Colors of Us

9| Garrett

"There's a party tonight. You should come. Loosen up," Greg suggested.

Garrett shook his head as his ulcer flared. Alcohol wouldn't solve anything. He'd be the same loser who couldn't pitch when it counted, only he'd be a drunken loser who couldn't pitch when it counted. Plus, it'd aggravate his ulcer. And god, didn't that make him sound like a ratchety eighty-year-old man? He'd give up his entire baseball card collection to be normal again and not have his therapist on speed-dial.

"If you change your mind let me know. I got twins who are out for revenge on their cheating exes." Greg always had a gaggle of girls waiting by their phones. He was like a younger version of Jordan except where Jordan had smoothness, Greg had a rough edge that screamed danger. Made girls go gaga.

"Thanks, man," Garrett said and went back to his game.

As the hours ticked by, the pain in his stomach grew. By the time practice rolled around, Garrett couldn't even stand straight, but he was determined to muscle through. Without the pitching mound, he had nothing to keep him grounded. Nothing to keep the nightmares at bay.

He kept his head down as he entered the locker room, hoping he to sneak in unnoticed, but as soon as he came into view, all chatter stopped. His vision blurred as their anger and condemnation ballooned, sucking the oxygen out of the room.

Oh god. He couldn't break. Not in a room full of his teammates. His peers. His friends.

Panic rose as he tried to get air into his lungs, but all he could obtain was shame and guilt. He'd done this to himself by being cocky. He should never have made those promises to his coaches. He'd messed up everything good in his life, why did he think baseball would be different?

Garrett bumbled to his locker, but in his haste, knocked into Gus. Gus speared him with such an ugly look, Garrett's whole body flushed, feeling like he was a pig roasting over an open fire.

"Why the fuck is everyone standing around? Practice starts in five minutes. Let's go." Jordan boomed behind Garrett, his voice hard and unyielding. The room returned to its usual loud state as everyone went back to what they were doing, and Garrett finally felt like he could breathe again. Jordan brushed by Garrett. "You too, Saint. Hustle or else you'll be running laps till dark."

After he finished changing, Garrett hobbled to the field, trying to keep the pain out of his face. Stephan and Marcus fell into step with him, caging him on each side. They had to have planned it because it was too smooth to be a coincidence.

"How's the knuckles?" Stephan asked, his eyes straying to the bandages wrapped around Garrett's hands.

"Healing." It hurt like hell, but he'd never admit it. Not with the pity shining in their eyes. He increased his pace, but they kept up.

"What'd you do over the weekend?" Marcus asked. They'd called and texted, but Garrett hadn't answered.

"Nothing much." He didn't like the look Stephan and Marcus exchanged. In fact, it was starting to piss him off.

Stephan lifted his brows. "Greg said you didn't leave your room. Played video games the whole time."

"You talked to Greg about me?" Garrett didn't even try to keep the betrayal out of his voice. Stephan and Marcus didn't even like Greg. Said he was a bail bond waiting to happen.

"Chill out," Stephan said. "We ran into him at the caf. It wasn't like we were on a mission to seek out your innermost demons." But something in his tone made Garrett feel like he was lying.

"Whatever," Garrett muttered. Right now, he had more important things to worry about. The pressure in his chest increased as both coaches came into view. He squinted against the afternoon sun as he tried to make out their expressions.