Finish What You Started

by Alexandra Evans

  2

  Two days later, Harper sipped her passion fruit iced tea slowly, savoring the spicy flavor on a lazy Saturday afternoon of shopping with her mother, Elizabeth. The other woman, sitting across the table, was enjoying a slice of Starbucks lemon bread. Harper looked a lot like her mother, or so she’d been told. They both had the same light blonde hair with just enough curl to make it unmanageable on the best of Memphis’s humid summer days. They both had the same short build, fine bones, and pinky fingers that bent slightly inward. They shared the same first name. But Elizabeth Baker had startling eyes the color of the London-blue topaz ring she wore on her middle finger, and Harper’s were just a weird shade of greenish-brown. Nothing special. No gemstone to name them after. Inherited from her dad, no doubt, although she couldn’t remember what color his eyes were, and she never spoke about him to her mother. She didn’t want to see any pain there, if any remained after more than twenty years.

  The kids on the mall’s carousel waved at moms and dads as the circus animals slowly made their way around the brightly colored mirrored dome. Harper could remember being that age once. She could remember her father bringing her to a carousel much like this one, and going around and around, waving at him each time she passed by the place he stood, shoulder propped against a column. Until the day he wasn’t there anymore.

  “This lemon bread is literally to die for,” her mother said around a bite, rolling her eyes heavenward. She held out her plastic fork, a small piece perched on the end of the tines. “Here, try it. C’mon, you know you want to.”

  Harper sighed at her mother’s use of one of her grammatical pet peeves. “It’s not literally to die for, Mom. Nobody would die for a bite of bread.”

  “I might. It’s that good.” Her mother grinned. “Okay, smart-ass. It’s figuratively to die for. Happy?” Her mother ate the bite herself and finished off the confection, placing the fork inside the paper bag the bread had come in. She took a sip of her cappuccino before asking, “So, what’s up, Harper?”

  “What do you mean?” Harper wrapped a napkin around her plastic cup to soak up the condensation from the iced tea. Stalling. Her mother always knew when something was bothering her, but how did she explain what she wasn’t sure about herself? “Nothing’s up.”

  “You don’t nitpick my grammar unless something is chewing at you,” her mother said. She sat back in the wrought iron patio chair and nodded. “So spill.”

  Harper sighed. If there was anyone she could talk to about this, it was her mother. Harper’s father had left his wife too, and she of all people understood how Harper felt about men. Especially men who played a game for a living.

  She took a deep breath. “I have this student,” she began.

  “Ah, something I might be able to help with.” Her mother sat forward, elbows on the table, fists propping up her chin. “Someone not behaving?”

  Harper grinned. Up until a couple of years ago, her mother had taught middle school and was used to kids high on hormones doing stupid things. “I lecture in college, Mom. If they don’t behave, I kick them out of the class.”

  “Oh, right. My college professor daughter.” Her mom smiled, then reached over to pat Harper’s hand. “Have I ever said how proud I am of you?”

  Harper nodded. “You have.”

  “Well, it bears mentioning again.” Elizabeth gestured toward her. “Sorry to interrupt. Keep going.”

  She bit her bottom lip, still unsure how to explain what exactly bothered her about the incident with Tyler Johansen. She knew what the problem was, but when she went over her feelings in her head, it sounded childish and petty. “One of my students came in recently about his grade. He’s taking my class online because he has a job that requires a lot of travel.” She deliberately left out the part about him playing major league ball because she wanted her mom to give an honest opinion rather than one that might be colored by her a distaste for professional athletes. “He wanted me to explain why I gave him a fifty on the paper.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Because it was late, and because it wasn’t that well done.” Harper squirmed a little in her seat. Was it really that bad? Or had her bias made her judge him with a harsher pen? No, definitely not. She prided herself on being fair in her grading. That was why she’d created a rubric in the first place, so the students could see her exact expectations and what she’d count off if they didn’t meet them. It was very high school, but she figured the more information they had, the tighter the box, the fewer arguments should their grades not be exactly what they’d hoped for.

  “Well then, did you explain that to him?”

  “I did explain it.” She did, but now thinking back on how it’d gone, she’d interrupted him. She hadn’t really explained anything at all, if she were honest. Oh, she’d gone over the tardiness of the paper, but she’d never really discussed how he could improve next time like he’d asked. Her offer of help was half-hearted at best, and she was sure he’d picked up on that. “I thought at the time he wanted me to adjust his grade,” she admitted. “Now I’m not so sure.”

  “What you did seems fair,” her mom said. “You have your grading policies, and if you deduct a certain percentage for being late, and he knew this ahead of time…”

  “He has a special deal with the dean of students.” Like a lot of the college athletes she taught who missed classes frequently for game travel. “Like I said, he’s out of town a lot for work, and they’ve allowed him some leeway.”

