Three Strikes

Martin adjusted his baseball cap, the brim still stained with his father's sweat from twenty years of Little League coaching. The bullpen felt smaller today, or maybe he'd just finally outgrown it.

"You're not seriously wearing that hat to the pitch meeting," Sarah said, not looking up from her phone.

"It's lucky."

"It's tragic."

The conference room smelled like stale coffee and desperation. Morgan—everyone called him The Bull behind his back, though never to his face—paced at the head of the table. He'd already fired two assistants this month. The turnover rate in their department was becoming the stuff of legend, the kind of thing recruiters whispered about over drinks.

"Nobody wants your gut feelings, Martin," The Bull said, his voice rising. "I asked for numbers."

"The numbers don't tell the story."

"The numbers ARE the story."

Martin thought about his goldfish at home, swimming endless circles in its bowl, convinced each lap was progress. How long had he been doing the same thing here? Three years? Four? The promotions came, the raises came, but somehow he was still in the same goddamn bowl.

"I'm not presenting that deck," Martin said. The room went silent. "It's misleading. It'll get us sued within six months."

The Bull stopped pacing. "You're refusing a direct order?"

"I'm refusing to lie to clients."

Afterward, Martin sat on the bench outside, his cardboard box of belongings beside him. The hat felt heavier somehow. His father had worn it the day they told him the cancer was back. Had taken it off only when the chemo made him too cold, then put it back on when he insisted on coaching Martin's cousin's team from his wheelchair.

Sarah came out, lit a cigarette she didn't actually smoke. "He'll blacklist you, you know."

"Yeah."

"Was it worth it?"

Martin watched a pigeon fight over a crust of bread with two smaller birds. The metaphor was almost insultingly obvious.

"I don't know," he said. "Ask me in six months."

He tossed the hat in the trash. It wasn't lucky. It never had been. His father had died anyway. The team had lost the championship anyway. Some things you just had to play out, even when you knew how they ended.

Martin stood up. "You coming back inside?"

"Nah," Sarah said, flicking the cigarette into a puddle. "I think I'm done too."

They walked away from the building together, and for the first time in years, Martin felt like he was finally swimming forward instead of in circles.