Announcing Trouble

by Amy Fellner Dominy

  What am I doing? What am I risking? And for what? I think about what Mom said—about requiring two people who are committed. And she’s right.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  It takes me eighteen minutes to walk to Garrett’s house.

  I’m relieved when it’s Garrett who opens the door. Emotions flicker across his face. Surprise. Happiness. As he gets a closer look at my face, worry.

  “What are we doing?” I blurt before he can say anything.

  He opens the door wider, and I can see him looking over my shoulder. Probably for the truck. “Did something happen? I thought you had a demonstration party?” He reaches for my hand and pulls me inside.

  “What are we doing, Garrett?” I repeat.

  “Let’s go to the TV room.”

  I suddenly think of his mom. “Is your mom here?”

  “At the store.”

  I nod, glad I won’t have to make small talk, and follow him to the room with the big TV and soft leather couch.

  “What happened?”

  He sits on the couch, but I can’t. I start pacing. “I told my mom.”

  “And?”

  “We had a fight. She’s putting our partnership on hold. I’m risking everything I’ve planned for, and you’re still working on your pitching. Your heart is still going in a different direction.”

  “Josie.” He reaches for my hand and stops me. “I feel like I’m watching a tennis match. Will you sit down? Please.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m playing it out. That’s all. The lessons have been paid for—you know that.”

  “Until when exactly?”

  “Two more Saturdays. Last lesson is May fourth.”

  My birthday. “And you’ll be able to let it go?”

  “Yes.” He reaches for my hands, and I let him wrap his fingers through mine.

  “What if you start throwing well?”

  “I won’t.”

  “You’re trying, though. I’m thinking about changing everything, and if you could play, you’d be gone in a heartbeat.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” He tugs me forward until we’re both sitting, our knees touching.

  “You would. You love it too much.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not the only thing I love.”

  My heart stutters in my chest. I’m suddenly hot. Dizzy. I tug my hands free, but he won’t let me.

  “I love you, Josie.”

  “You do not.” My heart has started again, banging hard against my ribs, echoing in my ears.

  His smile is unbearably sweet. “That’s not exactly the response I expected when I told a girl that for the first time.”

  My gaze flies to his. Deep blue rimming pupils so wide I want to fall into them.

  His voice is rough. “I don’t know how else to explain the way I feel when I’m not with you. I’ve been happy with girls before. But I’ve never been miserable without them.”

  I squeeze his fingers. “That’s an awful way of saying that.”

  “Thank you for critiquing my pronouncement of love.”

  I smile into his smile.

  “Don’t be so afraid,” he says softly.

  “I can’t help it. I feel like something bad is going to happen.”

  “You’re waiting for something bad to happen. It’s not the same thing.”

  Is he right? Am I? “The last time I felt this happy, I was coaching with my dad and he was planning to leave me.”

  “I know that. And I know what we’re talking about is a big change for us both. But when someone throws a wild pitch, you don’t question your good fortune. You run for the bases.”

  I slowly unwind my grip on his fingers and slide my hands up his wrists to his forearms. Warm muscle moves under the brush of my fingers. “She’s canceling all the plans. She says I can do whatever I want.”

  “Then do broadcasting. We’ll submit our applications whether we win or not. We’ll take the classes we need, get the internships we can, and come out of ASU with a degree in broadcast communications.”

  “That easy, huh?”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Josie.”

  My heart vaults into my throat and every nerve in my body sparks to life as he shifts closer, eliminating the space between us. He tilts his head so that our lips are almost touching. “I know how you grew up. I know you never want to move again.”

  “Well,” I say, “maybe just an inch.” I lean in and we’re kissing.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  It’s overcast when I wake up on my birthday. I’m not sure what woke me and then I check my phone and find a text from Garrett.

  GARRETT: Woke up thinking of you. Happy birthday, Walters. See you soon.

  I sigh as I sink back into my pillow, my phone pressed to my heart. If only it was just Garrett and me. But it isn’t.

