If that’s what you want.”
“It’s not, but it’s what’s right.” She gave him a quick, tight hug, then released him. “Thanks for bringing the guys here.”
He started to say it was Dylan’s idea first but stopped. Selfish or not, he wanted credit for the one good thing that happened today. “You’re welcome.”
Tristan squeezed Alyssa’s hand, then hauled his bag onto his shoulder and stepped out into the rain.
“What’s wrong, son?” Dad stared at the uneaten piece of pizza on Tristan’s plate. “You usually mow this stuff down.”
“It’s nothing.” He picked at the pizza crust. How had everything gotten so fucked up in the space of five minutes?
No, he was lying to himself—in the space of four days. He was such an idiot. If he’d only explained things to Dylan. It wasn’t like he’d known Alyssa was the girl Dylan liked, not at first. But when he figured it out, what did he do? He’d hidden it from everyone. And now he was alone—no Dylan, no Alyssa.
“I don’t think it’s nothing,” Mom said. “Are you getting sick?”
Tristan shook his head. Anything to keep the thermometer out of his mouth. “I’m good. Just…tired.”
His parents exchanged a look. Even if they didn’t understand baseball, they understood him pretty well. Mom forced a smile. “Maybe you should get some rest, then? Big game this week, right?”
He nodded, feeling dull. “That’s a good idea. I’m going to bed.”
He left them, sure they were watching every step he took until he disappeared from their sight. When he was safely upstairs, locked away in his room, he hazarded a glance at his phone.
Nothing from Dylan, nothing from Alyssa.
There was a text from Kyle. Dude, you okay?
Wondering how far the news had spread, Tristan texted:
Kyle didn’t answer right away, which was proof enough. Tristan pulled off the clean T-shirt he’d worn to dinner and slid into bed. The rain hadn’t let up for a minute, and an occasional thunderclap rumbled in the distance. Good weather for a crap mood.
His phone buzzed—Kyle again. Don’t beat yourself up. Things will be better tmo.
Tristan hoped so, but as for believing it…he wasn’t quite there yet.