Hawk: The Boys of Summer #4

by Heidi McLaughlin

  “You’d do that for her?”

  I nod and pull him close. “Without a doubt. We’re going to be a family. It’s what family does for one another.”

  “You know what this means, right?”

  I look at him oddly. “No . . . ”

  “Well, first it means the three of you need shirts with my name on the back, and second, it means that I’m going to have to ask Chase if I can marry his mom.”

  “Hawk . . . ” My breath catches.

  He smiles and brings my hand to his lips to kiss it. “Once things slow down and we’re in a routine that works for us, I’m going to ask you to marry me. You can count on it.”

  Have you recovered from the thrilling All-Star game? We certainly haven’t because our Renegades are hot, hot, hot and about to get hotter with the return of Hawk Sinclair. We first reported he would only be out until the All-Star break, but he had a minor set-back and recovery took a bit longer. However, we’re happy to say, actually scream, HE’S BACK!!! Now before you get all excited about the starting rotation, Sinclair is going to do some relief work first before sliding back into his starting spot.

  Right now, our Renegades are dropping bats at the plate and running those bases. We’re well above 500 and sitting comfy in second place, behind those Astros. With the return of Sinclair, we have a full roster and they’re all healthy!

  GOSSIP WIRE

  It was a nice surprise to hear about Travis Kidd, Ethan Davenport, Branch Singleton, Kayden Cross, Cooper Bailey, and their respective families flying out to support Sinclair and his Little League team. It’s rumored that the autograph session lasted four hours and raised over $3000 for the Sinclair Fields.

  But . . . that’s not what you want to hear!

  The biggest surprise of all and one we’ve been kept in the dark about is . . . Daisy Davenport is pregnant!

  Now, we’re not talking a little pregnant. From what witnesses are saying, she’s ready to pop any day now. Our question here is, how did we not know?

  One of our reporters ran into Shea, famed niece of our third basemen, and asked for her thoughts. Here’s what she had to say, “Oh, I think it’s great, but I’m not babysitting.”

  So, there you have it. New Renegades will be here soon thanks to Saylor Blackwell-Kidd and Daisy Davenport.

  And you know, as I write this . . . we haven’t seen Hadley Carter around lately either. Hmm . . . makes you wonder why she’s hiding as well.

  Thirty-Three

  Hawk

  Behind my blackout curtains, I know the sun is up and blazing over the city. The heatwave blanketing New England has been relentless the past few days, with temperatures hovering close to a hundred and the more inland you are, the hotter it is. I can hear the television and from what I can gather, it’s a talk show, likely Sports Center or something similar. Chances are, Matty isn’t even watching whatever is airing. She’s mostly likely out on the balcony, with the sliding glass door open and letting the air conditioner cool off my neighborhood, reading last night’s game recap or watching the traffic down below.

  Boston is a cultural shock for her. Each day, it’s a new adventure. Places and activities I’ve taken for granted, like twenty-four hour grocery stores, food delivery, and the harbor, are all new and fun things to explore. If we’re not at the ballpark, we’re walking, taking the train or driving somewhere she’s found on the map. Every place we go is a “must see” and the urgency to get there is like no other.

  Not gonna lie, being an instant father is hard, especially in our situation. My parentage started off with telling her that her parents passed away, followed by having her pack her stuff because we had a flight to catch, and then welcoming her to her new home, all in one day. The timing couldn’t have been worse. I’m grateful for my friends more than ever through all of this. Ethan’s niece, Shea, has been visiting and she’s close in age to Matty. At Lowery Stadium, Shea wasted no time showing Matty where everything is, who they can sweet talk for free merchandise, and who to stay away from. Apparently, there’s a guard who Shea doesn’t like and insists on tormenting him whenever she’s in town. Saylor has also stepped in to help, despite being pregnant. She’s taken Matty shopping, to get her haircut and helped her pick out a comforter for her bedroom. Matty asked about painting, but I told her we weren’t staying here once Bellamy and Chase arrived, which happens to be today. The Mini Renegades finished their season and while they didn’t make the playoffs, not that we expected them to, it came down to a last inning base hit and the winning run scored. Still, I’m so proud of that team.