  My stomach quickly rearranges itself into knots and my brain is a fog of images from the past week.

  True to her word, Mom hasn’t pressed me. She quietly canceled all the plans for today—even the cake she ordered. I’ve offered to continue helping with the business, but she said a break would be good for us both. She said it might give me clarity. That’s such a homeopathic-naturopathic-everything-pathic word that I found myself getting mad all over again. My emotions are riding a teeter-totter, and I can’t get off.

  I’m starting to think clarity is a bunch of bullshit. You just have to decide. I have to decide. If only we’d heard back from ASU about the finalists for the contest. Cholla’s final regular-season game was on Tuesday, and we submitted the entire packet the following day. They promised to announce the top three finalists online within a week and the winners soon after. They want to give the winning team time to plan and prepare for the Diamondbacks game in June. If Garrett and I are top three, that would be a sign.

  “Can I have a sign, please?” I say to the ceiling, hoping someone up there is listening.

  My phone beeps, shocking me. I glance at the screen, but it’s not God texting. It’s Mai.

  MAI: Happy birthday. Can we get drunk on Cheetos later?

  ME: You’re so wild.

  MAI: What are you doing this morning?

  ME: Waiting for a sign.

  MAI: I can make you one. What do you want it to say?

  I laugh to myself, but my best friend has made a very good point.

  ME: I’m going to go surprise my boyfriend.

  MAI: Does that mean you’re not wearing underwear?

  Still laughing, I climb out of bed. Mai is exactly right. Instead of waiting for a sign, I’m making my own and it’s going to say:

  Fill out the effing application and go show your boyfriend.

  If there’s extra room on the sign, it will also say:

  And bring him home to meet your mom.

  You big weenie.

  Mom has gone to the farmers market this morning—she decided she might as well after we canceled our meeting with the lawyer. I’d already taken the day off at Page & Prose. Lianne seemed happy about it—she’s been hinting she can handle it on her own. Even if she can, no way am I quitting early. The best part of my week is reading those kids a story and making all of us laugh. I still get to sit on a throne one more time next Saturday, and no one is cheating me out of that.

  Part of me would like to take over this morning, but what I need to do is important and now that I’ve decided, it feels like it can’t wait.

  I take a quick shower, and though I’m impatient to go, it’s also my birthday and I want to look special. I take time for makeup and a few minutes with the blow dryer and a round brush. A tank top, capris, and my ugly sandals complete the ensemble because even my footwear makes me think of Garrett.

  Makes me smile.

  I pick out a schedule of classes for the fall semester, filling in the sheet with my choices. It’s more of a symbol than anything because I’ll have to do it all online. When I write the date at the top, it makes me pause. I’m eighteen. An adult. I wonder if it’s why I feel di
fferent, or if I feel different because I’m about to change my future.

  He’ll disappoint you.

  Mom’s words hover in the back of my head. That’s fear talking. Her fear. Okay, and maybe mine. But today is special for more than just my birthday. Today is also Garrett’s last lesson with Kyle Masters. I can stop worrying about him miraculously getting his arm back.

  A moment comes to me from a few nights ago. A moment I know I’ll replay a million times. We were at Garrett’s. We were sitting so close I could only see pieces of his face. The soft skin beneath his eye. The bumpy curve along the inner part of his ear. The stray hairs at the end of his eyebrow.

  We’d been kissing. Soft, light kisses that had no end and no beginning. Kisses like breaths…like breathing…like heartbeats. When he pulled back for air, there was a long minute when we just looked at each other. Everything I felt swelled inside of me—so many feelings I didn’t know what to do with them.

  “I love you, Josie.”

  I closed my eyes, still not comfortable hearing the words.

  “Hey,” he said, his thumb brushing across my lips. “I’m not going away just because you close your eyes.”

  Maybe that was the moment I started to believe that he really wasn’t going anywhere.

