Marty limped to his desk, texted his brother. Still seemed weird not to call from a desk phone.
Stared at his swollen ankle.
Closed his eyes.
This was probably his last season of softball.
A voice, his voice, said: You’re too old for softball, Marty. You were too old three years ago. The only reason they let you play is that your dad founded the company.
He shushed the voice, pulled a blister pack of OTC painkillers out of his desk.
Mark walked into Marty’s office.
“Something wrong?”
“My ankle hurts like a bitch, but that’s not why I texted. Burke ever lie to you?”
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