#p.solo

It would’ve been easier to sit inside, where the AC was on and the bugs weren’t waiting to feast on him, but the night air was tempting. It was late enough that the heat had finally tapered off, leaving a gentle, cooling breeze that felt good against his skin.

He sat on the front porch with his eyes shut and just...drank it all in. The familiar sounds on the farm. Crickets and comforting quiet. Nothing like the constant movement of Los Angeles. Where even on the rooftop, in that relative peace, the faint sounds of music and traffic and other noises from the city could be heard.

Sam appreciated it. Welcomed it, really. It’d been too long. Being home came with a host of feelings he wasn’t sure what to make of. But they would be leaving out tomorrow, him and Harley. And it seemed like dissecting those feelings would have to wait until his next visit. Or at least until he could put some miles between him the farm.

The creak of the front door caused him to glance up and though it was dark, and his initial thought was Harley had come out to join him, he could easily make out the outline of his mother. The moon was huge, giving a decent amount of light that once she turned, Sam could see her small, tentative smile.

“Had a feeling you’d be out here.” Her voice was gentle, and her movements almost hesitant as she sat in the porch chair beside him, the creak of the wood, sturdy and still smelling of cedar ringing out in the quiet.

And Sam had to tamp down on his initial instinct to leave. They’d manage to be polite to each other during the brief visit but the warmth that’d existed with Sam and his father wasn’t extended in their interaction. He spoke little. Barely hugged her, and maintained a strained sort of friendliness one would reserve for a cubicle mate and not family.

Sam stopped knowing how to talk to his mother a long time ago. Once upon a time, she was his everything. But over the years, with every disappearance and reappearance, an icy indifference had settled in his chest and refused to thaw out.

Even now, he felt it. Jaw set, tightening slightly as he felt her eyes on him, the same color as his own, and so damn expressive. And he knew she would keep trying, unsurprised to hear her break the silence. 

“It was so good seeing you, baby. Feels like you changed so much being out there. The beard suits you.”

“I’m cutting it,” he replied, his voice low, but not unkind.

Lisa let out a soft chuckle, as if Sam managed to tell a knee-slapper. “Either way, I'm sure it’ll look good.”

“Yeah.” The earlier peace had shifted, right into the typical tension he normally felt with his mother, awful and exhausting in its familiarity. And Sam didn’t have it in him to play the polite son. It was late and he’d have to wake up early in a few hours to get himself together for the long drive ahead. So he rose from the chair with a muted grunt and turned to his mother, because despite his feelings, he could never, ever be that rude. “I’m headin’ to bed.”

He heard her sigh, and knew whatever was coming next would snowball into something more. The churning in his gut said as much and yet he didn't make a move to go inside. Even after she started speaking. 

“I’m tryin’ here, Sammy. But you gotta give me something.”

Something inside him gave an almighty jolt at that, uncapping the irritation he’d been barely restraining and he turned, mouth set in a firm line. “Why?” was all he asked and he knew from her silence he’d surprised her with the question. “‘Cause you're here now? Fine. Great. But I don't owe you anything. Stop tryin’ to force me to forgive you when you ain’t even bothered to say sorry. It don’t work like that. I’m not six years old anymore, a home cooked meal and a hug won’t fix it.”

His throat burned from the angry hiss of the words he hadn’t wanted to say, but he was tired, so damn tired of having to be the damn adult in the equation. To swallow his feelings for the sake of family peace, to spare his mother’s feelings or avoid his father’s tired silence or Harley’s annoyance at his indifference. 

For once, Sam wasn't interested in being the peacemaker at the expense of himself, and he felt the sting in his eyes and he rubbed at them, taking a step back when Lisa stood up and reached for him, her hand grasping at nothing and she pulled it back, close to her chest.

Somehow, it only made Sam feel worse.

“You still can’t say it, can you?” he scoffed, the sound giving way to mirthless laughter and he pushed a hand through his hair. “I really don't know why I expect things to be different. Everybody else is real comfortable, so I guess it’s just me, being stubborn and holding on to old feelings. Whatever.”

Even as he said it, he could feel the lump in his throat and the waver in his voice was barely noticeable, though he swallowed both down and took a slow breath.

