Single malt whiskey didn't burn going down, at least not after the third shot. He made note of that, stroking his beard thoughtfully and staring down his reflection across the bar. The place was empty aside from a half asleep bartender and a single waitress filling the salt shakers. Mike had never been a day-drinker, but there was something about how dimly lit the bar was that made it seem okay. He could delude himself into thinking he wasn't being pathetic.
Delusion. That's one thing he'd become quite familiar with. Convincing himself that he wasn't at the end of his career had become an art. His knees only hurt some of the time, muscles in his back twinging only after a long day of up and down, up and down. He was only thirty-six fucking years old. Only in the world of professional athletes was that a decrepit age. Everyone else in the world, all the sane people, could see that he was in the prime of his life. Financially solvent, devastatingly handsome, charming as hell. He let the comments roll off his shoulders, knowing these boys couldn't keep up with him in any other arena, that they were just poking the bear trying to get a response. Telling himself that none of it mattered was easy.
He slammed the shot-glass down on the bar, almost wishing the thing would shatter with the sheer force, leave bloody shards embedded in his palm, give him something to focus on, something to attend to. The bartender gave him an annoyed look before reaching over to pour another shot. "Leave it," Mike grunted, watching the man reluctantly let go of the bottle, giving Mike a wary side-eye. As usual in situations like these, he was humored. Mike Lawson got what he wanted.
Convincing himself that he isn't lonely… well that had involved some rather pleasant encounters and more than a few sports cars lined up in his driveway. Women loved Mike Lawson, loved the slick and expensive suits he wore out to events, loved his platinum credit cards and his giant house in the hills. They loved to swim naked in his pool, to put on a show for the baseball star before letting him throw them over his shoulder and haul them up the stairs to his panty-dropping bedroom with it's expansive bed and egyptian cotton sheets angled in front of an open fireplace and looking up at strategically placed skylights.
And in the morning, depending on whether or not he felt like it, he'd make them breakfast, watch them valiantly try and remain cool and collected as he played boyfriend and served them eggs. It was almost a game to him, to see if he could make them want more, make them start to long for things outside the bedroom. It was borderline cruel, knowing that he had no interest in even a second date, but there was something that compelled him. He needed to know that they wanted to stay and that he was the one telling them to leave. Lonely people didn't tell people to leave.
This time he let the whisky roll around his tongue before he swallowed it. The woodsy notes were pleasant, the burn of alcohol all but absent in his currently tipsy state. This time the waitress was eyeing him as he tipped the bottle over again. He stopped pouring half a second too late, cursing as amber liquid spilled over his fingers. "Shit."
The woman came up beside him with a towel, smiling as she mopped up the mess. "Aren't you a baseball player or something?"
Mike didn't bother looking up at her, instead peering at his reflection again. Christ, when the fuck did he get so old? He nodded at the woman, growling, "Or something."
Signal taken, she scooted away from Mike, shrugging at the bartender and going back to her work. It was a code in places like this: Let the grumpy old bastards stew and leave them alone. Mike wondered how many more shots he would need to pickle his brain, to stop the thoughts that kept circling inside his skull like drunken goldfish. His last delusion had been shattered today, and by no one other than himself.
Convincing himself he didn't have feelings for Ginny Baker was something he'd become astonishingly good at. He was her mentor, her teacher, and she was young. So god damned young. If he closed his eyes he could see what she looked like as a kid, all arms and legs, awkward in every endeavor except baseball, a poster of seasoned baseball player Mike Lawson hanging on her wall.
Jesus, he'd been married and divorced before Ginny had even made it to the bigs. She was a child, a kid who needed guidance. And he was there to give it to her, not to ogle at the way she filled out her uniform, not to blush like an idiot when she teased him about his need for fast cars and even faster women. He wasn't supposed to fucking call her in the middle of the night just to see if he could make her laugh, just to see if she would pick up the phone and talk about how Evelyn made the worst guacamole either of them had ever tasted. That thought alone sent him into a shame spiral, reminding him of the god damned cilantro. He could still see the look on Blip's face, the wide-eyed confusion coming from Omar after his little rant about Ginny's likes and dislikes. It seemed like the only one he was fooling these days was himself.
I don't know what I'd do without you.
He laid his head down on the bar. Fuck. He'd been so convinced Ginny Baker would be fine without him. Already she was bonding with Duarte, the other guys on the team slowly but surely becoming family. Al would be there to guide her, Blip there to protect her if the need arose. She didn't need some past his prime first-baseman to pal around with. He couldn't take becoming less and less important to her, to fucking everyone, as he was phased out. Better go out with a fucking bang taking a real shot at winning the world series. His own fading career was something he should be focusing on.
Blip was wrong, Ginny Baker wasn't his legacy. She was her own god damned legacy. Everything she touched turned to gold. All the hard work, all the fucking bald faced determination. It was damn near blinding, and Mike was already on the decline. It was only a matter of time before he was just another burn-out sitting in the dugout as Oscar waited for his contract to run out. And he'd begun to think Ginny would barely even notice him leaving.
I don't know what I'd do without you.
Was he lying to himself again? His phone was in his hand before he had time to think about it, scrolling through his recent calls until he saw her name. She was one call away, almost always picked up when it was him, her catcher… her friend. She'd never know how many times he picked up the phone to call her and didn't follow through. Every time he was angry at the world, every time something made him laugh, every time he felt an undefinable longing deep in his gut, there her name was.
Instead of pocketing his phone and drowning his doubt in another shot of whiskey, he tapped her name, his heartbeat skittering nervously. It barely rang twice before she answered, her voice breathy like she'd just been running. He couldn't stop the smile that began to spread across his face. Of course she was running. "Baker, are you busy?"
She paused for a moment, catching her breath, slowing. "Just getting a few miles in before dinner. What's up?"
The proverbial shit had already hit the fan, everything set in motion for his eventual departure. But he wasn't going to make the same mistake as before. This time Ginny was hearing this news from him and him alone. "Can you meet me down at Lafayette's? We need to talk."
Again, the pause, this time Mike could hear her breathing softly on the other end of the line. If he closed his eyes he could see the way her lips were slightly parted, brow slightly furrowed, her thinking face. "Yeah, sure… I'll be there in half an hour."