If I do, baseball wins.
And I lose.
Chapter Forty-One
Mai is waiting at her front door when I get there. I sent a pathetic, needy text, and I can tell she’s doing an inventory of me as I walk up. Puffy eyes that have produced enough tears to water a baseball field. My rumpled tank streaked with wet sticky splotches where I wiped my cheeks and nose.
Without a word, we make our way to her room. I kick off my sandals, dusty from the baseball field. I’m going to have to throw them away, I realize as I crawl onto her bed. They’ll remind me too much of Garrett. Both of us curl toward the other, except this time with a box of Kleenex between us. She doesn’t say anything, just waits while I pull a tissue and mop up my face one more time.
“It hasn’t been the best birthday so far,” I say.
She cracks a tiny smile. “I always thought adulthood might be a scam.”
I try smiling, but that only makes my eyes leak again. I’m going to miss Mai so much. She just told me the other day about a summer program in California she plans on attending. She’ll be gone three weeks after graduation. How do I survive that on top of everything else? The thought does nothing to help the tear situation. I take a deep breath and blink a few dozen times.
“I made myself a sign. It said fill out the ASU schedule and go tell Garrett that you want to be a team.”
“And?”
“I surprised him at the school field. And then he surprised me.”
“Uh-oh.” She bites her bottom lip, and that reminds me of Garrett, too.
“He isn’t trying to pitch again, Mai. He’s hitting.”
I know she’s running through everything she knows about baseball—which takes about two seconds. “So?”
“So he was never going to make it back as a pitcher. But he could make it back as a position player as long as he can hit well enough.”
“And can he? Hit well enough?”
“No.”
“That’s good.” Her eyes brighten.
“But he could.” I swallow thickly.
“Yeah, except today is his last day, right? So it’s over.”
“That’s the point. If he knew, it wouldn’t be.”
“If he knew what?”
“That there’s a chance.”
She shakes her head. “You’re not making sense. There’s always a chance, right? That’s why guys hang on too long.”
“This is different. You know my dad is a hitting coach—he’s in charge of all the minor league players for a major league organization for a reason. He knows his shit. I saw him work with guys like Garrett. I saw him fix them.”
“You can fix a player?”
“Sometimes.” The tight ball in my stomach unravels with the truth I don’t want to face. The decision I don’t want to make. “I think I can help Garrett.”
“But.” She shakes her head. “He’s got a coach, Josie. Don’t you think if it was that easy, Masters would have done it already?”
“It’s not a technique thing. It has to do with how he sees the ball. My dad struggled with the same thing.”
“And you think if you showed him, then he would be able to hit the ball, and he’d go back to playing baseball?”
I nod because that’s exactly what I think. What I know. “Broadcasting, teaming up with me—I’m the consolation prize. The team he really wants is a bunch of guys wearing pinstripes and spitting seeds.”
“Can’t he have two teams?”
A sob rises from low in my chest. “Baseball isn’t just a job. It’s a life. I’d be forever competing for his time and attention. Always wondering when I’d be left alone with my packed suitcase.”
Her frown deepens. “But he said he loves you.”
“He loves baseball more.” I press wads of tissue to my eyes. “Is there something wrong with wanting to be first, Mai? With wanting to be most important?”
She squeezes my shoulder. “Of course there isn’t.”
I cry harder. I cry the way I did when I realized my dad didn’t want me. And I know that whatever it takes, I’m not going to give Garrett the chance to not want me, too. It takes a few awful minutes, but finally I get control over my emotions. “Sorry,” I mumble.
Mai answers by shoving two more tissues into my hand. “Don’t be sorry. You just broke up.”
“Not officially.” I blow my nose. “I have to tell him.”
A long pause follows as various expressions chase themselves across Mai’s face. Confusion. Surprise. Calculation. “You didn’t tell him you could help him?”
“I couldn’t.” I roll to my back. The familiar stain is there, but it gives me no comfort. “I’d just filled out my schedule of classes. All of it was in my head, you know? The future. Us. I couldn’t do it.”
“And do you…have to?”
My breath catches. “I can’t lie.”
“You’re not lying. You’re not even sure you can help him. As far as he knows, he’s given it his best shot and it didn’t work out.”
My heart grasps onto her words. A lifeline. A way forward to the future with him I want so much it hurts. And really, there’s no guarantee he makes it no matter what I show him. So many guys don’t. Who’s to say he doesn’t go play college ball and get a career-ending injury? It already happened to him once. And by then, the broadcasting opportunity would have passed him by. It might be the best thing if I don’t say a word.
The stain on the ceiling shifts like a Rorschach image, and I’m suddenly seeing Garrett leaning out over the window of the booth, his need to be on the field so strong I can feel it myself. Is it right for me to keep what I know from him? If I won’t follow him, is it fair to make sure he follows me?
“Should or must,” I murmur. But I know what I have to do. I haven’t told him I love him, but I do. Too much to lose him.
And too much to keep him.
I sit up.
Mai does, too. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to tell him.” I pull my phone from my back pocket. I’ve turned it to mute and see now that there are four texts from Garrett. “I’ll always feel like I trapped him if I don’t.”
