XXX CHAPTER 24 XXX

Might as well bite the bullet right now. Emmett was exhausted and emotionally drained, but there was no reason for Edward to set his alarm and drive to the beach in the morning.

Sorry, can't run tomorrow.

No problem. See you Monday?

Fuck! If Emmett wanted to make a clean break, the smart play would be to tell Edward now, not drag this out, not put himself in the position where he'd have to actively avoid Edward again and again. He knew it was wrong, but his own heart was already carrying so much sadness, Emmett couldn't bear to inflict the whole truth on Edward just yet. Can I text you tomorrow night?

Sure.

Sunday morning was a slow, depressing march and an excruciating exercise in restraint. Resolved not to message Edward, by midday, Emmett somehow convinced himself it would be okay to check Edward's tweet.

ɸ69fanatic: #whatiloveaboutbaseball There's always a rematch.

There he went again, reaching out under the cover of a "random" post to send Emmett a comforting message. And what did Edward get for all his trouble? Dumped! Kicked to the curb because Emmett had to make this all or nothing, and "all" wasn't a viable option. I'm such a shit.

Emmett left early for the ballpark, leaving himself extra time to punish his body for the sins of his heart. Trey eyed him cautiously, holding his tongue until he had Emmett laid out face-down on his table.

"I see we're hell-bent on self-destruction again. Wanna tell me what's going on?"

The donut-shaped pillow around Emmett's face absorbed his answer. "Nope."

"Okay." Trey worked on his back without another word, leaving Emmett to his dark thoughts. Trey signaled for Emmett to flip over, which he managed without meeting his trainer's eyes. Kneading his way up Emmett's left arm, Trey tried once more. "You know you can't take the mound like this, right?"

Emmett's gaze met Trey's for a quick second before finding something extremely compelling on the ceiling to stare at. "I've got it under control."

Indeed, he did. While lying prone on the table, Emmett had devised a game plan worthy of Bobby Fischer. He'd text Edward after the game tonight and beg off for tomorrow. The team would be on the road for an entire week after that, and Edward would understand if Emmett couldn't contact him—different time zones, busy schedules, planes to catch. The timing was perfect to make the break. Emmett would barely remember what the guy looked like after eight days apart. He'd trail off with a strategically-placed message every now and then before fading quietly from Edward's radar screen. The plan was watertight; it couldn't fail.

Seeking to finish the unpleasant deed as quickly as possible, Emmett was first into the locker room after the game. He sent Edward the briefest of texts, Sorry, tomorrow isn't going to work, adding a note of finality with, Have a good day.

You're a shmuck, you know that, Mac?

A shmuck trying not to blow his career on a distraction.

Edward is going to be devastated.

He'll understand. It's for the good of the team.

He'll understand that you can't be friends with him anymore?

Aye, wasn't that the rub? Emmett cranked up the radio in the Spyder, drowning out his warring thoughts with Hip Hop Nation until the robot voice interrupted. One new message from . . . Edward Cullen. Say "read it" or "ignore."

"Fuck!"

I'm sorry, I don't understand what you said. Say "read it" or "ignore."

"Ignore!" It's probably just a "you too" or "take care," Emmett reassured himself. I don't need to read it tonight and get sucked in to responding.

The music kicked in again, but instead of quieting Emmett's thoughts, the low-pitched rap pounded at his frazzled nerves like a thousand tiny hammers inside his head. With an exasperated sigh, Emmett flipped off the music and opened his window, leaning elbow-first into the muggy night air.

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He resisted checking his messages again in the morning, heading to the beach for a faster run than he'd taken in weeks. Pushing himself to their distant turnaround spot, Emmett ran out of steam and sank to the sand. A low groan escaped him as he dropped his head back on folded arms and stretched his exhausted legs to the edge of the surf. The ocean ran up and tickled his toes before rushing away out of reach.

You gonna lie here all day feeling sorry for yourself, you pathetic loser?

Effectively bullied, he stood, dug his toes into the wet sand, and gazed out to where the water met the horizon. Surely, there were answers out there for him . . . somewhere. He looked to the sky, half-expecting a glider to fly across the water, carrying a banner with the right answer to his problem. Perhaps the mathematician could work out a more logical solution, factoring in probabilities about their chances as a couple or what would happen to Emmett's career if they were discovered.

Wading into the ocean until the water lapped at his knees, Emmett turned toward home. He slogged through the cool water that was both a burden and a relief—much like his new friendship.

There was no question Emmett was his best self around Edward. Surely, Edward's intelligence challenged Emmett to stretch himself—when had he ever made an earnest attempt to learn the game of chess? And Edward's dry, Vulcan sense of humor snuck up on Emmett when he was least expecting it. Perhaps, most of all, it was the starry-eyed way the guy still looked at Emmett as if he could do no wrong.

But wasn't that the burden, too? Emmett was human, a point he'd proven again and again as he struggled to master his emotions on the mound. What would happen the day Emmett fell off Edward's pedestal and actually bled? Was that the man Edward wanted, or was he just enamored with the comic book version?

