RYAN MITCHELL'S POV
The coffee in my hand had gone cold hours ago, and I didn't remember when I'd poured it sometime during the night, maybe, but the liquid in the cup now was thick and bitter, like mud that had been left out in the rain. I took a sip anyway. It tasted exactly like the last thirty-six hours of my life: burnt, stale, and impossible to swallow. I stood outside the captain's office, staring through the glass panel at the gold lettering. NATHANIEL COLE. The letters gleamed under the fluorescent lights of the bullpen as if they belonged in a trophy case.