“You going to be okay?”
“Eventually.” The heart is a muscle—it can get injured like any other muscle. But it’ll heal in time. Just takes lots of ice.
I start texting.
ME: Get your baseball stuff. Meet me at the field in half an hour.
GARRETT: Why?
ME: I’ve got something for you.
GARRETT: What?
ME: Your dream.
“You want me to come?” Mai asks.
“I’ll be okay.”
“Call me when you’re done. We’ll eat pralines and cream and watch Pride and Prejudice.”
“The Colin Firth version?”
“All nineteen hours of it.”
“It’s six hours,” I say. “You think it’s longer because you hate it. We can watch something else.”
“Nope. We’re watching it. And you know that when I fall asleep, I’m still there for you.”
I give her a watery smile. “In that case, we’ll watch the extra features, too.”
We hug for a long time, and on the short walk home, I gather my emotions and tuck them away. If I’m going to help Garrett, I have to think clearly.
More than that, I have to think back.
For so long, I avoided everything to do with baseball. The sport stole my dad and taught me that it was worse to dream and fail than it was to not dream at all. But the game didn’t betray me, and it’s taken Garrett to remind me of how much I love it. With my memories, my experiences, I have an advantage his other coaches don’t. I have a father who suffered from the same issue standing in Garrett’s way. And I still have the link to my father’s online training log.
Chapter Forty-Two
Garrett is waiting for me at the field. He’s sitting on the bleachers, his feet stretched out and crossed at the ankles. In a button-down black shirt and
khaki shorts, he looks like anything but a player. And he looks so good, I want to forget this stupid plan and hold on to him anyway I can.
I shove away the thought and remind myself I’m here as a coach. “You’re going to hit in those shoes?” I ask. At home, I packed a workout bag and changed my own clothes.
He glances at the black boat shoes I’ve never seen him wear before. “I’m not hitting.”
“Yeah, you are.”
“Nope. It’s your birthday.” He pushes to his feet and works his way down to the bottom step. “You had something in your hand earlier. I didn’t ask what it was, but I think I know.”
“Garrett.” I silence him with a glare. “Where’s your baseball bag?”
He slides his hands in his pockets. “I’m done, Josie.”
“You’re not.” I look back at the batting cage and see the pitching machine set up in there, but the balls all picked up. “You have the key to the equipment closet?” I hold out my hand.
“Why?”
“We need a bucket of baseballs.”
“Quit it, Josie.”
“I wish I could.” He has no idea how much. I wiggle my fingers. “Keys.”
He’s getting angry again, which is good. It’s easier for me to deal with an angry Garrett than a sweet one. He separates a silver key from his ring and hands it to me. A line from the movie A League of Their Own comes to mind. There’s no crying in baseball. I know Garrett would know the line, too, and the movie and the year it came out. He probably has it rated somewhere on his top one hundred list.
“One of the things I love about baseball,” I say, “is that there’s a ridiculous level of analysis on every aspect of the game. Including how the ball spins off the hand of a pitcher and how the eye sees that spin.” I take the key and head toward the equipment shed. Over my shoulder I call, “Get your baseball bag.”
“Josie—”
“Do it, Garrett.”
He’s back with his bag by the time I wrestle open the padlock and lug a bucket of balls to the mound. His equipment bag must have been in the trunk of his car. He hasn’t changed clothes or shoes, but it doesn’t matter.
I unzip my workout bag and pull out my baseball glove. The dry leather complains when I push my fingers in. For a second, it fights me like some alien thing that doesn’t belong on my hand. But then the leather loosens up and muscle memory kicks in, my fingers working deeper into the rough inner material while my other hand punches lovingly into the palm of it the way I did a million times before.
“Another great thing about baseball,” I say, my throat thick. “The feel of a broken-in glove.”
His expression is unreadable. “Number two on my list. I think you’re up to about twenty things by now, Walters. You better watch it or you’re going to have to admit you love the game after all.”
“I can’t love a sport that steals everything I want.”
He steps toward me. “Josie. It never could. It never will.”
“Don’t,” I say, before he can reach out to me. “I can barely do this as it is.”
“Then don’t. I’m not even sure what you’re trying to prove.”
“That you can hit, Garrett. That’s what I’m trying to prove.”
“Then this is stupid. I’ve been working with Masters. I’ve had lessons with two other hitting coaches. I can’t hit the curve.”
“You don’t have to.”
“What are you talking about?” But he’s listening now, his fingers restlessly working in and out of a fist.
“I’ll tell you while we warm up my arm.”
A faint smile crosses his face. “You’re going to pitch?”
“I still remember how to bean a player, so be careful what you say.”
His smile widens but he says nothing, just unzips his baseball bag and reaches in for his glove.
We start by playing catch. My shoulder is stiff, but it only takes a few minutes to start feeling the movement again.
The pace increases. The heat of the throws.
“Not bad,” he says.
“Good enough.”
We throw back and forth, and I slowly increase the space between us, each step back feeling like its own form of goodbye.