“I want us to be able to talk again, Sammy" Lisa told him, voice soft in the evening quiet. “You used to tell me everything.”

Sam swallowed thickly once more and shook his head. “Yeah well, you’re about fifteen years and ten disappearances too late, I guess. Goodnight. Tell Pops I said I’ll see y’all on the next trip.”

The weekend had taken its toll on him. Returning home from the Pride activities, it was all Sam could do to shower and fall into bed, sleeping through his normal wake time. For once he was fine with staying in bed. It was a little past nine when he dragged himself out of bed and into his morning routine, switching out coffee for cold green tea because he already felt out of sorts, no need to make it worse.

Refreshed and dressed he picked up his phone and prepared to make the call to his father. It’d been a week or so since they last spoke. After the surprise voicemail from his mother, Sam wasn't exactly eager to reach out, but considering the radio silence last month for Mother’s Day ignoring was out of the question.

He sat in one of stools at the island counter and dialed his father’s cell. It was easier to call his phone than run the risk of dialing the house and having to speak to his mother.

“Hey Pop,” he greeted once he heard the rumbling ‘Sammy’ on the other end. “Happy Father’s Day.”

“Thanks, boy. Glad to hear from you.”

Oliver had a way of saying much without saying much at all, and the pebble of guilt that settled in Sam’s stomach at the dial tone was growing to stone sized, no matter the layers of complications that went into how and why he felt the way he did when it came to his mother.

And it unfortunately, at times, bled into the relationship with his father. 

“I’ll be home this weekend. Me and Harley are flying out.”

Still, he could hear the smile in his father’s voice when he spoke next, breaking up the tiny bit of earlier tension. “It’ll be good to see you boys. Your Mama and me, we’re lookin’ forward to having everybody together.”

Sam hated that, even after all these years, his initial instinct was to read his father’s tone, to gauge the state of home and his parents’ relationship from what Oliver did--and didn’t--say. Nevermind that his mother hadn't wandered off on one of her ‘trips’ in years, or that his parents’ marriage seemed, for the most part, to have calmed down from those periods of tumultuous upheaval, for whichever reasons.

For Sam, it was impossible to shake the expectation that Lisa would leave again. His indifference to it was staggering. Most times, the strongest feelings he had was irritation. At his father's obliviousness. With Harley’s naivete. And his own damn guilt with keeping his mother at a distance.

The chasm was of her own creation thanks to the in and out game played for years but Sam didn’t know how to repair it, or if it even could be fixed. It made for plenty of awkward family encounters. But deep down, he knew he wasn’t built for ignoring his parents for long.

Even now, just hearing his father’s voice brought on a fresh wave of feelings, comforting in its familiarity, making him feel like a few days back in Fort Worth would be bearable. Could be good for him. Even if it were only to get his truck and go.

“Yeah. Be nice for a few days. Gonna take the truck back.”

The snort he knew was coming was loud over the phone and Sam couldn't help but smile at his father’s predictable reaction. “Well that junk heap’s still here, takin’ up space. Went and checked up on it a few times just to make sure it hadn’t fallen apart.”

“Uh huh,” Sam replied, knowingly, a hint of amusement in his tone since he was sure Oliver had, despite his well documented annoyance, probably drove the Bronco around, just to keep it running in good condition while Sam was away. “Thanks for that, Pop. I know she’s in good hands. Doing anything special today?”

“Me and your mama's going out to dinner. Said she’s saving up her cooking for when you boys get here. Already got me running all over to three different grocery stores, like the money we save in deals ain’t going straight to the gas tank.”

Sam laughed at the familiarity of it all. His mother never met a grocery sale she didn’t like and his father played the role of grumbling partner in crime to the letter. Sam used to love Sunday afternoons spent with Lisa armed with a grocery list and an old coin purse packed with coupons on her lap while she meticulously plotted out the day’s schedule, like General Houston over battle plans.

Back then, Sam was her number two, sitting in the front passenger seat of the family truck, Sunday sales paper in hand and reading out the deals. Later, he realized it was her way of helping him with dyslexia and the frustration that came along with reading aloud.