  Of course, the thought of moving to a new place gave Matty something to do and once I gave her permission to log into the computer, she started house hunting and sending links to Bellamy to set up appointments. We’re currently scheduled to see an enormous house in Marblehead. It’s eight bedrooms, and nine and half baths. I asked Matty why we need something so big when it’s only the four of us and she said, “Because it has a pool and is on the ocean.” I’m still trying to figure out why we she thinks we need something so big, but I’m appeasing her, and we’ll drive the hour plus away from the city to look at it. Truth is, we really don’t need something huge. A five or six bedroom house will work. It gives us space to expand our family if we decide, there would be space for Bellamy to have an office if she chooses to go back to work, and it won’t be so large that we’ll feel lost or separated. Call me crazy, but I want to hear the kids screaming and making noise. I want our home to feel alive and vibrant. I don’t want something where the four of us can retreat into our own corner of the house and forget about each other.

  My body screams that it’s time to get up. I stretch, rotate my shoulder and pop my hips before climbing out of bed and slipping into the silky pajama pants Bellamy insisted I buy. She said it’s one thing for Chase to see me in my boxers, but a whole other thing for Matty to see me in them. After I use the bathroom and wash the sleep away from my eyes, I make my way to the living room where everything I assumed earlier is taking place.

  “Hey,” I say as I stand with one hand on the sliding glass door casing and the other on the wall.

  “Morning, Hawk.”

  Most of the time, I’m Hawk and I’m okay with it. I get why she does it and I plan to never ask her to change. Her entire life she’s known Brett as her dad, and as much as it pains me, it is what it is. When we’re in public though, she calls me dad or refers to me as such, and I cherish those moments.

  “What did I say about leaving this door open with the air conditioner on?” I hate my tone the second the words come out of my mouth, but I have to be strict sometimes according to the therapist we’re seeing. Matty and I go together every other week, for nothing more than finding an even ground to co-exist on, and she goes alone, once a week to talk about her loss, the transition of moving, and living with someone who could be considered a complete stranger.

  “You said to keep it shut, but I have a good reason.”

  “Which is?”

  “I wanted to make sure I heard the doorbell in case Bellamy arrived.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “Nice try, kid. You know we’re picking them up from the airport. Keep the door shut, okay?”

  She nods and follows me into the house, thankfully sliding the door shut behind her.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask as I look into the refrigerator. Like most of the guys on the team, I have a housekeeper who also does my shopping. Sometimes, she’ll even cook dinner and leave it for us to heat up when we get home from a game.

  “No, I had toast.”

  “Okay.” I pull out the carton of eggs, the box of pre-cooked bacon and the jug of orange juice. “What time is our appointment?”

  “At three. Bellamy and Chase arrive in an hour and half. You better get ready.”

  “We live fifteen minutes from the airport. We’ll leave right before the plane touches down.” I pull the bacon out of the box and set one of the sleeves in the microwave, and then crack my eggs over the f
rying pan.

  “Won’t we be late?”

  “No, by the time they get off the plane and make their way through the airport to get their luggage, we’ll be there.”

  “Is your sign ready?” She asks. A few nights ago, Matty and I had arts and crafts night after we had watched one too many welcome home videos on the internet. It was her idea to make signs. One for Bellamy and one for Chase so they both felt welcomed. Matty made Chase’s.

  “Yes, is yours?” I counter.

  She nods and comes to where I’m standing. “Can I make your eggs?”

  “Sure.” I’m not the best cook so trying to teach her how to cook is a challenge. Still, she wants to learn so I’m educating her on everything she asks. Of course, once my breakfast is ready, she declares she’s hungry and ends up taking my plate. “Next time, I’m making extra.”

  “Technically, I made this.” Touché, kid.

