At some point I must’ve dozed off because when I open my eyes again, things are much clearer and my mom is sitting next to my bed, reading a book. Once again, I try to lift my arm to rub my face, but the pain — which I’m definitely feeling now — is too much and I cry out.
“Don’t move your arm, Hawk.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
“Well, maybe you’ll start listening.” My mom appears by my side, smiling. Even though my hair is short, she brushes it away from my forehead. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired.”
“Any pain? Want me to get the nurse?”
I start to shake my head, only to have pain radiate through my entire body.
“You may not want to do that.”
“I’d really like to cuss at you,” I tell my mom who smiles sweetly at me. She knows I wouldn’t, but there are times, like right now, when I’d love to be a smartass and say something sarcastic to her.
“I don’t care how old you are, I’ll wash that mouth out with soap.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I mumble.
Mom frets with the blankets on my bed, making sure I’m okay, and finally presses the button for the nurse. I sense that she’s fighting back her tears. When I called to tell my parents that my season was likely over, my mom cried. My dad did the “macho dad thing” and told me everything would be okay. I’m doing my best to believe him, but I’m not so sure.
Out of the others I know of who have had this done, only one was sidelined a bit longer than expected but he also had Tommy John surgery beforehand and missed two seasons. Since then, he’s been unstoppable in most games.
The nurse comes in, checks my vitals, and tells me that I need to get up and walk every two hours to keep the blood clots from forming. Great, another ailment to worry about. She says my mom can assist me and to feel free to use the hallway to get my exercise. After she leaves, my mom stands next to me expectantly.
“What? Now?”
“Are you waiting for the Renegades to win the pennant?”
“That’s a low blow, Ma.”
She chuckles and moves my IV stand out of the way so she can reach me easier. “Moving is going to hurt, but I got you.”
That she has. For as long as I can remember, my mom has been my rock, my biggest cheerleader, supporter, and best friend. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that she has my back and will do what needs to be done to make sure I’m on the path to recovery.
The decision to return to my hometown wasn’t made lightly. It was pretty much my mother’s doing. She didn’t want to leave me while I rehabbed and knowing it could take up to twelve weeks, she said it would be better for me to come home.
Home is such a funny word when you think about it. Not the meaning, but what it entails. For the longest time, I’ve considered my apartment in Boston my home. Yet, as I step out of my dad’s truck and look at the house I grew up in, there’s this odd sensation that washes over me, pushing me to the brink of tears. I know my emotions are all out of whack because of my injury but looking at my parents’ two-story farmhouse brings back a lot of memories from when I grew up here. On the outside, the house looks like everyone else’s right down to the wraparound porch, but behind it is where the life is. It’s where I learned to throw a baseball and football, run faster than all get out because a damn bull chased after me, and where my friends and I built our own baseball field after watching Field of Dreams. I think my parents were secretly happy about this because they always knew where I was. The downfall? The field didn’t have electricity so once nightfall came, our games were over.
Richfield, Montana isn’t a small town, but it’s not large by any stretch of the imagination. We don’t have the big superstores, and everything is locally owned. Building the baseball field gave kids a place to play. We used to hold mock tournaments and set up our own little league series. My dad constructed an old-fashioned scoreboard, much like the one at Lowery Field, and the moms would get together and have a concession stand that was really meant to feed us lunch.
It wasn’t until I donated money to build a true park, that the kids in Richfield had a real place to play. It was the least I could do after the Renegades drafted me. I wasn’t going to be home and I didn’t want my parents worrying about the maintenance. The last I knew, my father let the grass take over the old field, which makes me sad now even though I know it was for the best.
Also behind the house is where our livelihood begins. The barns, tack house, bunk houses. At last count, my father has ten men and women working for him as ranch hands and wranglers. This is where I met Brett Larsen, my best friend through middle and high school. His father came to work for my father and brought him along. It was unheard of, a cowboy bringing a child to work, but Brett’s mother had died when he was younger and they didn’t have much family. It worked out for me because I always had someone to play with and my mother never seemed to mind that Brett hung out in our house.
“Not much has changed.” My dad’s words are gruff, hard. His skin is weathered from the sun, wind, and harsh winters. My mom wants him to retire but my sisters and I know the day he retires is the day he drops dead on the ranch somewhere.
“Everything’s changed.” It may not seem like it, but the vibe is different. I already feel like an outsider. “I should never have stayed away.”
My dad rests his hand on my shoulder. This is as much affection as I’ll receive from him. He’s not a mean father, by any means, he just doesn’t express himself well when it comes to matters of the heart. “This life wasn’t for you. We knew that the minute you picked up a baseball.”
“Still, it’s my home. I should be here in the off season to help.”
“Nah, that’s what my sons-in-law are for.”
I feel as if the comment is backhanded, almost as if I’m not good enough to work a ranch. I know I am. I also know that growing up, I did my chores as fast as I could so Brett and I, and whoever else rode their bikes over, could do other things.