There was a tightness in his chest, recalling that memory and he tamped down on the feeling in favor of drifting back to the present phone conversation. “Well, I know Harley’s gonna love that. But I won’t keep you long. Just wanted to call and wish you a good day. Enjoy the night out.” The pause was brief, long enough just to pinch the bridge of his nose in an attempt to quell the headache that loomed at the edge of his eyesight. “Tell everyone I said hello.”

For the record, there was an attempt to be responsible.

The high-end Wacom tablet, he considered an investment and hopefully motivation to create new things instead of simply lamenting the work he’d left behind in Texas. The brand-new Nikon camera rounded out the purchases that could be reasoned away as early birthday presents and necessary for work…at least in the camera’s case.

It left him with a still-large sum and little idea of what to do with it. Saving was the most obvious choice. The wise one, too. He was very familiar with the panic of needing money in a hurry and being out of options or going without simply because he was too broke to do much but wait for the next paycheck. And yet, even after depositing most of it in his practically parched savings account, it just felt…underwhelming.

Maybe he’d put too much expectation on ten thousand dollars. It was a major sum of money, the most he’d ever gotten in one time that he didn’t have to immediately turn around and hand over to a university tuition office or some bill collector. And it was a reward, some recognition thanks to the hard work he’d been putting in for the company and his channel. And though his viewership had grown considerably along with the interests of fellow content creators, he didn’t realize he’d been on radar enough to warrant a bonus, let alone one of this size.

And to avoid the rising panic at the idea of just the hint of success in a job that was only ever meant to be a distraction (or a hiding place, really), Sam knew he had to do…something else. It was his money, but after buying what he could think of and banking some more…it still didn’t feel like his. To spend, to save…and really, to keep.

The rush of being reckless never got old. Leaving baseball behind. Choosing art. Leaving Texas. Fucking on film. And now this, buying a dirt-cheap plane ticket to Las Vegas, with nothing more than his phone and wallet in hand.

And $2000.

Sam reasoned that it since it hadn’t felt like his money, losing it wouldn’t technically be a loss. It was only when he was standing in the lobby of Caesar’s Palace, taking in the over the top aesthetics and design of the massive space did he note the Easter baskets in the clutches of the younger patrons.

The holiday had completely escaped him, and there’d been a small pinprick of guilt, knowing he should have probably contacted Harley, maybe invited him along and turn it into a real brothers’ adventure. Shaking off those thoughts, Sam set his sights on the casinos. Anything he won, he was sharing with Harley anyway; if he scrubbed out, at least there’d be no witnesses to the downside of his destructive decision making.

He felt like a fish out of water at the blackjack game in Caesars Palace, among the obvious high rollers, squat guys in suits with stunning women looking bored at their side, both there for the chance of a big payout. Or the business men, the regular card sharks, and then…Sam. He’d never been one for serious gambling. His grandfather had taught him and Harley a few card games, the boys placing bets and calls with candy and cookies, but this was a different ball game.

The roulette table had a different kind of energy. The amount of people crowded around was a little intimidating but after a few rounds of losses, many moved on in search of something else to whet their appetites. Sam was fine with observing at first, nursing the Jameson and ginger ale the pretty cocktail waitress had handed to him more than hour ago, though it seemed like far longer. Time moved differently inside the casino; lights and sounds, the constant throb of activity and bodies everywhere. He supposed it was the lack of windows.

But he hadn’t come to Vegas to think about that, or much of anything. Not when he’d already exchanged the cash he’d retrieved from the hotel’s ATM (so handy) for chips. He debated the idea of how to bet. Little by little was the obvious choice. The wise one too.

Naturally, he bet it all.

Well, he kept $500 in chips.

If anything, it would be enough to get back to California and chalk the experience up to a learning one. He had a lot of those. And lately, he wasn’t sure what exactly he was learning from them, except that he’d long grown comfortable in the fine art of fucking up.

The straight bet was the hardest, with the highest odds but the biggest payout. 

A fool’s bet. Fitting, considering the day. 

One number, one color, with $1500 on the line. Back in the day, 28 meant something. The jersey number he wore for baseball, from middle school through high school. The one he should have worn professionally. Perhaps there was a bigger meaning in it all, being in this casino, a few weeks shy of his 28th birthday, once again counting on 28 to matter again.

