By Friday, my mental and physical status had reached Defcon 1. I left school early after nearly vomiting on my Lit Reading quiz and being told by the school nurse that I was spiking a fever. Something wasn't right, and I knew it, but I thought barricading myself up in my bedroom for the rest of the day, disgusting and shivering under my blankets, would just make it disappear.

We always opened our baseball season with a tournament in Boston the first weekend in April - the infamous Diamond Duel. We'd never actually won it, since all the surrounding Massachusetts private schools put far more stock into their baseball programs than we did, but I had enough trophies and enough accolades. Baseball had always only been an extra tool to keep me in shape, but the more my senior year dragged me along by my hair, the less interested I was in staying in shape. I was only interested in staying sane, at least long enough to get me to Clemson and my future far, far away from New England. 

I knew I had no business taking the trip to Boston. There was something prickling inside me - something painful and tense that seemed to make its home in my blood and my skin.

"I don't really know if I should be going," I said as I poked at my uneaten eggs that Saturday morning. "If I'm not at 100%, I'm not helping anyone by just being a body out there."

"Dallas," he stated in his ever cordial tone, casually flipping through The Economist. "You know you have a commitment to your team. I'm sure whatever you're feeling will pass. You're healthy and you should be playing, and I think once you are with your teammates and on that field, it'll help."

"Okay, I know but Dad-"

"Dallas." His tone became firm as he set his magazine down. "I don't know what's been going on with you lately, but you need to grow up and accept your responsibilities."

Past all the prickling and all the dizzying nausea, I knew he was right. So I swallowed down all I could of my eggs, two Tylenol, about 36 ounces of water, and my fucking pride before managing to get myself on the team bus Saturday morning.

I sequestered myself to the back, with my forehead pressed against the cold glass of the window and a Third Eye Blind mix playing on my Spotify. I might have been one of the named captains of the team, but these guys weren't mine. Not the way the football team was. It was a two and a half hour drive to Boston, and I spent it alone with my headphones in, trying to trick myself into thinking I was fine. And it worked...mostly.

It was easy enough to avoid Chris during games. We were on opposite ends of the field - quite literally - with me at first base and him at third. We sat on opposite ends of the bench and nobody batted an eye. It was easy to lose myself in the game - the smell of fresh cut grass, the sound of the bat on the ball, and a reminder that I was, in fact, still me.

By the time we stormed through the first few rounds of the tournament, I'd hit 3 home runs and drove in 5 RBIs. I was so focused on taking each game at a time and keeping myself out of my own head, it wasn't until we'd reached the final that I realized I'd have to face some demons of my own creation - namely, Tony D'Marco and the Cannondale School Blue Wave.

Underneath the heat of the stadium lights that clicked on as the sun began to set behind left field, anticipation sizzled in the air as we took the field to warm up before the game. My adrenaline peaked, which was one of the few things that kept me going all day. I quickly glanced around the stands, where my parents were settling back into the seats they'd been staked out in all tournament, a few rows up above our dugout, and my heart sank when Dr. John England came into view. Suddenly it all clicked.

Cannondale was a local Boston school - local enough that it was easy for parents of students not even playing in the tournament to attend, including my father's best friend...whose daughter was one of those students.

When I whipped my head around towards the Cannondale dugout, it wasn't hard to spot Chandler England sitting up in the bleachers, smirking coyly as she plucked a hat out of the hands of the guy sitting beside her. He gave her a radiant smile in return as he raked a mess of curls out of his face. Even though I'd never met him, I knew who he was without having to guess.

Something wicked stirred in me. Why did she get to be happy? Not that I could blame Chandler for any of my own issues, but she was about to be collateral.

"Hi Chan!" I spun around and called up into the stands after I had thrown the ball back towards the infield. "Hi Chan's boyfriend!"

If looks could kill, I'd be dead the instant Chandler directed her glare towards me, but ridiculous hair boyfriend just gave me a casual smile and a wave back. Opposites truly did attract.

"Gunther!" our shortstop, Kenny Franklin, tugged my attention back to the field. "Quit flirting!"

I rolled my eyes and rejoined the throw around, unable to revel in how much I'd riled Chandler up. I felt a little guilty, but she was the only person in proximity that I could take a bit of my angst out on without long-term repercussions. Despite whatever I'd just done, Chandler knew me better than most, and I was sure she'd find it in her cold little heart to forgive me.

As we finished our warmup, I heard my name called from beyond the first base foul line. Chandler's best friend Macallan waved me over as a gust of wind kicked up her blonde hair in every direction.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" I asked, leaning against the padded wall that divided the field from the stands. I hadn't seen Macallan since she accompanied Chandler to my birthday party over the summer, where she had also narrowly avoided arrest. Not that someone like Macallan could ever get into trouble - she was about as angelic as a human could be.

"Can you like...at least try to behave?" she gave me a casual flick of her wrist. "I know how you and Tony D are, but I also know you're the more mature one, despite whatever crap you just pulled with Chandler."

Tony D and I were two sides of the same coin, but I was sure he was still fuming over losing the Clemson spot to me, though I didn't know if it was ever rightfully his to lose.

