Call Garrett a coward. He was perfectly okay with that. After the disastrous game Saturday night, he'd gone into hiding, refusing to come out of his room except for nightly runs. He ignored all texts and calls and hadn't logged into any of his social media accounts. Frankly, he didn't have the mental capacity to deal with their accusations when his own bared down on him like a rabid wolf.

He couldn't even look at himself in the mirror. His one chance to prove himself to the coaches, to the team, to Jordan, hell, to himself, and he choked. HARD. Worse, he didn't know why. At first, everything had been fine. His pitches and his emotions had been locked down tighter than a vault, but then the batter hit a home run, and something inside of Garrett snapped, and he lost control. Then he panicked because he never lost control. Not on the pitching mound.

He'd never forget Jordan's face when Coach called a timeout to switch pitchers. Garrett thought ridicule was the worst thing to receive from Jordan, but he was wrong. Jordan's sympathy crippled him and took what little was left of Garrett's pride and smashed it to smithereens. Jordan had tried to talk to him after the game, but Garrett had shrugged him off. What could he have said that Garrett hadn't told himself?

When Greg returned from his afternoon classes, Garrett was playing a game on his computer. He raised an eyebrow at Garrett still in his pajamas. It was the second day in a row Garrett hadn't gone to classes. He knew he'd have to go eventually, but he couldn't make himself venture outdoors. Not yet.

"Still not feeling well?" Greg asked, throwing his basketball shoes onto the pile in the corner.

Both knew it was an excuse, but Garrett was grateful Greg went with it anyway. He'd been surprised to see his roommate in the stands Saturday night. They got along, but they weren't the best of buds, so it'd meant a lot that Greg came to support him. Of course, it also meant he saw Garrett's colossal fuck-up. "Yeah, but I have to go to baseball practice tonight."

Greg eyed Garrett's unwashed hair and tea stained shirt. "You sure you should go?" Garrett must be more wrecked than he thought if Greg, the king of messiness, was questioning his sanity.

"I have to," Garrett said. A ball of dread formed in his throat. Would the coaches bench him permanently when they found out what happened? He would if he were in their shoes. After all, how could they fix something when they didn't know the cause?

Greg's foot started tapping. A surefire sign he was uncomfortable. "I'm not one to lecture—live how you want, ya know? But you might want to shower before you leave."

Garrett sniffed his armpit. "Sorry, man."

Greg shrugged, the topic forgotten. Garrett didn't know how the two of them ended up as roommates. They were night and day. Greg was a take-life-as-it-comes type of guy, and Garrett liked things planned out, but they worked because they didn't interfere in each other's lives. Greg never asked about Garrett's nightmares, and Garrett never questioned Greg about his dealings with shady people.

"There's a party tonight. You should come. Loosen up," Greg suggested.

Garrett shook his head as his ulcer flared. Alcohol wouldn't solve anything. He'd be the same loser who couldn't pitch when it counted, only he'd be a drunken loser who couldn't pitch when it counted. Plus, it'd aggravate his ulcer. And god, didn't that make him sound like a ratchety eighty-year-old man? He'd give up his entire baseball card collection to be normal again and not have his therapist on speed-dial.

"If you change your mind let me know. I got twins who are out for revenge on their cheating exes." Greg always had a gaggle of girls waiting by their phones. He was like a younger version of Jordan except where Jordan had smoothness, Greg had a rough edge that screamed danger. Made girls go gaga.

"Thanks, man," Garrett said and went back to his game.

As the hours ticked by, the pain in his stomach grew. By the time practice rolled around, Garrett couldn't even stand straight, but he was determined to muscle through. Without the pitching mound, he had nothing to keep him grounded. Nothing to keep the nightmares at bay.

He kept his head down as he entered the locker room, hoping he to sneak in unnoticed, but as soon as he came into view, all chatter stopped. His vision blurred as their anger and condemnation ballooned, sucking the oxygen out of the room.

Oh god. He couldn't break. Not in a room full of his teammates. His peers. His friends.

Panic rose as he tried to get air into his lungs, but all he could obtain was shame and guilt. He'd done this to himself by being cocky. He should never have made those promises to his coaches. He'd messed up everything good in his life, why did he think baseball would be different?

Garrett bumbled to his locker, but in his haste, knocked into Gus. Gus speared him with such an ugly look, Garrett's whole body flushed, feeling like he was a pig roasting over an open fire.