But there was little time to think about that. It was all on 28 black now, olive-eyes focusing so hard on the spinning wheel and the ball rattling inside the blur of black and red the table lost all shape, fading into the foreground with nothing more than the repetitive clack of the ball spinning with the wheel.

Later, when he would recall the night on the plane ride home he’d be unable to pinpoint the shift in him that normally accompanied his snap decisions. It was always the same start: the thrill of doing whatever he wanted on a whim, riding the high of being carefree with just the barest hint of regret slipping through but would eventually wash over him; an overwhelming wave of shame, of wanting to do better, of maybe slowing down and considering, of just for once, actually caring about himself beyond the basics. About his future.

And maybe, just maybe whether it worked, he could be better. He could. He could change.

He could.

But then there was a cheer, and palms slapping him on the back, and the dealer pushing a mountain of chips in his direction and he’s grinning because thrill, the goddamn thrill is far too addicting to give up.

Because once again, 28 came through. 

And $1500 is bossed up to a cool $40,000.

And once again, the universe is so generous to reward him for these snap decisions.

Just as he suspected, Nerds and Java was packed. But, that wasn’t surprising, considering the prize at stake. It was one thing to toss a gift certificate someone’s way, but four-day all access passes to Comic Con? Sam couldn’t pass it up. There were people there dressed in all kinds of costumes, taking up every bit of space on the comics side of the shop and spilling over into the attached coffeehouse, milling around the tables and waiting for the competition to begin.

Leave it to a bunch of nerds to take this seriously. Sam squeezed past a group of people, all in various Avenger getups poring over their phones, no doubt boning up on wiki articles about influential comic book artists of the last century.

It wasn’t that serious, not for him. If he won, great. If not, he could always find a good livestream of the panels and wait for the trailers with every other unlucky bastard, as he’d done for years. But it seemed foolish to waste the opportunity, at least now that he was living in California and a few blocks away from a place offering free tickets that, at any point prior, the cost would have cleaned out his bank account.

The flyer had been pretty vague about the kind of competition, and as he sipped his coffee from the insulated to-go cup and leaned against a shelf piled high with Hellboy serials, he watched the others and guessed that the general consensus seemed to be a trivia challenge. Those, he was always spotty on. It wasn’t a goal for him to be the most well-versed in multiverses. He liked what he liked and if he didn’t know something, he didn’t bullshit as if otherwise.

But judging from the din of voices rising in arguments about issues and powers, and which X-Men had actually become an Omega level mutant in which year and the preferred brand of  ink pen for a famous comic artist, he was certain his laidback approach was the exception, not the rule.

Not even ten minutes later, one of the workers announced the start of the competition and anyone looking to sign up, there was a sheet, but with a limited number of spots, over at the checkout area. And while Sam reasoned they probably could have handled it better, but as luck would have it, he was actually standing the closest to the checkout counter and it was a matter of a slight pivot, grinning as he met the surprised laughter of the girl behind said counter who congratulated him on his luck as the din of scraped chairs and hurried footsteps increased behind him.

First on the list, in the top spot with ten overall, Sam was able to settle back in his leaning position against the shelf. The air of nonchalance persisted, even through yet another announcement for the competitors to meet up at the long table towards the back of the shop, where a stack of sketchbooks and packs of drawing pens and pencils greeted them. And Sam couldn’t help but laugh, even as the guy beside him groaned audibly.

The books were passed around and he plucked a pencil from one of the packs. Long fingers ghosted over the cover of his sketchbook, feeling the rush that typically came to him at the feel of new art supplies. Memorization and trivia and all that fanboy posturing wouldn’t help much in an impromptu art show. Thirty minutes to design a comic panel featuring characters of their own creation and while that kind of pressure seemed to unnerve at least half the people sitting at the table, Sam was relaxed. Perhaps it was the coffee, or just the excitement of getting to draw on the fly. He hadn’t experienced something so off the cuff since art school. It was these things that made him fall in love with the process.

Sometimes it was fun to simply shut off his thoughts and see where his creativity could wander. His character didn’t have a name but she had a killer suit and was versed in hand to hand combat and questionable puns. It was a little rough, considering the time constraint and the lack of proper coloring, but the finished result, a four-panel short about a baker by day, badass by night who defeated evil with cupcake bombs and magic kitchen cookery was a clever hit. ‘Sweet Justice’ was the name, silly and sugar laden but an hour later Sam was walking out with Comic Con passes safely tucked in an envelope and a renewed sense of energy and confidence in his artwork.