All around, we are surrounded by grasslands but in the front of the house, my mother has made sure the ranch looks like a home. Flowers of all sorts, wind chimes hanging from the roof of the porch, a couple of rocking chairs so she and my father can look out over their land. This is where it’s quiet, where my mom will read a book or play with my nieces and nephew.
“Is Nolan a cowboy?” I ask of my ten-year-old nephew.
Dad shakes his head. “Nope, been trying to make the baseball team.”
“What do you mean trying?” I look at my mom, who avoids eye contact. I know something’s up and my dad isn’t going to tell me, but my mom will later when he’s not around.
Dad sighs. “Lots of politics in town. Come on, I think your sister cooked up a feast for your return.”
I follow my parents up the stairs to their house and as soon as the screen door shuts, my twin nieces, Ali and Ava, come barreling toward me. They’re six and dressed like little cowgirls, complete with hot pink boots.
“Be careful, girls. Uncle Hawk can’t use his arm all that much,” Mom says.
I crouch down and give them a one-armed hug. “Well, well, well . . . aren’t you two the most adorable cowgirls I’ve ever seen.”
“We’re so glad you’re home,” Ava says.
“Yep, now Mama can stop yelling at the TV for a bit. She says you’re not playing baseball no more.” Hearing those words from Ali really sends my heart into a tailspin. The fact that my sister thinks my career is done adds even more despair to what I’m already feeling.
“Come on now, the Renegades are still playing. I’ll do enough yelling for the whole family.” I wink at Ali and give her another hug before my mom tells them to run along. She tells my father to take my bags upstairs and pulls me into the kitchen where my sisters are busy baking.
For the longest time, the three of us stare at each other. There’s a lot of resentment when it comes to them. They’ve never been happy with my decision to pursue a career in baseball and felt that
my place was on the ranch and nowhere else. Family first. That’s the motto on the ranch.
The standoff continues until my mother tells us to knock it off. We finally hug, but the effort on all our parts is weak. I figure I have a few months to win back their affection before I have to return to being public enemy number one.
We are a few days away from the season opener, which if anyone out there is counting, means our beloved Renegades will be back in Boston soon. They will make one pit-stop in Montreal to finish off their pre-season with back-to-back games against the Blue Jays.
* * *
Speaking of Montreal. They’re still trying to get baseball back in their town and they’re doing a fine job promoting the match-up between the BoRe’s and the Blue Jays, selling out both games. The problem lies with the Tampa Bay Rays ownership and their desire to split the season between Florida and Montreal. Much of the team and staff have balked, saying they’re not going to uproot their families, especially those with school aged children, to play in a different city. If you’ve ever attended a Rays game, you know they have very little support from the community and most people in attendance are there to see the competitors.
* * *
All-Star pitcher, Hawk Sinclair, is out for the majority of the season after undergoing thoracic outlet surgery. This is a fairly new procedure with fewer than fifty pitchers in the majors having done it. While the surgery seems simple, the rehab period is twelve weeks. Manager Wes Wilson confirmed that Sinclair came through surgery as expected and is in his Boston home resting. We reached out to Sinclair, who had this to say: While the pain in my hand, arm and shoulder has subsided, I’m sad to miss the season and hope to be back in the dugout for the wild card race.
GOSSIP WIRE
Former Renegade, Jasper Jacobsen, was involved in a car accident in Toronto. At press time, we have no word on any reported injuries.
* * *
We hear there may be a new bundle of joy on the way . . . only we don’t know to whom. Saylor Blackwell-Kidd, Daisy Davenport and Ainsley Burke were all spotted at the upscale store Baby Pod. When asked who was expecting, the three women who are often together, laughed.
* * *
Random note — we also asked Ainsley Burke why she goes by her maiden name, to which she replied: Ainsley Bailey . . . and left her comment at that.
Six
Bellamy
Maria’s on Main has been a staple of Richfield for what seems like eons, having been in the same family for over a hundred years. This is a replica of one in Italy and here you will only find authentic food, which means no fettuccini alfredo or Caesar salads. I don’t come here often. It’s expensive and you must have the right palate for a place like this. Something Chase doesn’t have. If there isn’t chicken fingers and fries on the menu, it’s not a place for us.
As soon as I step in, I close my eyes and inhale deeply. The scent of tomatoes, anchovies and mushrooms washes over me. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since this morning. After a moment, I open my eyes and scan the restaurant, looking for Brett. Once again, I’m late, thanks to another showing that ran later than planned. Being a single mom, I take as many calls as I can get. If you want to list your house, I’m your gal. Want to buy a house, condo, or some land? Call me, I know just the place you’re looking for. I work all day, some nights, and on weekends too. Any other time, besides now, I’d be home with Chase, making him dinner. I do put limits on when I’ll work. If he has an activity, a game or needs help with a project, I’m there. I refuse to miss anything my son has going on. My mother helps a lot, but it’s not the same. It’s also not fair that I play the role of both Mom and Dad, but it what it is, and I knew my life would be this way when I decided to move us back to Montana.