By the time Emmett reached home, he was more confused than ever. Reluctantly, he picked up his phone and opened Edward's text from last night.

Mac, I understand. You have to do what's best for you.

Shit, shit, shit! Why couldn't Edward be a jerk about this?

Yeah, I think I need to get back to my routine. This isn't working right now. Nothing personal.

No, not much.

Sorry I couldn't be more helpful.

You were great. Not your fault I have rocks in my head! Please, Edward, don't make me trot out the time-worn "It's not you, it's me," though never had the statement been more accurate.

A long pause followed, and Emmett pictured Edward hunched over his keyboard, typing and erasing, trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong. Emmett was just about to hit the shower when the message came in.

I messed you up. Should never have changed your game-day workout!

I'm not superstitious, Edward. The swim was relaxing. That's not the problem.

Then it's something I said. Who the hell are we kidding here? I'm no coach! I don't have a clue what I'm doing.

Dammit! He should've known Edward would take Emmett's failures onto his own shoulders. God, this thing was spiraling out of control. So much for the brilliant plan! Edward, stop blaming yourself. Please.

Come on, Emmett. Do the math. You pitched a perfect game the night we met. You've been struggling ever since.

Not every game!

I know a trend when I see one. You're right. You should go back to your routine and listen to the real coaches. No more whatilove tweets.

Christ! This was excruciating, and Emmett couldn't imagine Edward was handling it any better on his end. It was Edward's final message that sucked the oxygen out of Emmett's lungs, all but extinguishing the flame that Edward had sparked to life six weeks ago. Take good care of yourself, Emmett.

And there it was—the breakup. Emmett should've felt relieved; Edward had shown the courage Emmett wasn't capable of mustering—yet again—and done the dirty work for him, but relief was nowhere in sight.

Somehow, Emmett peeled off his sweaty, sandy clothes and maneuvered himself into the shower. He went through the motions by rote, scrubbing his skin raw before realizing what he was doing to himself. Dazed and weak, he shuffled to the closet, reaching for his Joe Bruin t-shirt and a pair of shorts.

This can't possibly be the solution, not when Emmett felt so gutted. I can't leave it like this!

Emmett stumbled into the kitchen and, leaning on the counter for support, ate his last banana. The brain fog lifted a bit, leaving Emmett to puzzle over his dilemma. This quick escape route certainly had its advantages for Emmett, he had to admit. Emmett wouldn't have to leave the safety of his closet, wouldn't have to show Edward what a coward he was, and wouldn't have to fight off any fresh images of a man he'd never see again.

But at what cost to Edward? Lead him to believe he'd ruined Emmett with bad coaching advice, and that's why Emmett had to step away? Where would that leave Edward's confidence for August, when he had to face a classroom of young minds waiting to be molded? The truth was, every single thing Edward had done for him and advised him was dead solid.

Emmett picked up his phone and tapped the screen to life. There it was, Edward's final message. Even in goodbye, he was ever insightful. This was all about Emmett taking care of what he'd thought was important, but if that were the case, why did his chest feel like a cannonball had just blown through? Surely this bullshit wouldn't help him win baseball games!

It was time to follow his gut and take care of himself in a meaningful way by being a decent, stand-up guy. He only prayed Edward would give him the chance to let him off the hook.

With shaky fingers, he opened their message stream and typed. Hi. Remember me?

Scared to wait for a response, Emmett continued. Listen, I don't want to leave things this way between us. Can we meet? I'll come to you. Heart in his throat, Emmett pushed send.

No response. Emmett checked the time—11:35. He was due at practice at two today for a light workout. Still no response. Crap. It crossed Emmett's mind for one sickening second that Edward had blocked him, not that he could blame the guy.

Emmett fixed himself a bowl of Special K—the fridge was bare the night before a week-long road trip. He'd grab something more substantial at the park. Flopping onto the couch with his lunch, phone, and the remote within reach, Emmett turned on the TV and scrolled how Fuller always did, barely registering what was on. Pausing on an old Star Trek rerun with the original cast, Emmett chuckled and shook his head.

"Okay, Universe. I'm listening."

Trading the remote for his cereal bowl, Emmett paid extra close attention to the famous Spock-Kirk bromance. "I bet you'd never abandon your first officer, wouldja, Captain Kirk?"

The couch vibrated with an incoming text, and Emmett lunged for his phone, sloshing cereal soup onto the leather.

Sure, if you like.

I like. What's your address?

You really want to come here? My place is a dive!

Don't start cleaning! Emmett laughed despite the tangled mess of nerves in his belly. Address, Cullen!

Okay. 325 Morris St. in Renton. It's a bit of a haul.

Yeah, a haul Edward had made every damn day in rush hour traffic. On my way.

Swiping at the milky mess with his napkin, Emmett jumped off the couch and raced around his apartment, gathering keys, shades, flip flops, and wallet. He still had two hours—and with Renton being a half hour from home and another half hour from the stadium, that would give Emmett an hour to smooth things over with Edward and at least leave their friendship in a decent place.

Author's Note: *dives into pumpkin shell and closes lid tight*

XXX ~BOH