“So what did you mean?” he asks. “About not having to hit the curveball?”
His throw hits my glove with a satisfying sting. “The thing is, almost no one can hit a good curveball. But most pitchers can’t throw a good curveball either. At least, not consistently. The problem is guys like Evan Harris chase the outside balls and strike out. If you lay off the curveball, let it go, eventually you’ll get a fastball. And that’s the ball you hit.”
He shakes his head. “If it was that easy—”
I throw the ball back to him. “It’s not easy. Because you still have to see the curveball. You have to recognize it in order to lay off.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t see it.”
“I have a theory about that, too.”
“Yeah?” The word is skeptical, but he returns the ball, and I can tell he’s waiting for more.
“You’ve been practicing with a pitching machine, right?”
“So?”
“So that’s the way it’s usually done because it’s hard to find a pitcher who can throw enough good curveballs to make it productive. Most hitters use a pitching machine. But here’s the thing, Garrett. There are some guys who can’t read spin off a pitching machine.” I whip the ball to his glove. “My dad was one of those guys.”
He pauses, his arm in mid-motion. Slowly, he drops his hand, holding the ball in his glove. Even from a distance, I can see a flare of hope in the way his mouth hangs open for a breathless second.
That’s what I’ll remember, I tell myself. When I’m missing him so much that it’s hard to breathe, I’ll remember this expression of hope, and that I gave that to him. The thought sends strength to my shaky arm. “You don’t have to read spin off a machine,” I add. “You’re never going to face a machine in a game. What you need to learn—what you need to practice—is reading a ball the way it comes out of the hand.” I hold up my glove, gesturing for him to throw me the ball. “Stand at the plate, as if you’re going to hit.”
He pulls his bat from his bag.
“You’re not going to swing,” I say. “I want you to watch my hand. You’re studying hand movement. A curveball comes out with a hitch. Some people call it a hump.”
I drag the bucket of balls to the mound. I can remember, so clearly, my dad running this drill with other players. Remember, so clearly, him telling them how he had the same problem. “These first ten balls are going to be fastballs. Ready?”
I’m out of practice and my arm is out of shape. A few bounce well in front of the plate and a few sail high. One nearly hits Garrett before he jumps out of the way. It doesn’t matter. He’s just watching my hand.
“All right,” I say. “Here come ten curves.”
He watches my hand as I release each ball, the thud of the balls hitting the back fence the only sound other than the occasional car driving by the school.
“You see it?” I ask.
He taps his bat on home plate. “I’m not sure I see spin. But I see speed.”
“That’s okay, too. My dad was like that. He swore he saw heat off the ball. Everyone’s brain works differently. You need to watch live pitching. Start to recognize what’s coming: a fastball or a breaking ball. I’ve got a list of drills that will help.”
He drops his bat and jogs to me, a smile on his face that breaks my heart in half. “A list of drills? I can’t believe you remembered so much.”
“I didn’t.” I reach behind me to pick up a few loose balls, dropping them back in the bucket. Sadness wells behind my eyes; heat gathers in my throat. “I went online and found my dad’s training logs. Password was still ‘home run.’”
He stops me with a hand on my arm, slowly pulling me to face him. “Josie.”
I raise my arms between us before he can pull me an
y closer. I’m still staring at the second button of his shirt. I can barely keep myself together. If he holds me, I’ll crumble. “We’re breaking up, Garrett. This is it.”
“What? We are not.”
I wipe at my cheeks, because damn it all to hell, I’m crying again. “I told you. I can’t follow where you’re going.”
“We don’t know that I’m going anywhere.”
“You will be.”
“That doesn’t change us.”
“Garrett.” My voice breaks in spite of myself, but I finally look in his eyes. “It changes everything.” I shove my glove back in my pack and toss the key at him.
Reflexively, his hand flies up and he catches it.
“We’re not breaking up,” he says, all steely-eyed and certain.
And wrong.
“You have work to do. You’ve got to find someone who can throw a good curveball. You said that Florida coach will be in town next week. That’s not a lot of time.”
A slight frown forms, and I know he’s thinking it all through. Wondering if he can be ready. Wondering if it’s really possible.
Hello, dream. Goodbye, Josie.
He’s standing, frozen, balls spread across the dirt around him. He’s torn. Fighting with himself over whether to leave it all or not. Whether to go after baseball or me.
His hesitation is proof that I’m right. I don’t want a guy who has to think about it. I want a guy who wants me. More than anything.
I stride to the truck, focusing on each step, on holding back the tears.
I still have my pride. Right now, it feels like that’s all I’ve got.
Chapter Forty-Three
When Mom comes home, we’re on the third episode of Pride and Prejudice, and Mai has been asleep for half an hour.
“Hi.” Mom sets a bag of groceries on the counter. She pauses as she takes in the scene. Mai and me. Mr. Darcy on the TV and an empty half-gallon carton of ice cream on the coffee table. Her smile fades. “What happened?”
“I broke up with Garrett.”
I’m expecting relief or even happiness, but instead her face pales as if it’s her heart that’s broken. “Josie, honey. Are you okay?”
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