  I haven’t said the words to him, but I almost did then. I’m not sure what stopped me—maybe I’m as superstitious as a ballplayer. If I said the words, what if it jinxed us? Which makes as much sense as thinking a blue Gatorade will help you hit home runs. So today is the day.

  Today is the day for a lot of things.

  The clouds have burned off and it’s sunny when I start the walk to school. It seems like a million flowers have bloomed overnight, or maybe I never bothered to really look. Today the world feels different. I’ve got the schedule in my hand and I want to show it to Garrett first thing. Then we’ll hug and he’ll kiss me and there will be a rainbow overhead and a choir of unicorns will sing Hallelujah. I laugh to myself. Ciera and the other kids wouldn’t doubt it for a second.

  Garrett has never told me what kind of exercises Masters has him doing, but I’m guessing quick-hand and bucket drills. So I’m surprised when I reach school property and hear the crack of a ball hitting a bat. Is Garrett throwing live pitches to a hitter? Has he progressed more than I thought? More than I let myself think?

  My heart in my throat, I cross the parking lot. It’s empty except for Garrett’s black Hyundai and a white sedan I’m guessing belongs to Masters. They’re on the far practice field, and I have to walk past the main field to reach them. Fences are in my way. Then the dugout. But I can hear the bat.

  He promised to tell me if he was making progress. He promised.

  I round the last corner, and the field is in clear view. I stop, my mouth falling open in shock.

  Kyle Masters is standing on the mound. He’s feeding balls into a pitching machine set up beside him. The guy in the batter’s box, the guy in gray baseball pants and a black tee, wearing batting gloves and a helmet, the guy grinding his foot in and sinking into his stance, is Garrett Reeves.

  My boyfriend.

  He isn’t trying to make it back as a pitcher. He’s trying to make it back as a hitter.

  Chapter Forty

  I watch, frozen, as a ball shoots out of the machine and curves over the middle of the plate. Garrett swings—and misses.

  Automatically, I scan the field. My baseball brain is still working while the rest of me is stunned. I note the balls scattered across the field. Most of them were either hit shallow or lie in foul territory. The largest number of balls is piled up along the backstop, meaning Garrett never made contact. My eyes narrow as I watch him prepare for another ball. Wide stance. Weight loaded onto the back leg.

  Another swing and another miss.

  Good! I’m sickened by how glad I am. The other emotion gaining strength by the second is anger. He lied to me. Let me think he was trying to pitch again. Let me worry about the damage he was doing to his arm. And all that time he’s been working on his hitting? My pulse beats hard and fast, staccato punches of fear matched by a pounding in my head. The chances he could make it back as a pitcher were never good.

  But as a hitter?

  It’s an easier path to the game for him. Most pitchers start out as hitters, but once you get to high school, coaches take the bat out of your hand and you focus only on throwing. Pitchers only, they’re called. Like Garrett. That doesn’t mean he didn’t know how to hit. Or he couldn’t hit.

  He whiffs a third ball. Barely gets a piece of a fourth.

  He’s missing. He can’t hit the curve.

  My breath calms as I study him more closely. My father might be a self-centered ass, but he was also a damn good hitter. And now, he’s a damn good hitting coach for a minor league team. In one way or another, his skill with a bat is what brought in a paycheck for over two decades. In those early years when I followed him everywhere, I was a sponge. There are things I know now without remembering when I learned them. As I watch Garrett, it’s all there in my head. Stance. Load. Swing plane. Rhythm. Finish.

  My stomach churns like a washing machine on tilt.

  “I can’t see it,” Garrett calls, his frustration obvious.

  No, he can’t. But even with tears welling in my eyes, I see what he doesn’t.

  He looks up then—spots me. I see the instant when he realizes who it is. The bat drops from his hand. A ball spirals into the fence, forgotten.

  “What’s going on?” I hear Masters ask.

  “Josie!” Garrett shouts. Masters turns, and when he sees me, the whirr of the pitching machine goes off.

  “Give me a few,” Garrett shouts over his shoulder. He’s already jogging my way.