  After breakfast, I head into the shower. I opt not to shave, letting the two-day growth stay, at least until game day which is two days away. After I dress, I make my way into Matty’s room. There are baseball posters everywhere and a new twin bed on the other side of her room. Bellamy and I discussed the sleeping arrangements and while not ideal, Chase and Matty will share until we’ve purchased a house which is our top priority. I suspect by the end of next week, we’ll have a place to call home and if we don’t, a new apartment it is.

  “Hey, you still okay with sharing a room with Chase?” I lean against the doorjamb, waiting for her to reply.

  “Yeah, it’ll be fun.”

  “If you say so.” I remember sharing with my sister while my parents renovated our upstairs and I hated every minute of it. “You ready?”

  She nods, climbs off her bed and follows me out and to the elevators. Today must be our lucky day; normally we run into our neighbors who like to talk about everything and anything. We ride down to the basement and Matty runs to my SUV. She yells, “shotgun” even though she’s the only one riding in the car. I can thank Travis for teaching her this.

  Like I told her, we make it to the airport in fifteen minutes, thanks to my ability to weave in and out traffic. I will never understand why someone goes under the speed limit in the fast lane and then has the nerve to flip you off when you speed past after tailgating them a mile.

  Matty and I hold hands as we walk through the airport. At first, I thought this was strange, a ten-year-old wanting to hold my hand, but then I realized it’s not strange, it’s life. I’m her protector and she’s in a big scary city. That doesn’t preclude her from running off when we get into Macy’s or some other department store. Right now, I seem to be losing more battles than winning in this parent game.

  We stand in baggage claim at the end of the escalator with our signs poised, waiting for the rest of our family. People ooh and ahh as they walk by and a few even proposition us. Every few seconds Matty looks at mine and giggles. I do the same for hers. We were creative with our jars of glitter and glue, highlights and markers. I’m sure my housekeeper didn’t think so because she had to scrape tiny shards plastic off the island when we were done.

  I see Chase before Bellamy and when she comes into view, it hits me how much I’ve missed her. I don’t care that I’ve only known her since late spring, I’m madly in love with her. When she spots me, I hold my sign up high so she can see it as she rides down the escalator. Her hand covers her mouth and nods. As soon as she reaches the bottom, she’s in a dead sprint to get to me. With the sign in one hand, I catch her as flings herself toward me and bury my face in her shoulder.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” I tell her. Video chats and speaking on the phone every day did nothing but make me fall more and more in love with her. I set her down and as I do, I drop down to one knee and pull the black velvet box from my pocket.

  “Bellamy Patrick will do me and our children the honor of becoming my wife?”

  “If she doesn’t, I will,” someone says as they walk by.

  Bellamy laughs through the tears streaming down her face. “Yes, I’d be so honored to be your wife” she says. Everyone around us cheers as I stand and kiss her.

  “Thank you,” I whisper against her lips.

  “I can’t believe you did this at the airport.”

  “I know, but I told you I was going to do it when it felt right.”

  “It does feel right, doesn’t it?”

  “It does.” We kiss again before she goes to Matty and I go to Chase. Chase and I grab a trolley and he shows me the many bags they came with. The rest of their belongings will arrive in a few weeks from the moving company.

  The women in my life catch up to us as Chase and I load the last bag. Matty is filling Bellamy in on everything that Boston has to offer, even though they speak on the phone daily. After we have the SUV loaded, I ask them what the first thing they want to do as a family is.

  “Go home,” all three say in unison.

  “Home it is.”

  Epilogue

  Hawk

  The music is loud as I walk back to the mound. I glance at the scoreboard, even though I know we’re up three to zero, there are two outs and the bases are loaded. Three isn’t a cushion, not in baseball, not when I’m about to face one of the best players of this generation . . . and definitely not when one hit could be a game changer. I survey the outfield, looking at each one of my teammates. They’ve done their job and I’ve done mine until now. The first two outs were easy, a blooper right to Davenport and the second, a strike out, giving me nine for the day. Then everything went to shit. A base hit, a walk, followed by another. I thought after I walked the first guy and then the second, Wilson would pull me. He came out to the mound and asked me about my shoulder. “It feels good,” I tell him, which isn’t a lie. I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to my body and injuries. “Can you finish this game?” I thought about his words and nodded. There’s a lot on the line, mostly a spot in the history books for pitching a shut-out. I’ve done it before, but it won’t make this one any less special. In fact, this one would be a milestone, especially after surgery and rehab.

