A wild pitch past the target, head injury on the outside.
R.J. watched as Kathryn threw the baseball right past Iselle's shoulders. Damn, these girls were really mad at each other. It was kinda like watching worldstar, or a reality show gone bad. Again, similar to those, he was watching, hoping one of them would just pop the other one in the mouth and be done with it. It was an ignorant kind of entertainment, like seeing a fight at school during finals. Friends being so brutal to themselves was cathartic, in a time where he was well aware that he was dead and eternal.
He grabbed his Blue Moon beer, sat down, turned on a TV, and complained to himself about the temperature. Like it was still summer for him. He hadn't talked to anyone. Not Joey, not Lauren, not Veronica, not anyone from the team, no one. He realized that, especially now, he didn't have people he could just talk with. He unzipped his jacket and pressed the bottle against his head.
He breathed out softly. Then he blinked a few times. Then he wrapped a curl of hair around his fingers. Something else R.J. now realized, that despite him hating math, he liked numbers. In terms of money, uniforms, countdowns, tournaments, he was interested in numbers. Where anything existed, there was a number to it. Where there were numbers, there was someone who followed them and analyzed them, anticipating a change or a long streak. It was wrong, but it had always been wrong, and a return to normalcy wasn't something people complained about. Even a veiled, convoluted, forced return. He turned his head back, and called out sheepishly.
"...Anyone wanna bet?"
He also realized he may have just said something retarded.