  I’m rooted in place and spinning at the same time.

  Then he’s in front of me, breathing hard, his eyes shaded behind the brim of his cap, his hands still encased in batting gloves. I didn’t even know he had batting gloves. Or a bat. Or a shin guard.

  “Hey, birthday girl. What are you doing here? Everything okay?” He reaches out a hand and I shudder, pulling my shoulder back before he can touch me. He frowns, his gaze stalling at my hand, and I realize I’m still holding the folded schedule. The middle is crushed where I unknowingly wadded it in my fist. I fold it quickly and shove it into my back pocket.

  “How long has this been going on?” I ask.

  “The hitting?” He glances back to the field. His hands rise to his hips. He looks good in uniform. Looks more comfortable than most guys look in their own skin. “Couple—three weeks. It’s just something I was trying.”

  “Just something you were trying?”

  “Are you mad?” He seems surprised. “I’ve never lied about what I was doing.”

  “You let me think you were pitching.”

  “I let you think I was doing anything and everything to get back in the game. And that’s the truth.”

  “It’s not the same.” My anger spikes because he’s actually right.

  “You knew that I had to try right up until the end, Josie. If you want me to apologize for having a dream and fighting for it, then you’re out of luck.” Now he’s angry, too, his eyes sparking blue heat.

  “That’s not what I want.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” The words are emphatic, but I look away because the truth is I might be lying.

  “I also told you that if there was a chance I could play again, I’d tell you. But you can’t trust me, can you?”

  So many emotions swirl around us, thick and palpable. Anger. Fear. Desperation. Betrayal. Which belong to him and which to me? “I have reason to be wary.”

  “None that I’ve given you.” He rips off one glove and then the other, stuffing them in a back pocket. “You had to have seen me hit on your way out here. I’ve been working for weeks and I don’t see the curveball. I’m like Evan Harris, who you like to make fun of every damn time he comes up to the plate.”


  I blanch. I remember how tense Garrett would get every time Evan came up. Every time he struck out. “You don’t have to hit the curveball, Garrett. Not if you’re good enough hitting the fastball.”

  “That isn’t true. Not if I want to play at the highest level.”

  “You can still play college.”

  “I’ve already told you. I don’t want to hang on and watch other guys move up knowing I never will. Even if I did, I don’t have that option and you know it. I’ve got a deal with my dad. One last spring to work on my game and one last tryout.”

  The final two words shock me into a startled, “What? You have a tryout?”

  His hands fist at his hips, but there’s no apology in his eyes. “I didn’t tell you about it, because I didn’t see it happening. And it won’t.”

  My voice is like sandpaper. “What tryout?”

  “A junior college coach in Florida knows me from summer leagues. He’ll be watching some guys in Phoenix next weekend. Said if I wanted to come by, he’d take a look. But there’s nothing for him to see. It’s done. I’m…done.”

  His voice cracks and he looks away. I look away. My heart feels like it’s just cracked, too. I want to hold on to my anger, but there’s a crushing weight on my chest. I look back at the field, at all the missed balls. He wants this so badly. He wants this as much as I want him.

  “What about broadcasting?” I ask.

  “It’s the only thing that’s kept me from losing my mind.” He pulls off his cap, runs his arm across his forehead. When I raise my gaze to his, it’s like I can see his heart.

  The heart that will only be mine once baseball is in the past.

  All I have to do is walk away. Forget what I’ve seen. He’ll take all that love for the game and he’ll channel it into broadcasting. Into us. Into me.

  “Let me finish up here,” he says. “I’ll see you later the way we planned. All right?”

  Tears spring to my eyes. “All right.”

  I turn to leave, my heart screaming, Coward! I start jogging. I’m suddenly desperate to put distance between Garrett and me. Between me and everything I just saw.

  Because it isn’t hopeless. Because Garrett isn’t the same as Evan Harris. Because I’ve seen hitters like Garrett struggle before, and there might be a way I could help him.