"Why the fuck is everyone standing around? Practice starts in five minutes. Let's go." Jordan boomed behind Garrett, his voice hard and unyielding. The room returned to its usual loud state as everyone went back to what they were doing, and Garrett finally felt like he could breathe again. Jordan brushed by Garrett. "You too, Saint. Hustle or else you'll be running laps till dark."

After he finished changing, Garrett hobbled to the field, trying to keep the pain out of his face. Stephan and Marcus fell into step with him, caging him on each side. They had to have planned it because it was too smooth to be a coincidence.

"How's the knuckles?" Stephan asked, his eyes straying to the bandages wrapped around Garrett's hands.

"Healing." It hurt like hell, but he'd never admit it. Not with the pity shining in their eyes. He increased his pace, but they kept up.

"What'd you do over the weekend?" Marcus asked. They'd called and texted, but Garrett hadn't answered.

"Nothing much." He didn't like the look Stephan and Marcus exchanged. In fact, it was starting to piss him off.

Stephan lifted his brows. "Greg said you didn't leave your room. Played video games the whole time."

"You talked to Greg about me?" Garrett didn't even try to keep the betrayal out of his voice. Stephan and Marcus didn't even like Greg. Said he was a bail bond waiting to happen.

"Chill out," Stephan said. "We ran into him at the caf. It wasn't like we were on a mission to seek out your innermost demons." But something in his tone made Garrett feel like he was lying.

"Whatever," Garrett muttered. Right now, he had more important things to worry about. The pressure in his chest increased as both coaches came into view. He squinted against the afternoon sun as he tried to make out their expressions.

Stephan huffed, his ears starting to turn red as he grew irritated. "You could have played with us instead of hiding in your bat cave. I was online too."

Which was why Garrett had created a new username. Why couldn't they take the hint that he wanted to be left alone? "Your clinginess is showing."

A muscle in Stephan's cheek twitched, and Garrett knew he was about to blow. "Fuck yo—"

"You ready for today?" Marcus quickly interrupted, sending Stephan a quelling look which only increased Stephan's frustration. Stephan was like a pop bottle. Shake him up, and he started to bubble. And if left covered for too long, he'd blow like a geyser. "Saint, you ready?" Marcus prodded.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Garrett bit out. Christ, practice hadn't even started, and already he was feeling a headache.

"Because you were holed up in your room for four days like a loner with a death wish?" Stephan asked sarcastically.

Oh, fuck him. He didn't have time for this. Garrett jogged to the field, ignoring the sharp burst of pain at his side.

Coach Webber stood by the dugout. He whistled and motioned the team over. The mood was somber as they huddled. Garrett positioned himself in the back, away from Marcus and Stephan. He didn't dare look at anyone. "I know Saturday night's loss was a blow," Coach began, "but this is why we have a pre-season so we can work out the kinks. See our strengths and weaknesses."

"Pitching," someone coughed. Garrett wanted to sink into the ground as snickers rose up.

Coach's mouth thinned. "Yes, pitching was an issue, but it wasn't the only problem I saw out there. Why did all those balls get by the in-field? And why weren't the outfielders in position in case the infielders didn't catch it? Huh?" He looked every player in the eye. "You know what I saw out there? A bunch of lazy, inexperienced boys who relied on someone else to win for them." A few of the players winced. His tone cut like a whip.

Coach tapped the university's logo on his shirt. "You're a team. You know what that means? When someone has an off day, you're there to pick up the slack. If you're not interested in that, I suggest you get off my field. I don't have time for whiners. Now, go warm up. All of you."

Practice went by at a snail's pace. Coach Webber's lecture mollified a few players, but the majority still harbored a grudge, boxing him out whenever they could. He supposed it was better than getting yelled at, though, he almost wished they would. It would take his mind off Marcus and Stephan who were gazing at him like he was a cornered animal that could attack at any moment. A part of him realized it was his fault, but another part resented it. Why did he have to put on an act for his friends? Shouldn't he be able to let them see the dark parts without them freaking out? The only person who hadn't shied away was Arianne. Somehow she knew what he needed before he did.

When Coach Webber announced practice over, Garrett braced for the lecture that was coming, but instead, Coach said, "Jordan. Stay after."

The players appeared as shocked as Garrett except for Jordan, who nodded like he was expecting it. Puzzled, Garrett glanced at the two of them as he made his way off the field. They appeared to be in deep discussion, Coach frowning as Jordan said something in earnest.

