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My eyes flick back to the three of them up in the stands, then slide to the empty seat beside Mom. For just a second I catch myself looking for someone who hasn't been there for a long time. But I force the thought away as quickly as it comes.

Game on.

I wait for the first batter to step up to the plate as I tug on the elastic of each of my bright blue compression sleeves.

They aren't everyone's taste. And without context, no—they don't make much sense.

But the meaning behind them matters more than the aesthetic.

Once the first pitch leaves Mitchell's hand, I let everything else fade into the background.

Or I try to, at least.

Whether or not I want to admit it, that night's been eating at me since she was in my apartment.

Lenny O'Reilly… in my apartment.

I think I stood staring at the closed elevator doors for a half an hour at least after she left. I was… in shock. Surprised. Torn between picturing what it'd be like if that was just a regular thing and wanting to tell her exactly what she did to me six years before.

How she broke me. Wrecked me. How she disappeared after she swore she wouldn't. After she knew how alone I felt already, thanks to everyone but her.

Then the confusion set in, followed by the hopeless anticipation that seems to have made itself at home.

Every time I get a call in the car, every notification that dings from my bag at practice. Every time I'm in the gym or running and my phone vibrates from my pocket, I check it just to see if it's her.

And every time, I'm disappointed.

A ball pops high above me, and I drift a few steps back before settling under it, snapping my glove around it even though my mind is still stuck on those closed elevator doors.

The crowd cheers as I jog it in, and when I reach the dugout, I shoot another V in the air toward my sister. Tom claps, Mom lets out a loud woo with her fists waving in the air.

But that empty chair beside them still sits… empty.

Just like my goddamn phone.

The next few innings blur together after that. Grounders. Fly balls. An easy double. The typical rhythm of bats cracking and leather snapping as the stadium rises and falls with each pitch.

Every now and then, my eyes drift back toward the stands.

But that chair never fills.

Seven innings later, the music cuts through the stadium speakers and the commotion floods the stands for the stretch.

"You comin' out tonight, man?"

JJ nudges my shoulder as he lifts his arms above his head.

I blow a breath through my lips, my eyes still on the screen. "I don't know, man. I'm tired."

"Oh, come on, we're off tomorrow. Plus, it's my brother's place, so no pressure. Just hang for a little."

I take one last look at my phone, a million thoughts running through my mind. I rub my forehead with my first two fingers, fighting my way through the unexpected chaos in my head.

"Maybe," I say, just to quiet some of the noise.

He gives me that JJ grin and claps me on my shoulder. "And…" he drags out, winking, "that's a yes."

I scoff, rolling my eyes. But as soon as he walks away, the havoc seeps back in.