  “Wow. That sounds kind of unusual. What exactly does he do that he’s so important?” Laughter sparkling in her blue eyes as she whispered, “Supersecret spy? Movie star?”

  Harper snickered, then sobered quickly. Should she tell her mom? Would it dredge up old feelings? Her mom had seventeen great years with her stepdad, Sean. Their blended family had been crazy and loud, and she’d gotten along great with her older stepsiblings. Her stepdad had been the real, attentive father she hadn’t had when she was younger. But Harper still had strong negative feelings about her biological father. She figured her mother probably did as well, which was why she never really spoke about him around her. They’d never discussed the subject, but she could tell anytime she ran across some random photo or someone mentioned his name inadvertently, her mom still reacted.

  “He plays for the Blues,” she blurted, then winced. “Sorry. I didn’t—”

  “The Memphis Blues?” Her mom didn’t seem upset, but sat up with interest. “Baseball?”

  Harper nodded. “Yes, he’s their catcher. I think. I sort of looked him up before the semester started.”

  “Not Ty Johansen.”

  “Yes, how did you know?” Her mom still followed baseball? Still followed one of her dad’s former teams at that. “You watch the games?”

  “Of course I do. I love the Blues. Grew up watching them on TV. Did you think I’d dropped a sport I’ve loved all my life because your father and I split up?”

  I did, Harper thought. She herself had done a lot more than simply drop baseball; she’d despised it for taking him away from them. She still did, although the years had turned it more to distaste. But if she tried really hard, she could still remember the smell of the hot dogs and popcorn, the taste of the cotton candy she’d always gotten.

  “So the school made exceptions for a guy who makes twelve million a year,” her mother said. “What else is new? Universities do favors all the time for big donations. He’s probably paying for a practice field or a wing of something or other. This is how all these celebrities get honorary degrees.”

  Harper shook her head. “I don’t think he wants anything honorary. Why would he take the classes online during the season if he could just pay for a piece of paper? Why bother with comp class at all?”

  “Well, if he doesn’t want it given to him, why would he ask you to change his grade?” Her mother gave her one of those looks that meant she knew the real story of what was going on. “I mean, you said he wanted you to raise his grade
, right?”

  Oh, her mother was good. Just like Dean on Supernatural, stab with the knife, and give a little twist to finish her off. Harper felt stupid. She hadn’t given the guy a chance to ask her whatever it was he’d come in to ask. She’d assumed he’d wanted his grade altered. She hadn’t listened. She’d jumped to conclusions. Figuratively. “No, he didn’t ask me to change his grade.”

  “Hmm.” Her mom reached over and tossed her empty bag and cup in the nearby trash can. “But he must have been really nasty to you. Yelled and told you he was going to talk to the dean about you.”

  “Okay, okay,” Harper conceded. “I should apologize for jumping to conclusions and tell him to come back and I’ll meet with him to go over his paper.”

  “I think that would be a very humble thing for you to do.” Her mom gave her a sympathetic smile. “Then if he’s a jerk, fail him.” With that, they both had a laugh. She’d never do something like that, of course, but the fact he’d probably end up being a jerk, like she figured most of his teammates were, had her wishing she could.

  When Harper arrived back at her apartment, she slipped a frozen entrée in the microwave, then she sat down at her desk and sent Ty Johansen an email.

  Dear Mr. Johansen,

  When you visited my office a couple of days ago, I believe I may have misunderstood your request for help. If so, I apologize. Please call to make an appointment at your earliest convenience so we may again discuss your grade and how you can improve your score on the next assignment.

  Sincerely,

  E. Harper Manning

  Associate Professor, English and Creative Writing

  Southland University – Memphis

  Harper hit the Send button before she had a chance to change her mind.

  Bottom of the ninth. The visiting Atlanta team was leading 3-2, their pitcher with an out and a count of a ball and two strikes. Ty took a few swings in the on-deck circle, watching as his teammate, third baseman Vincent Cappello, struggled at bat. Vinnie stepped outside the chalk and looked back at Ty, frustration clearly visible on his dark features. Even his thick black beard and handlebar mustache couldn’t hide the pinch of his mouth. Ty signaled for him to lift his shoulder. The guy kept dropping it before making contact with the ball, throwing off his balance and the timing of his swing. Vinnie nodded as if he understood, then stepped back into the batter’s box.

  Kicking up some dirt as he planted his cleats, he held his bat high and back, waving it in concentric circles. The pitcher shook his head a couple times, then nodded. Looked like the catcher might have signaled a curve ball, inside, and Ty prayed Vince could sense what was coming. He leaned on his own bat and watched as the pitcher did his windup. Swung his long arm forward…

  And released the ball.