After what seems like the longest week of my life, which is over dramatic considering the crap my ex put me through, I’m following the hostess while looking at the couples already seated and wondering if I’m underdressed. Today, I wore what I call my “normal work outfit” — a pencil skirt, blouse, and blazer with fashionable, yet comfortable heels. The women here though, are in cocktail dresses, and it dawns on me that this is where people in town come to get engaged, go on romantic dates, and celebrate milestones. I can’t help but glance at the different tables as I pass. Everything here seems far too intimate for a constructive meeting about little league. Couples are holding hands, drinking wine, and showing their affection in various ways.
I smile when I see Brett, but it quickly vanishes when I see he’s alone. We’re at a table for two, not five or six. He holds his hand out, motioning for me to take a seat. “Are you going to sit?”
I’m standing here with my hand clutching my shoulder straps, looking around. “Where are the rest of the coaches?”
He looks at me oddly and the corner of his mouth lifts in a sly smile. “It’s just us.”
“Oh.” After much hesitation, I finally sit, ignoring the feeling in my gut. Something isn’t right. I know Brett has money, but why choose here if it’s not a meeting? Surely, the others should be here as well.
Brett hands the menu to me and I open it. I already know what I want: The spaghetti with only a little sauce because I don’t want to get my blouse dirty. It’s the same thing I’ve ordered before and I know I can afford it, but I look anyway in case something else jumps out at me. The waitress stops at our table and Brett orders a bottle of wine. A bottle. Not a glass or two. After scanning the menu, I do everything I can to keep my eyes from bugging out. The wine is three hundred dollars a bottle.
Three hundred dollars a bottle.
She returns instantly with two glasses and I tell her that I’m not drinking. I’d like to, but I need to keep my senses about me.
“Of course, she is,” Brett says. The waitress listens to him despite what I say, and sets a glass of red in front of me. I’m tempted to down it, to mask the anxiety I’m feeling, but I don’t. I smile softly and tell her my order, only to have Brett change it. To say I’m stunned would be an understatement. I repeat my order and hand the menu back to the waitress, who immediately looks to Brett for confirmation. He shakes his head rather quickly, as if he’s telling her to ignore me.
“Do you always order for people?”
Brett tilts his head to the side and grins. He lets out a little laugh before leaning forward. “Just those that I like.” He reaches for my hand and for a brief moment he’s touching me until I realize what the hell is going on.
Not so subtly, I pull my hand away and rest it on my lap. “I’d like to talk about Chase.”
“I see,” he says. He sighs heavily and straightens in his chair. “I’ll cut to the chase,” he laughs at his own joke, which I don’t find funny. “I like your son. He’s a good boy and has what it takes to be a decent ball player.”
“But?” I interject, knowing it’s coming.
“He needs training.”
“Which is why I’m here, Brett. What can I do to help my son? He wants to play baseball and I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”
“Anything?”
“Anything,” I reiterate.
Once again, he leans toward me. I’m watching his eyes, trying to figure out what he’s doing. As soon as I feel his hand on my leg, I push my chair back, bumping hard into the person behind me. I mumble a weak apology to the man who is likely wearing red sauce due to my actions.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
He cocks his eyebrow. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“You’re married.”
“My marriage has nothing to do with this. We both want something from each other. It’s a win-win.”
My mouth drops open in horror. “You expect me to sleep with you in order for my son to make the baseball team?” I seethe.
“If you don’t,” he says quietly. “I’ll make sure Chase never makes a damn team in this town.” He picks up his wine and takes a sip, never taking his eyes off me. I’m disgusted and feel dirty for even sitting here.<
br />
Thankfully, my chair is already far enough away from the table that I don’t have to move. I throw my napkin on the table and stand with my bag in my hand. “You’re a pig, Brett Larsen. You better hope I don’t tell Annie about your proposition.”
He chuckles, takes another sip and says, “You can try but I doubt she’d believe you. Remember, you’re the one who said you’d do anything to help your son.” He holds his phone up, shaking it. “Got it right here, in black and white.”
“You son of a bitch.” His words bring tears to my eyes and I hate that he sees me crying.
“Tsk, tsk. I hold the cards, Bellamy. Remember that.”
Without another word, or bothering to stay and fight, I make a hasty exit. I fully expect people to stare but no one does. No one heard or saw him proposition me, and even if I wanted to say something, he has so much clout that no one is going to believe me.
The entire way home, I cry. I sob hard, choking on the words spewing from my mouth as I relive the night, angry at myself for thinking a man like that would be willing to help my son. There was a time when Brett Larsen was nothing more than a washed-up baseball player — the idiot punched a wall and broke his hand in so many places, he had no choice but to give up the game he loved so much and lost his scholarship. He started night school after he and Annie married to become a stockbroker, money manager type. Now he’s all high and mighty because he once had a scholarship to play baseball?
I drive around the block a few times until I can control my emotions. Chase will still be up, likely watching television with my mom, and I don’t want him to see that I’ve been crying. He worries about me and since his father left, has become my protector. When I pull into the driveway, I yank the visor down and clean my make-up streaked face.
Hawk: The Boys of Summer #4 Page 4