  I continue to look at the field, eyeing each Angel standing on their respective bases in their gray travel uniforms, us in our whites. The guy coming out of the dugout, the one destined to change the outcome of this game, is none other than Mike Trout. He is likely the American League MVP, although there’s a few guys on my team who are giving him a run for his money. I turn in time to watch him saunter to the plate, wondering if he’s thinking the same thing I am — home run. I would if I were him. He has three guys waiting to come home, eager to step across that dusty diamond and have four runs added to the ancient scoreboard. All during my rehab, I lamented about the pressure I felt to return, to be with my team, but none of it compares to what I feel now. The weight on my shoulders is heavy . . . agonizing. One wrong pitch from me and this game is over. I need to keep my pitch high and fast, nothing down and inside. That’s his sweet spot.

  As soon as Trout steps up to the plate, the music dies and the only noise is the crowd. The fans are on their feet, their rally caps on. Some chant my name, and others pick up on it. After I made my return, Matty asked me how I felt when people chanted my name and I told her I tuned them out and that sometimes I didn’t even hear the fans. She told me I should listen sometimes.

  I’m listening now and the melody of their voice is soothing yet energizing at the same time. My skin buzzes with anticipation of what’s to come. They call me Hawk instead of Sinclair, and when thousands of people say my name all at once, it sounds like a bird is soaring overhead.

  Before I place my foot on the rubber, I look to where my family sits. Bellamy, Chase and my daughter Matty, all behind the dugout, all staring at me intently. It’s Matty I seek out the most though. While we waited for Bellamy and Chase to arrive, she came to practice with me. She’s become my biggest cheerleader when I’ve vowed to become hers, and now I look to her for some sort of signal that I can do this. Her hands cup the s
ides of her mouth and I imagine she’s yelling, “You got this, Dad!” Maybe I do and maybe I don’t, but I’m sure as hell going to try.

  I step onto the rubber and Trout steps up the plate while Michael Cashman crouches down. His head angles toward Trout’s feet and his hand goes between his thighs to give me the sign. High, outside, curve. I nod, put my hand and the ball inside my glove, shield it as best as I can from the base runners and adjust my fingers. My world goes quiet as I block everyone and everything out. It’s only Cashman and me, playing catch. I cock back and deliver the pitch, loving the way my arm feels as I follow through.

  The umpire rises slightly from his crouched stance, raises his right hand, turning it into a fist as he punches the air and yells out, “Hike,” or some other guttural sound that’s meant to sound like strike. Back in high school, I took an umpire class so I could better understand the game and was taught to never say “strike” because it took too long to say.

  Cashman tosses the ball back to me and everything is repeated. Trout steps in, points his bat toward me or the wall behind me, Cashman squats and the umpire crouches. I block everything out and play catch with my teammate. The call is for a slider. I go through the motions, sending the pitch hurling toward the plate. Trout takes a step and his bat projects forward. The crack is loud, and the ballpark is suddenly the quietest I’ve ever heard it. I don’t watch the ball; I keep my eyes on Trout. He’s hopping up and down, with a big smile on his face.

  Perfect. Game over.

  Out of my peripheral, I see the guy on third trot home, and I stand there, waiting for Cashman to throw me a new ball . . . except it doesn’t come. He does instead. He bulrushes toward the mound and I brace myself. The next thing I know, I’m up in the air and Cashman has his arms braced under my ass. Easton Bennett, Kayden Cross, Ethan Davenport and Bryce Mackenzie are jumping up and down, yelling congratulations and calling me a motherfucker. Through all the jostling, I spot Trout, heading to the dugout. He throws his helmet and stomps down the steps, and that’s when it hits me. It was an out, caught by whom, I don’t know.