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best idea. On the Sam scale of bad ideas this might have landed somewhere between the time he got his legs waxed and the time he decided driving from Fort Worth to Austin on 30 minutes of sleep and five cups of coffee seemed like a ‘fun thing to do’.

So, ridiculous. Possibly a little questionable, but nothing to warrant an intervention.

Calling someone up nearly a month after getting their number wasn't entirely sleazy. At least that’s how he’d silently justified dialing a number he’d insisted on deleting but never actually did and maybe he was glad to because they’d met at Nerds and Java again. She was wearing yellow again and an even  brighter smile that certainly lived up to her name.

Sunny.

With the big, dark curls and wide, dark eyes. And it was easy to write off the previous awkwardness at being recognized as a slight overreaction. Besides, Sunny hadn’t really known it was him when she’d initially sat down, and while he didn’t know much about the young woman outside of those ‘getting to know you’ basics, she didn’t strike him as deceptive.

It wasn’t being hypocritical. At least it’s what he said to himself when Sunny invited him to her apartment to check out an art piece she’d recently purchased at a show, and he accepted the offer. 

There was, at least, some hesitation. Some silent deliberation with himself and the feeling that lingered, the one about sleeping with fans, or anyone who’d seen his work in some capacity. He reasoned that since Sunny was upfront, admitting she’d only seen a few videos but undoubtedly was attracted to him and his vibe, that it would be--if anything--a slight bending of the unspoken rule.

At least that’s what he told himself. The resounding rumble of thunder that’d greeted them once they’d stepped outside of the coffee shop seemed to support his reasoning. Dark clouds formed, quickly overtaking the bright blue he was so used to seeing as the city geared up for what looked to be one hell of a rainstorm, and by the time the first drops started to fall, a decision had been made.

Because as he climbed the steps to her surprisingly spacious downtown loft, he’d already knew what would happen.

And maybe, he definitely wanted it.

That want, that felt instinctual. Felt like what he’d been missing those last few weeks with the monotony of the day to day tugging at him. If felt less like the job, but not quite like sex with someone new. Someone who hadn’t seen him naked. After all, she only knew Samson, or had some vague idea of him. But this would be different. New, but not new. Something to prove, but not entirely a fantasy to fulfill. 

And perhaps it was all what he needed to convince his brain to shut down, to shift into base desire and satisfy the need that seemingly intensified on their wet walk to her loft. Clothes dripping from the downpour, it only served as motivation to strip down, the lack of nerves seemingly gone as both used the silent explanation of shedding soaked clothes to get naked.

The rush returned, cresting hard as hands gripped and tugged and stroked dipped between warm thighs to rub exactly where she wanted. Her skin held a faint trace of fresh rain, blended with the sheen of sweat as she moved against his diligent fingers, pressed between his frame and a small table that creaked with each slow roll of her hips.

Perhaps he could blame that on the rain too, the shift of their kisses from hesitant to a heated kind of boldness, a mess of tongues and moans and there was no intention of making it anywhere but where they’d landed, on the hardwood floor behind her couch, pausing long enough to roll on a condom before sinking into her with a renewed sense of energy.

It’d been too long, since he felt a purpose in fucking besides what needed to be done for the cameras.

And he tamped down on the initial instinct of wanting to show off. It felt unnecessary, considering the little she knew about him, as Samson or otherwise.  So he channeled his energy elsewhere, setting in the moment, the feel of it all, of her,  hands ghosting over soft copper-colored skin, gripping softer thighs and kissing full lips in a way that made her coo and writhe beneath him, meeting driving strokes with fluid thrusts of her own.

And maybe it was selfish, fucking himself out of a slump with a stranger he did actually vibe with but he soothed that thought with another, that it was wanted.  And it didn’t need to be anything more than it was. The lack of expectation, in needing to be Samson, or Sam. Just the body, hard-muscled and determined hands, meeting hers, soft curves and eager fingers lost in his hair, gripping hard and her cries rang out and he thrust over and over.

