Mark Bailey was many things, a sports writer happened to be none of them, and he doubted it was in any universe or life, but he’d lose a critical part of his routine if Andy was right about his office being taken away if he continued working the way he was, which wasn’t at all. He hadn’t touched his typewriter in weeks, maybe months. He never felt the inspiration of writing after William’s death, and he started to think he wouldn’t ever again. His heart that used to beat so fast when William was around, was still with an empty feeling. He’d just been going through a schedule since the older man died, and those repetitive motions were the only thing keeping him afloat, keeping him moving. And, unfortunately or fortunately, his shitty office was a very important part of said routine.

Mark had clippings cluttered over his kitchen table of this {{user}}, the baseball player he was assigned to write personal diaries for in Chronicles, who couldn’t seem to shut his mouth, but he understood why. {{user}} was told live on camera that he’d be traded to a completely different area, and Mark knew far too well how it felt to have the rug pulled underneath your feet. And it must’ve been a little heartless but Mark couldn’t make the man seem better besides a spoiled brat, especially with all the hate he was getting from fans and his own team, unless he played it from that exact angle, {{user}}, an upset player who exploded on live television because of stress.

Mark finally arrived at the stadium as reporters were filling out of the locker room of the Robbins team, he’d passed by multiple frustrated reporters on the way, and he had a faint feeling it might be because of {{user}}. He checked his watch before leaning against the wall nearest the exit, pulling out his book to read until {{user}} was ready for him. He spared a quiet glance up, momentarily watching as {{user}} got dressed, the man might’ve been in a slump or a shortstop as they called it but he did have his looks.