The Last Inning

The baseball field stretched before us, the grass an impossible green under stadium lights that seemed too bright for midnight. Ethan threw another peanut shell into the air, watching it arc and fall like a stock he'd bet everything on three years ago.

"You never called," I said, not looking at him. The words hung between us, heavier than the humid summer air.

"I know." His voice was rough, like he'd been swallowing broken glass. "I couldn't face you after the crash. After I lost everyone's money—including yours."

The scoreboard flickered. BOTTOM OF THE NINTH. Two outs.

"That's bull, Ethan." I turned to face him finally. He looked older than thirty-two. Lines etched around eyes that used to sparkle with schemes and ambition. "You didn't call because you're the same person who convinced me to invest in that crap. You didn't call because you're still trying to figure out the next big win. You didn't call because you're ashamed."

He laughed, a dry, broken sound. "All of the above. But mostly because I couldn't look my best friend in the eye and tell him I'd cost him his daughter's college fund."

I thought about Sarah, starting kindergarten in September. The trust fund was gone, vaporized in Ethan's hedge fund collapse. The media had called him a cowboy, a bull in a china shop, reckless and arrogant. They'd said worse about him in the comment sections.

"I know," I said quietly. "I read the articles. I saw the interviews. You took the fall for the whole team."

"Someone had to."

"Why?"

Ethan finally met my gaze. "Because they had families. Kids. I'm single. I've got nothing. What was I supposed to do?"

The baseball cracked against the bat. A home run. The crowd roared.

"You could have called," I said again. "We were friends first, Ethan. Before the money. Before the schemes. Before you became the golden boy of Wall Street."

"I know." He stood up, brushing peanut shells from his expensive suit—probably one of the last nice things he owned. "I'm leaving town. Moving to Colorado. My sister has a ranch. She says I can learn to do actual work for a change."

"Running from bulls?" I tried to smile.

"Something like that." He looked at me for a long moment. "I can't fix what I broke. But I wanted you to know—I never meant to hurt you. You were the only real thing I had."

I thought about the trust fund, the sleepless nights, the anger. Then I thought about third grade, when he'd taken the blame for breaking the principal's window because he knew my dad would belt me if he found out. I thought about high school, when he'd driven me to the hospital after my first breakup and sat in the waiting room for six hours.

"Don't go to Colorado," I said.

"What?"

"Sarah's school needs a baseball coach. They pay like crap, but you'd be good at it. And you could stay with us until you get back on your feet."

Ethan stared at me. "After everything?"

"Yeah. Because that's what friends do."

The game ended. Fireworks exploded overhead. And somewhere in the noise and light, I saw something genuine return to his eyes—not the calculation of a trader, not the desperation of a gambler, but something simpler. Something real.

"I'd like that," he said quietly. "I'd really like that."