Considering his late night, Sam wasn’t entirely sure how he was up and moving around so early. Well, slightly later than his normal seven AM time, but sleeping in had proved to be necessary after the unexpected encounter with Dani.

Which, he wasn’t really intending to mull over the ‘why’ of that whole situation. He wasn’t above being somebody’s late night booty call, and figured he’d chalk it up to luck of her phone’s draw and call it a day.

There were far more pressing matters to attend to, like the quest for a pineapple fanny pack. What started out as a ramble to distract Mia from whatever bothered her at the late hour seemed like a genuinely good idea once he was awake.

So naturally he found himself searching online, which led him to a small shop no more than twenty minutes away in a Lyft that thankfully kept early hours.

With his newly acquired fashion statement tucked safely in a bag and his stomach growling, Sam found himself another Lyft ride later at one of his favorite spots in the city. The comic book shop also served dual purpose as a coffeehouse, allowing people the chance to browse and sip and linger as long as they liked. Though on a Saturday morning, and the morning of Pride, lingering seemed to be the name of the game.

Still, he managed to find an empty spot, squeezing in at the small table near a large window. He’d finished his breakfast sandwich and was more than halfway through the new Spiderman when a voice above him asked, “sorry, but is anyone sitting here?”

Sam glanced up from the antics of Peter Parker to meet dark eyes peering almost nervously at him, in the polite way someone could when tasked with having to put aside the instinctual awkwardness of invading a stranger’s personal space.

“Oh. Yeah sure, let me just clear some of this stuff…” he pushed his glasses up further on his nose and shifted the empty plate from his sandwich closer towards him along with the bag filled with comics he’d already purchased to make room for the young woman, who flashed him a grateful smile as they sat.

She wore a cheery yellow sundress, the color complimenting her bronze skin and dark curls, and a kind smile that only carried a hint of polite apology once she settled at the table, balancing a huge cup of coffee and some kind of cranberry muffin fit for a family of five.

“Thank you, I really wasn’t expecting this place to be so crowded it's still kinda early.”

Sam shook his head. “Yeah I guess we all had the idea of gettin’ in early before the Pride rush started.” He nodded towards the group of patrons who’d commandeered one of the larger tables, noting their rainbow attire right down to the large rainbow top hat one was wearing and he flashed his new breakfast companion a grin that he was glad to see returned.

“Seems like they’ve already got the spirit. Sorry, I’m Sunny.” She extended a hand and Sam shook it, lips tugging into a grin.

“Nice to meet you, Sunny. I’m Sam.”

“Sunny and Sam. We could’ve had a killer variety show back in the day.”

That made the blond laugh. “I guess it does have that show business ring to it.”

He watched as slender fingers tore the tops off two sugar packets and added the contents to the large cup of coffee in front of her, only looking up at the sound of sheepish laughter.

“I feel like I gotta apologize for this ginormous cup, but I promise I'm not one of those ‘coffee is life’ people. Just needed the caffeine boost.”

Sam held up both palms. “Hey now, this is a judgment free table. You wanna have a coffee the size of a small toddler that's between you and your future caffeine rush."

The pair shared a laugh and Sam ducked his head, grin still firmly in place when long fingers reached for his own (smaller) coffee.

There was something good about  meeting somebody at random. The energy of it all, a different kind of charge he hadn’t felt since moving to Los Angeles and moving into NDHQ. While he enjoyed getting to know his coworkers and developing good relationships with them, on and off camera, it was nice to not have that pressure of needing to impress, to meet someone and not have to ask how long they’d ‘been in the business’ or talk about kinks like stats from last night’s game.

This kind of charm felt familiar, like slipping into a worn leather jacket, a comfortable and seamless fit, the second nature rapport, and the banter, just run of the mill friendly.

No need for Samson or the constant shift between who he was or what he needed to be in the moment. Just two strangers chatting it up in a coffee shop.

He learned that she was studying for her masters in psychology at UCLA and wanted to work with at-risk youth, primarily children of color. He simply stated he was from Texas and an artist. The half-truths he figured would be difficult to form came easy, and Sam supposed it’s because they were rooted in reality. He did move here for work and to be closer to his brother, he was looking to find something in his career field, and he was a comic book fan.