Garrett jumped as a hand clamped his shoulder and squeezed. Hard. "Let's get dinner at that Indian place tonight," Stephan said in an airy tone that didn't mesh with his actions. "I'm craving tiki masala, and you can get that bland shit you like so much." Garrett didn't like eating rice and tofu. It was the only thing his stomach could handle.

"I'm not hungry," he replied. His ulcer hurt like the devil and his patience level was at a zero. He looked over his shoulder again. Why hadn't Coach called him for a meeting? He hadn't said one word to him the entire practice.

The hand squeezed harder, pushing him forward. "You will be. We can eat and figure out what we're going to do about B-Bash. I've been researching some DJs in the area, and so far I'm less than impressed." Garrett had been so wrapped up in his pitching, he'd forgotten about B-Bash.

Marcus slapped his glove against his palm, sending up a cloud of dust. "We better get on it because we have until next week to hire someone. I found a site that lists a few DJs. We can go over it at dinner."

As much as Garrett wanted to help, he couldn't stand to sit through dinner pretending there wasn't a wall of tension between them. "You guys do that. I'm going back to the dorms. I'll look up some DJs up tonight and email you a list."

Stephan made a noise, his hand falling away. "Whatever man. Do what you want. You always do."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Garrett asked. Stephan just shook his head and walked away. Garrett couldn't let it go. He glanced at Marcus. "What's his problem?"

"Did you not listen to anything Coach said today? We're a team."

A team? Garrett wanted to laugh as something unfurled inside of him. A team didn't elbow each other in the gut as they ran laps around the field. A team didn't spit sunflower seeds on each other's shoes. A team didn't accidentally nail each other in the leg when they were batting. "We're hiring a DJ, not competing in the Olympics."

Marcus' body tightened, looking like he wanted to unload, but he shook his head. "Never mind."

Garrett was fed up with half answers and worried looks. "No. If you have something to say, fuckin' say it."

Stephan stomped back, his face cherry red as his lips curled into a sneer. "That's rich coming from you. You never say what's on your fucking mind. You just ignore and pretend. That's your MO, right? What you did at home after your brother killed himself?"

It went eerily silent like the calm before the storm. Then a dull roar as an ugly sensation erupted out of Garrett. No one had the right to talk about his brother's death like that. NO ONE. Garrett reached for Stephan, intent on giving him the beating he deserved, but Marcus stepped between them, his palms out.

"Whoa, whoa. Calm down. Stephan didn't mean it like that."

"Like hell I did," Stephan yelled, even as he backed away. "It's about time someone called him on his bullshit."

"What do you know?" Garrett yelled back. "The only problem you've ever faced is how to spend your parents' money."

A low growl escaped Stephan, and then he charged like a bull locked onto its target. Garrett braced for the punch, welcomed it, but Marcus halted Stephan with a hand on his chest. "Hey," he said sharply. "Take it down a notch. Both of you."

A noise off to the side had all of them turning. Gus stepped out from behind the gym, his eyes darting between the three of them. "Everything okay?" Gus asked, but the knowing gleam in his eye said he had heard it all.

"We're fine," Garrett said.

Stephan barked out a laugh. "Yeah, fine. God, Delko, you're a self-absorbed ass, you know that?" He stalked to the locker room, slamming the door open. It hit the wall with a loud crack, then reverberated back with such a hostile force Garrett felt it in his toes. Marcus watched, his face pensive, but when it looked like he was going to say something, he shook his head with a small sigh and followed Stephan.

Gus ran his knuckles along the underside of his cropped beard. "That was rough."

Understatement of the year. And worse, Gus had seen it all go down. The gossip mill would be working in overdrive tonight. Garrett could imagine the looks he'd get at tomorrow's practice. "I don't want to hear another lecture."

"Didn't know you've had one." A shrewd glance. "Coach sure as hell didn't say anything."

"You don't think I know that?" Bitter frustration welled inside. "What did he want with Jordan anyway?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. But if Coach is ignoring you, it can only mean one thing."

He'd been benched. Not worth even lecturing over. One misstep and his whole season went up in flames.

"There's always next year. Focus on that." Gus patted Garrett on the shoulder as he left, a slight bounce in his step. And why shouldn't Gus be happy? With Garrett out of the way, Gus would be pitching in games again.

