The Bottom of the Ninth

The pool at the Kearny's corporate retreat was empty, its surface still as glass. Sarah stood at its edge, her bare feet gripping the cool concrete, clutching her iPhone like a lifeline. Three missed calls from David. Two texts she couldn't bring herself to read.

She'd come out here to escape. Inside, the sales team was already drunk on overpriced scotch and their own metaphors about 'knocking it out of the park.' Someone had turned the TV to the baseball game—Yankees versus Red Sox, rivalry as old and tired as her marriage.

'You okay?'

She turned. It was Marcus from accounting, the one who always smelled faintly of clove cigarettes and expensive cologne. He held two beers, offered one.

'Sure,' she lied. 'Just needed some air.'

They sat in silence on the lounge chairs, watching the game through the sliding glass doors. The distant cheers when someone hit a home run felt like they were happening in another country.

'My dad used to take me to games,' Marcus said suddenly. 'Fenway. Fourth inning, he'd disappear. Come back smelling like beer and cheap perfume.' He laughed, but his eyes didn't crinkle. 'Learned young that everyone's hiding something.'

Sarah's phone buzzed again. This time she looked. David: 'I'm sorry. I can explain.' The message beneath: 'Please come home. We can fix this.'

'Running away doesn't work,' Marcus said, reading over her shoulder. 'Tried it myself. Three cities in five years. You know what I found?'

'What?'

'The same asshole staring back in every mirror.' He finished his beer. 'But sometimes you have to run before you can figure out what you're running toward.'

Inside, someone screamed as the Yankees scored. Sarah looked at the pool, its dark water waiting. She could dive in—literally or metaphorically. Something had to break.

'You ever play?' Marcus asked, gesturing toward the TV.

'Once. College softball. I was terrible.'

'Baseball's just life with chalk lines,' he said. 'Three strikes. So many ways to lose. But you keep stepping up to the plate.'

Sarah stood up. The phone in her hand felt heavy, like a stone she'd carried too long. She wasn't running anymore—not away, and not toward. She was just finally ready to play.

'Want another beer?' Marcus asked.

'No,' she said, pressing send on a text to David. 'I think I'm done drinking for tonight.'