“Thanks.” He tucked it into his pocket. “The team has a home game tonight, so I’ll head over after that.”

“Perfect. I’ll text you and let you know what time to expect me.” I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You okay, babe?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry again about the Bethany Bloomstar thing.”

He yawned again. “It’s okay. I’m more mad that she dragged your name into it. And Cloverleigh’s.”

“Don’t worry about that. I bet no one even saw it.”

He shook his head and gave me a look.

“Okay, well, even if people did see it, the people who matter to us know the truth, right?”

“Right.”

“Hey.” I took his hand. “I can tell you’re upset. And I saw the light switching on and off eight times in the bathroom.”

He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a thing I do sometimes. A habit.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Look, I’m tired, I’m not thinking straight, and my brain is all muddled. I promise—it was just a reflex. I’m okay. I’m going to go back to the hotel and take a nap.”

“Good idea.” I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you tonight.”

I went into the house, plugged in my phone, and headed upstairs to take a shower and get ready for work. When I came down an hour later, I had a ton of text messages—some from my sisters, one from my mom, a few from friends I hadn’t seen in a while. All of them were about the same thing: the news story about Tyler and me. Many of them had sent me the link to the online video.

Knowing it was a bad idea, I clicked on it.

“Few major league baseball careers have imploded as spectacularly as hometown hero Tyler Shaw’s.” Bethany Bloomstar’s voice accompanied a series of photos of Tyler, starting with one from high school, in which he appeared cocky and grinning.

“A first-round draft pick right out of high school, Shaw rocketed to fame within a few years, making millions, breaking hearts, and winning game after game, thanks in large part to his phenomenal fastball and supreme confidence.” Now the photos showed Tyler in his San Diego uniform—on the mound looking fierce, signing autographs after a game, celebrating a win in the clubhouse.

“But you know what they say—pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall—and Shaw’s fall from grace was huge, it was public, and it was enough to kill his career for good.” Video footage showed Tyler throwing wild pitches one after the other, sometimes hitting a batter, sometimes sailing wide, sometimes hitting the dirt just ten feet from the mound. I cringed with every throw, knowing how it was killing Tyler inside.

“What caused Shaw to go from hero to head case was a phenomenon widely known as the yips, a sudden loss of ability in pro athletes. While it’s not well understood, most experts agree it’s not due to a physical problem—the issue is entirely in the athlete’s head.” A photo of Tyler sitting on the bench with his head in his hands put a lump in my throat.

“Most of them never recover, and Tyler Shaw was no exception. His career tanked. His endorsement deals ended. His dreams shattered. Once famously charming, Shaw became reclusive and angry, refusing all interview requests. Within three years, he retired from baseball and retreated to a cabin in the San Bernardino Mountains to avoid the media maelstrom.” Video footage of a small, secluded cabin in the woods appeared, although there was no sign of him, and I wondered if it was even his place.

“But interest in the former superstar has never waned, and Shaw featured prominently in a recent sports documentary about careers cut short by the yips.” The shot cut to a clip from the documentary in which some crusty old coach was shaking his head and referring to Tyler as a “poor bastard.” My hands clenched into fists.

“Shaw hasn’t been home since his career ended, but last weekend, he was seen at Cherry Capital Airport.” Cell phone footage played of a stern-faced, square-shouldered Tyler moving through the airport, cap low, sunglasses on. “He was home for his sister’s wedding, but don’t be surprised if you see him around town a little more often now—with a brand new girlfriend on his arm.” My jaw dropped as amateur footage of Tyler and me appeared—chatting on the track at the high school, having breakfast at Coffee Darling, walking down Main Street.

“April Sawyer, a hometown honey, is a high school friend of Shaw’s.” A slightly out-of-focus photo of Tyler and me from senior year appeared, the other faces blurred out. “But someone might want to warn her about Shaw’s dark side.”

Now the video footage was of a clearly frustrated Tyler yelling obscenities at photographers, cameramen, and reporters, getting in their faces, going so far as to shove one away from him as he tried to leave his house. “He might have lost his arm, but he obviously gained a violent temper. Last night the two were spotted having dinner in a local establishment, and when he was approached for an autograph, things got ugly fast.”

Outraged, I watched the clip of us leaving the restaurant again. “You lying bitch! You didn’t ask him for an autograph! You just wanted dirt!” Huffing and puffing, I felt my face getting hot as I yelled at my phone. “And what about the way you tricked me into talking to you?”

“I asked Shaw several times if he wanted to comment for this story, but I can’t repeat his answer,” Bethany was saying, but at that point I turned it off. I’d already seen the rest anyway, and if I had to look at her phony-concerned face anymore, I was going to lose it.

My phone vibrated in my hand, and I saw it was my mom calling. “Shit,” I said, not in the mood to talk but knowing I had to.

I accepted the call. “Hi, Mom.”

“April! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I gritted my teeth.

“Have you seen it?”

“I’ve seen it.”

“I can’t believe we didn’t notice the cameras out on the lawn. When your father realized they were out there, he and Mack went right out and kicked them off the grounds.”

“Good.”

A pause. “I didn’t realize you and Tyler were in touch.”

“We weren’t. I mean, we haven’t been.” My head began to ache, and I touched two fingers to my temple, closing my eyes. “We reconnected right before Sadie’s wedding.”

“Oh. And is it . . . how’s it going?”

“It’s actually going great, Mom,” I said with a little more venom than necessary. “We have fun together. That news story was bullshit, okay? Don’t believe it.”

“Okay, darling. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to check in.”

I sighed. “Sorry. I’m just—my head is pounding right now. I’m not upset with you. I’m just angry at that story.”

“Of course you are. Can I do anything for you?”

I took a deep breath. “Not right now. But thanks for checking in.”

“I’m always here, honey.”

After we hung up, I called Chloe.

“Hey,” she said as soon as she picked up. “I saw it. Fucking Bethany Bloomstar. I hope she gets a big wart on her face.”