I leaned in closer to her. "I will if he does," I whispered through my teeth, tilting my head in Tony D's direction as he lingered outside of the Cannondale dugout. "Besides, if Chandler wants to convey a message, she can come talk to me herself."

Macallan scoffed. "I don't know what's going on with you, but you should leave Chandler out of it. I'm sure making her miserably embarrassed isn't fixing anything for you."

The way someone as far removed from my life as Macallan could recite my own father's words back to me felt like a knife was being driven into my chest. I took my hat off and raked a hand through my hair.

"What's his name?" I nodded past Macallan's shoulder at Chandler, who was deep in conversation with her guy. Macallan side-eyed me. "Come on, I won't be an ass. I just wanna know."

"It's Trip." She folded her arms over her chest. "He plays lacrosse, he's going to Duke, and he's a nice guy."

"I didn't know Chandler was into nice guys."

"Oh, as opposed to whatever it is you've got going on right now," she gave me a dramatic sweeping gesture.

"I'm just dealing with a lot right now, Macallan." The words whooshed out of me in a heavy sigh. I wasn't sure why I felt like I owed that admission to her, but maybe I owed it to Chandler. "I'm not sure you really understand."

She directed a wry smile at me. "You'd be surprised, Dallas."

She moved towards the steps dividing the rows of bleachers, but turned over her shoulder to face me again. "And speaking of nice guys, don't abuse the pitcher please. I need my boyfriend back in one piece."

"No promises," I smirked.

I was the last to jog back in from our infield warmup, passing Tony D and Macallan's boyfriend Jameson on the pitcher's mound. I felt Tony D's eyes on me immediately.

"Hey Gunther, you look a little gassed," he called after me. "Forget to take your adderall this morning?"

I spun on my heel, kicking up dirt as I slowed my backwards jog to our dugout. I gave him a wicked grin. "At least I don't look like I've forgotten to take my PEDs. I swear your neck gets thicker and shorter every time I see you."

My words launched Tony D forward, but Jameson quickly snagged his forearm and pulled him back onto the pitcher's mound, allowing me the last word as I made it back to our dugout.

✗✗✗

Five innings went by without any drama, although I couldn't pretend to notice the way Chris eyed me from the other side of the dugout. We'd give each other a cordial "nice play" if he'd fielded a hit from third base and threw it to me at first for the out. It hurt more than I cared to admit. Gone were our handshakes and cheers. It was just...nothing.

Jameson Hill was a great pitcher, and unlike most of us, he was a single sport athlete dedicated to baseball 24/7. I didn't know where he'd be going to school, but I was sure he'd be playing baseball there. I grounded out my first at bat, right to smug-ass Tony D at shortstop. My homerun sweet spot was down and away, but Jameson knew that and rarely threw me one there.

I managed to get a piece of one that grazed the outside of the strike zone, sending it over the head of their second baseman, shallow into right field. My chest ached as I rounded first, determined to reach second to make up for my last at bat, and maybe rub it in Tony D's face a little bit. Their right fielder cleanly fielded the ball and threw to second, where Tony D was waiting for me. I slid headfirst into second base, just as I felt a glove come down hard on my helmet with a heavy thud. My head rattled between my ears for a moment, but I was able to make out the umpire signaling me out.

"Dude, what the fuck?" I muttered to Tony D as I got up and brushed the dirt off the front of my black jersey. It was a dirty tag, and judging by the smug grin on his face, he knew it.

"I don't know what you mean." He shrugged after throwing the ball back to Jameson. "Just playing to win."

As I jogged back to our dugout, I passed our head coach Mckinnley at third base.

"You could have stayed at first base, Dallas," he said, shaking his head. "I need better decision making from you."

I gave him a nod as I retreated back to my corner of the dugout, dropping my helmet down hard on the bench. Chris cast an almost sympathetic glance in my direction, but I quickly turned away.

We ended out at bat without scoring, going into the bottom of the 5th inning still tied 4-4. I assumed my spot at first base, inwardly cringing as Tony D came up to bat, fiddling with the velcro of his batting gloves. He wasted no time swinging at the first pitch, ripping it out to center field and making it safely to first base and throwing a haughty snicker my way.

Normally, I stood a few feet in front of the base, but now with a baserunner, I kept my right foot back on the base, in case Tony D had the balls to take too far of a lead off of first. Unsurprisingly, he did, and our ace pitcher Tanner Morgan noticed. Our eyes met under the shaded brims of our hats, and I knew he was gunning for the out. He quickly spun around to throw back to me, and as he did Tony D came sliding back to the base, kicking up dirt as I brought the tag back down on him. The same heavy thud when he tagged me echoed off of his helmet, and a silence fell over the field.

There was an unspoken rule of retaliation in baseball. Your pitcher intentionally throws too close to someone, their pitcher does the same. If someone tags you too hard, you tag him hard back. It wasn't particularly civil, but it ceased after one go around. Usually.