It seemed like enough information for polite conversation with beautiful girls wearing yellow sundresses in a crowded coffee shop. And he wasn’t surprised when, after his coffee was long gone and she’d cleared away both the massive muffin and giant java with surprising swiftness that they discussed exchanging numbers.

He walked out with her, bag of comics and Fanny pack in hand, grin in place, and a new number in his phone. The goodbye out on the sun-filled sidewalk was pleasant enough and Sam turned to leave, a promise to call her on his lips when she spoke again.

“So I have a little confession.” His brow furrowed at her smile, reminiscent of the nervous one she’d first displayed when she’d initially approached his table and he was suddenly curious.

“What’s up?”

“I know who you are. I wasn’t sure at first since you’re wearing glasses and there’s probably hundreds of long haired blond guys in this city because duh, California. But your voice sounded familiar and then you said your name was Sam and I’m like...Sam...Samson. No too much of a stretch.” The smile was a little less nervous and a little more strained, and Sam’s own lips tugged into a frown because…

Of course.

And Sunny continued, reassuring him she wasn’t a stalker but mostly curious and Sam could feel the tips of his ears growing hot when she mentioned that she’d watched all of his videos.

“I’m sorry if this is weird, and I probably shouldn’t have said anything but...I just, yeah. It is you, right? Samson?”

“It’s uh, Sam" he replied, clearing his throat with low cough. Long fingers raked through his hair and his gaze caught hers, olive eyes unreadable as he offered a slight shrug. “But yeah. That’s me. Sorry, but I gotta get back--"

“Sure! Oh sorry, I’m sure you’ve got a busy day. I really do apologize for making this weird. And because I keep saying it’s weird. You...um, it was nice to meet you, Sam. Take care.”

Sam wasn’t sure what to make what had just happened, knowing he’d have to process it all at a time when he wasn’t running on just a few hours sleep and approaching a busy day.

But something settled in the pit of his stomach, something heavy that felt like disappointment and lingered like the tightness in his chest and he wondered if his job-related encounters would ever stop throwing him for a fucking loop.

Nevertheless, he offered Sunny a ghost of a smile and nodded, even as he made a silent reminder to delete her number later because the last thing he needed was an added layer of ‘fucking with fans’ weirdness with his job.

The choking feeling had subsided, with only the heavy lump in his throat remaining. Glassy olive-colored eyes stared out beyond the windshield, seeing nothing. The lights from the field had long gone out, the voices of the lingering parking lot stragglers gradually faded, leaving Sam alone.

His phone sat on the dashboard, vibrating every so often with texts and calls he refused to answer. Couldn’t answer. Not right now, at least.

Answering meant talking. It meant explanations, and Sam didn’t think he had it in him right now (or ever, really) to explain what had happened on the field, outside of him blowing everything up.

One shitty pitch right after the other. Practically handing the Vols the state championship in the seventh inning that allowed them to soundly whoop the ass of the team that trusted Sam to do his job, because that’s what he always did.

And now here they were. Months worth of work, four seasons worth of work, damn near fifteen years of his life working at it. Scrubbed out. And maybe some other day he could have reassured himself, to approach it rationally. That it was only one game, that it didn’t mean his future was on fire, that there was always an another option, another door. But today wasn’t it. He simply didn’t have it in himself to do the pep talk, yank himself out of the swirling mass of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

His skin felt hot and itchy underneath his clothes, ‘Panthers Baseball’ stretched across his broad chest, stark white letters against the navy cotton almost mocking him every time he glanced down. Serving as a reminder of every damn face he’d let down while failing so spectacularly on the mound. His coach, his team, the whole fucking town. 

His family. Oliver Evans, who always boasted so proudly about his ‘golden arm’ boy to anyone who would listen. The money spent getting him right where he needed to be, in front of scouts looking to offer him something in return for committing to their particular programs. He wasn't ready to face his parents or brother, not yet.

The feeling was returning, gagging him and he tried to take a breath but it ended in a wheeze and he found himself choking on the very air he was struggling to inhale. Trembling fingers reached for the steering wheel, gripping tightly and white knuckled and he lowered his head to steady the breaths that seemed impossible, scrambling to, determined to, but unable to…

Tears, hot and quick slipped down his cheeks and Sam dropped his forehead to the steering wheel, shaking from the effort to calm himself. Or from the dam of emotions finally collapsing under the weight of his actions, he wasn’t sure which. The reality of the loss and the overwhelming uncertainty he found himself wallowing in.

