Free Sweet Spot by Rae Lynn Blaise

me, more guilt because it was me. I slept with his daughter, I covered her head to toe in hickeys. I violated his trust. My morning high is completely gone and now I just feel like a fucking asshole.
    A lucky fucking asshole who Coach doesn’t think is currently responsible. Because I’m supposed to be cleaning up my act.
    You know when you try to change, try to turn the car around and go down the path you’re supposed to, but a tire blows out and ruins fucking everything? This was my tire blow out. My utter weakness for this amazing girl.
    And now it’s here, staring me in the face. We have to stop. We can’t see each other anymore or I’ll lose everything. Literally everything. I have to tell her tonight, as soon as we’re done at the game. I’d tell her now if I didn’t have a ballgame to destroy.
    That sinking feeling seeps in, the one that knows everything is ruined. The best thing to ever happen to me is about to have to walk out of my life because I crossed a million different terrible lines and betrayed the man who inspires me the most.
    I can’t be traded. I can’t lose my contract. These guys are my life. Kansas City is my home. As much as Ally means to me, I would literally be walking away from everything.
    Except how can I walk from her? I’ve never felt this way about a girl before.
    Jamie says something to me, but I don’t hear him. Coach is still red in the face and ranting, but he ends it with, “Have a good game” and slams the door shut. It’s silent for a moment longer and then everyone awkwardly grabs our gear and heads to the dugout.
    We’re all looking at each other, sizing one another up to see who violated the code of conduct, and George finally says,
    “Maybe she found a guy down at the hotel bar.”
    “She’s fucking illegal, dude.” Comes from Carlos.
    I keep my mouth shut and look at anyone in the face. Putting all this out of my head feels impossible, but I need to stay on top of my game tonight. Why couldn’t he have waited? Why kill the streak I had pumping through me?
    Jesus fuck. I’m a mess.
    It must have been way worse for her. Conversations behind closed doors with Coach are notoriously terrifying, and being his daughter must have made it worse. My poor Ally was probably alone through it while he tore her ass up.
    Not my Ally. Just Ally. She’s not mine. Not any longer.
    We head out to the field for the National Anthem and Coach still looks murderous, but he’s got his happy face on. Well, this should be fucking fun. You know how they say dudes don’t have any emotions? We’re just stoic, stone-faced creatures who piss away anything that has to do with feelings?
    It’s bullshit. We bury it. We sweep it under the rug and pretend they don’t exist. We scrape ourselves clean and bury the hatchet and pretend like we are those stone creatures until one day we explode. Guys aren’t as violent as we look. The fuse burns hot for a long time before the ka-boom . But that’s why.
    When my mom died, I did a lot of burying. Subsequently, I did a lot of exploding. See also: my frequent run-ins with the fine, good ol’ boys at the KCPD. See also: the girls I went through like water. See also: the number of empty liquor bottles in my recycle bin each week.
    I was a fucking mess. Still am, I suppose. It’s not like a lot of time has passed between Coach tearing my ass up and today. The problem is, I thought I found a way to decompress without exploding. I thought I found a way to clear the slate without turning into a human torch.
    The problem is she’s untouchable. And I touched her anyway. And now Coach knows.
    Kind of.
    I try my fucking best to take all that shit and cram it down to my shoes. Every feeling, every thought of Ally, every memory tied to scent and taste, shoved as far down deep as I dare go. But now I know my wire cutter is gone and I can’t get my head straight.
    I strike out. I miss a relatively easy line drive so the Sox bat in two. In the third inning,