The home plate umpire signaled him out, and I threw the same mocking, haughty laugh back in his face. As he made his way back to the Cannondale dugout, his shoulder collided with mine. I wasn't sure if I was just unsteady as it sent me stumbling back on my head, but it was clearly intentional, and it set me off more than it should have. Something wild flared up inside me as I ensnared his forearm, pulling him back onto the field.

"What is your problem, Gunther?" he spat as he yanked his arm back, giving me a light shove. "You're acting like a deranged psycho."

Maybe I was. I didn't care.

"You're my problem, you city garbage rat!" I smacked his dirt-streaked white jersey with the back of my glove.

Tony D took a step forward, all 6'6" of his frame looming over me, casting a thick shadow underneath the stadium lights. "Man, I don't know what drugs you've been on lately, but stop taking your tweaking out on me."

I swallowed hard, feeling bile burn the back of my throat. There was a ringing in my ears, like after you're at a concert and you stand next to the speaker all night. All I could hear were Chris's words, the way he'd tried to tell me that people knew what was going on with me. There was no hiding it anymore, and fuck was I mad about it, but I was mad at Tony D for putting it into words that I couldn't.

In a flash of blind rage I grabbed for the front of his jersey, and he quickly clamped his hands around my shoulders. What followed was a lot of shouting, a lot of shoving, and a lot of hands intervening as both our coaches tried to pry us away from each other. Unsurprisingly, we'd both been thrown out of the game, and I had to be led away by Coach Mckinney to collect my stuff from the dugout.

I passed Chris at third base, who muttered out softly, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I hissed back at him. I pulled myself away from Coach Mckinney's grip and gathered my baseball bag and my bat from the rack on the fence. My father stood against the gate separating the stands from the field with the brim of his hat low, not bothering to make eye contact with me. My mother stood beside him, the concern far more apparent on her, and intercepted me as I made my way through the gate.

"Dallas, are you-"

"Don't," I snapped at her. "Just don't."

I wouldn't be taking the team bus home, and before I subjected myself to the inevitable torture of that two and a half hour ride home with my father, I stopped at the bathrooms on the way out and vomited.

✗✗✗

"I don't know who the hell you are anymore, Dallas!"

My father's voice boomed through the foyer as he stormed into the house after me. I made it halfway up the stairs, still in my cleats as my footsteps echoed off the hardwood floor, before whirling around to face my parents.

"You don't know who I am anymore?" I let out a painfully sarcastic chuckle. "I'll tell you why. Because you don't fucking ask me!"

"Patrick, wait," my mother latched onto his forearm. "Let's talk about this first, let Dallas cool off."

"No," he replied sternly. "I'm done with this bullshit, Meredith. He's out of control."

"Fine," I threw my hands up in the air. "I'm out of control. I get antagonized at a baseball game, but I'm out of control. I don't want to go to stupid fucking Cornell, but I'm out of control. Okay, fine. See it only the way you want to see it, as usual."

"Now, Dallas, that's not fair." My mother made desperate attempts at trying to intervene, but we were far past the point of no return. I saw bright, screaming red.

"No, what's not fair is me feeling like I have to be so fucking perfect for you all the time, because all you want is to brag to your friends about how fucking great I am and how perfectly you raised your son. I told you I didn't want to go to this stupid baseball tournament, and I told you I don't want to go to Cornell, but you don't listen to me! Because god forbid I pull the curtain back to reveal that I am not the great fucking Dallas Gunther. The illusion is shattered."

I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. It was just a knot in my throat that refused to unravel no matter how much I screamed at them. They just stared at me, like I was some alien being standing on the stairs in their foyer that would disappear if they just closed their eyes and let it go. They didn't know who I was, but at this point, I didn't either.

"Dallas," my father approached the base of the stairs, far more even-toned than he was before. "I think you're being a little dramatic-"

"I'm not being dramatic, you're just not listening to me!" I started back up the steps, stomping my cleats against the wood. "But I don't think you even care."

I didn't bother waiting around for their reactions or responses, I just dragged myself to my room and slammed the door behind me. I threw myself to my bed and buried my face in my pillow, finally letting out the choked sob I'd been holding in.

you don't know me
and you don't wear my chains

boston / augustana

✗✗✗

for once i actually have something important to say!~

so in case y'all didn't know, november is men's mental health awareness month. if you couldn't tell by now, this is a huge component of blind ambition's storyline, but is especially front and center in this chapter - not only the concept that yes, young men who "seem to have everything" experience mental health issues (groundbreaking, i know *eye roll*), but that more often than not, it is dismissed by those around them, which perpetuates the toxic masculinity narrative that men don't have mental health struggles. only 16% of men seek help when experiencing signs of mental unwellness, despite the fact that over 60% of men will experience trauma in their lives, and 1 in 10 men experience what we consider to be severe depression. i know that this information can be triggering and upsetting, but it is factual and something we cannot continue to ignore. overall we are making great strides for mental health and well-being, but we still need to do better. i want dallas's story to be a benchmark for those who are beginning to learn and understand this, and remember to ask everyone in your life how they are and how they're feeling. you truly never know who is struggling, and it could really make a difference. i love y'all always xoxo