Guilt choked at him, mixing with the anger and disappointment he hadn't managed to shake since the game was called.

Broad shoulders heaved, tears still falling heavily, silently save for the ragged gasping breaths that did nothing to calm him, and Sam knew he couldn’t go on much longer like that.

Gently, slowly, he released his death grip on the steering wheel, lifting and flexing his fingers one by one, inhaling deeply and breathing out slowly. Ten digits on a steady ten count, until the pressure at his head and the racing of his heart slipped into something a bit more manageable.

The tears still fell, and Sam pushed at them, scrubbing a hand down his face as he dropped back into the seat, bouncing against the headrest. Now what?

He truly didn’t had no idea. The sense of loss was greater than a game, it felt like he’d thrown his whole damn future away. The panic of perceived disappointment and failure had manifested itself into the real thing and he was left with the ugly reality of his fuckup. With only a few months left until graduation, he’d never felt more shame in himself than this moment.

Fingers pinched the bridge of his nose and he pushed out a slow, steady breath, willing himself not to cry but fresh tears fell anyway.

His mother would always say ‘sleep on your troubles, things will look better in the morning’.

So it wasn’t Dodgers stadium. But it was close enough.

Sam walked to the designated batting cage, thankful it was on the far end. He didn’t mind being away from the groups of friends milling around, laughing in between swings and cheering each other on, or the little kids attempting to get their hands just right.

There were a few solo hitters like him, brows furrowed in concentration waiting for the automatic release of the ball, the cages filled with the typical noise, metal thunk of baseball meeting aluminum bats or the frustrated grunts of a strikeout.

Man, he missed this.

He fastened the strap on his newly purchased batting gloves, flexing his fingers inside the still-stiff material. He’d long gotten rid of his old ones, and it would take some time to break these in. If he wanted to come back.

It’d been years since he picked up a bat, at least for this kind of purpose, testing the weight of the aluminum in his hand, getting the feel of it before tapping the bat to his instep, once, twice, and shifting into position.

Muscle memory. Even as a pitcher, he’d been a solid hitter as well, widening his legs and twisting the upper half of his body in the right angle. Seemingly shifting and fitting back with a familiarity that made him smile, even with the hollowness in him that sometimes came along whenever he thought about baseball.

He wasn’t really sure what brought him to the batting cages that day, the idea possibly sparked by his talk with Delila on the beach, bringing back the good memories that came with the game that, at one point, he loved more than anything in the world. Lived and breathed it. Woke up early for, spent late nights studying pitches and practicing pitches, and training and lifting...so much effort, so much talent. So much waste.

Jaw tightening, Sam shook out the broad line of his shoulders and did a few practice swings, feeling the stiffness of his muscles loosen with the push and pull, muscled arms moving with a shakiness that still couldn’t mask the grace of his natural ability.

He paused, long enough to put in his earbuds and adjust his baseball cap, shifting the bill backwards and out of his eyes. This had been one of his normal training exercises, a good playlist, and time spent in the cages, warming up his muscles just in time for field practice.

Springsteen blasted through the buds and this time he was really prepared, lifting the bat with just enough time as the first ball launched, reacting with a power swing, the bat slicing through the air….and connecting with nothing.

Which, he expected. Too high, too slow, but he shook it off, and flexed his fingers in a curling grip. He was too tense, so he took another deep breath and silently reminded himself that there, in the batting cages, there was no crowd of onlookers, no pressure. Nobody to pay attention, no one to disapppoint.

Two more deep breaths and he counted down, watching the ball comes towards him, timing it just right, gauging the effort he’d have to exert before swinging again.

The crack of ball meeting bat was audible, even over his music, and olive-colored eyes watched it sail into a pop fly before landing on the far side of the cage.

A wide grin stretched full lips and he bounced lightly on his toes before shifting into position again, feeling energized in a way he’d really missed, swinging with gusto, hitting some and missing others, but managing to enjoy it nevertheless, shifting and twisting until he felt that familiar sensation, a heady, addicting mix of warmth  and calm energy that he’d always associated with being on the field.