Marching past the locker room, Garrett entered the gym and headed straight towards the bench press. As he piled on the weights, he cursed his friends, his coaches, his brother—everyone but the true target of his rage.

Himself.

***

Swearing, Garrett punched his pillow, ignoring the throbbing wounds on his knuckles. He couldn't get comfortable. Every little thing bothered him. The hum of the heater, the abrasiveness of his sheets, the lumpiness of his pillow. He just wanted sleep. Sweet, blissful sleep instead of the hurricane roaring in his mind.

He snatched his jeans off the floor and grabbed his wallet. He riffled through it until he found what he wanted. Carefully, he unfolded the note and smoothed out the crinkled edges.

Garrett,

Don't let the memories wash away your dream.

-Ari

PS. It's glaucous.

He'd been carrying the damn thing around like a talisman. Stupid really. It couldn't slay his demons, and yet, for some inexplicable reason, he needed it like he needed air. He traced the loopy letters of Arianne's handwriting. The ink was darker around his name as if she'd gone back and retraced it. He could almost feel the caress of her pen, hugging the curves of his name, branding her touch to his skin.

He only wished she hadn't seen him violent and out of control. He'd just been so...so MAD. It consumed him in a fiery rage, building until he had to get it out or implode. He could only imagine what she must have thought of him beating his knuckles to a pulp. And still, after seeing him at his worst, she wrote him a note.

Her compassion humbled him. Made him realize that if she could believe in him, then maybe he could believe in himself. Because for so long, he'd been afraid he'd be stuck in this vortex of nightmares and never get better.

Garrett glanced at the note again. When he first read it, he knew without a doubt that glaucous was his color. Of course, glaucous sounded more like an eye infection or some bitter tasting medicine than an actual color, so he'd been surprised when he found it was a mix of pale gray and a blueish/green color. Not what he expected, and certainly not what he would assign himself. The color was hard to define and shifted depending on what it was paired with.

He wondered what it said about him. That he was mysterious? Or could it be that he was fickle? He wanted to ask Arianne about it but was scared. She had an uncanny ability to see through his bullshit and understand the heart of him. But what if his heart was blemished? What if the horrible things he'd done left it marked for life?

He folded the note back into a square and tucked it into his wallet for safekeeping. What did it matter what Arianne saw in him? He was determined to stay away. She wasn't good for his nightmares. But even he had a hard time convincing himself of that lie because lately, it wasn't Arianne that trigged his panic, it was pitching.

"Mate, you need to stop moving or fucking leave. I have a test tomorrow," Greg mumbled, turning onto his stomach and burying his head under his pillow.

Garrett wasn't going to get to sleep anytime soon, so he put on clothes, and grabbed his mitt and ball. He walked to the baseball fields taking in the night sky and full moon that bathed the area in an ethereal glow. He positioned himself on the pitcher's mound, digging his heels into the dirt.

This, right here, was his safe haven. It was where he found his center. He dug a little harder, imagining himself in front of the crowd like last Saturday. He breathed in deeply, remembering the freshly cut grass, and crisp winter air. Taking his stance, he brought the glove and ball to his chest and threw.

High and wide.

He picked up his ball and went back to the pitcher's mound and tried again, but he got the same result.

Over and over he threw, but not once did he throw a strike. Frustrated, he dropped to the ground and closed his eyes, letting the dirt sift through his hands. He waited for his mind to quiet, his soul to sigh in relief, but nothing came. As thoughts and emotions whipped around him, he tried one of the meditation techniques he'd learned, but again nothing. Where had his peace gone?

A thought occurred. But no. It was impossible. Baseball had always been his lodestone. The thing that kept him grounded. He picked himself up and tried pitching again. This time he concentrated on regulating his breathing and clearing his mind. He would pitch a strike. He would find his center. But the only thing his ball found was the ground.

Garrett wanted to cry. He had to do something to fix his pitches. Without it, he'd never find peace.

Maybe...

No. It couldn't be...could it?

Garrett pulled out the note. The black ink shimmered under the watchful eyes of the stars and Garrett felt something inside of him settle.

It was her. She was his center, his safe haven. The eye in the midst of a storm. Arianne, the girl, who saw more of him than anyone else.

Holy fuck.

*Bonus Content* Want to read the start of the game from Garrett's POV? Head to my Instagram (DoNotMicrowaveX) and DM me #ColorsofUsGame and I'll send you the bonus content. Don't forget to follow me while you're there ;)

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