  Yep, low and inside, just where his teammate liked them, and Vinnie gave it all he had in him. All that frustration unwinding down the muscles of his massive forearms, pushed into a seventy-mile-an-hour swing against an eighty-mile-an-hour curve ball. All in the matter of about six-tenths of a second.

  Smack.

  Perfect contact. God, that sound was sweet when the ball tapped just the right spot on the wood. Still sent chills up his spine even after playing the game for twenty years. Ty knew it was a home run. He didn’t even have to look. Could tell from the noise of the crowd.

  Game over.

  Chalk up another win for the Blues, the third on this home stand, second against the visiting Atlanta Storm. His team’s season wasn’t great, but a win was a win, and they were grateful for all they could get. Ty had been traded to Memphis from Atlanta four years ago; the new owners of the Blues team had taken the rebuild seriously, not just acquiring fresh new talent but more seasoned players like him to be their leaders. He kind of liked that idea, even though it made him feel old. Or maybe it was just his flagging body that made him feel as if he could be the father of most of the team. He couldn’t, really. He was only thirty-two, but still. He felt as if he aged more every day. Every squat. Every swing.

  In the immortal words of Crash Davis in Bull Durham, he was getting too old for this shit.

  Ty headed home after the game, trying to work out everything in his head. He knew his days were limited. He’d been called up at twenty. Twelve years in the majors was more than double the average career length for any position, and the wear and tear on his body as a catcher…he’d be lucky to make it two more seasons, which made deciding what to do in his next life even more urgent. He’d finish his degree this year, but what the hell did he want to do with it?

  Unlike some of his teammates who lived in swanky riverfront homes or luxurious loft apartments downtown, Ty had a nice craftsman in Midtown, modest in size but with a big yard for the guys to come over and hang out on their off days. One guy, Asa Longmuir, owned a giant antebellum-looking place behind huge black gates on Beale Street, for crying out loud, with six garages and a seven-figure mortgage. But Ty had been careful with his money, like his parents had, and he planned to live well and travel and be able to do whatever he wanted to do when the time came for him to hang up his catcher’s glove. Which, it became more and more apparent every morning when he rolled out of bed, would be pretty soon.

  What did he want to do? Finish this damn history degree for sure, but after that? God only knew. He liked the work he’d done with kids when they had PR days at the ballpark. He could kind of see himself coaching little kids. Maybe his own kids and their Little League teams. But other than that, did he even want to stay in the game? Maybe he should buy a car dealership and settle into being an entrepreneur like C.J. Wilson.

  As he sat down with a beer to watch a game, the phone rang. One look at the screen showed a photo of his brother, Jason. J.T. for short. “Hey, big brother,” he answered. “What’s up?”

  “I was about to ask you the same question,” his brother drawled. “Your last three games have been for shit. Knee giving you problems again?”

  “Hey, didn’t do too bad. We won, didn’t we?” But his brother was right. Last game he’d gone oh for three and nearly bobbled a couple throws to second.

  “Yeah, but sometimes you looked like you could barely get up to make the throws, bro. Mom’s worried.”

  “Mom’s always worried. But yeah, I can feel my body getting older every day.” He paused. “I think it’s getting close.”

  “Have a plan, right?”

  His brother understood, better than anyone else, the decision he was about to be forced to make. J.T. had played in the NFL for eight seasons at quarterback, until a teammate had died from concussion related depression. He’d retired the next day, never looking back. Now he lived back home in Monarch, Texas, working with kids in their small school district. He was loving his life after sports.

  “I’m working on it,” Ty replied. “You’ll be the first to know.”

  “Better be.”

  Later that night, as he sat at his table and began to work longhand on his next essay assignment, he started to think about that future, about all the guys who’d wanted to be in his cleats but never got that far. He thought about how lucky he’d been to have enough talent to make it in the major league, which baseball players affectionately referred to as the Show, to stay there for so much longer than most. The class assignment was a narrative essay. Maybe he could explain how he’d felt when he started out, and how it felt for his career to be winding down while he watched all the new guys coming up from Triple-A.

  After finishing the introductory paragraph, he knew this was what he wanted to write about. Maybe through this, Professor Tight-Ass would understand why it was so important for him to finish this degree. And just maybe he’d figure out what the heck he wanted to do with the rest of his life.

  Ty thought back about what she’d looked like with her hair pulled back, glasses perched on the end of her nose, peering at him over the top of the frames. Those glasses, those almond-shaped eyes that seemed to sear into him, telling him to stop bullshitting her and get his shit
together… There was something so attractive about a woman who didn’t throw herself at him, offer him whatever he wanted. She’d been the opposite, unwilling to bend the rules for him just because of who he was. God, it was ludicrous, but it made her so damn sexy to him. All he’d thought about since he’d gotten home from that meeting was how he wished he’d kissed her. Maybe he was hot for teacher after all.

  3

  The next day, Ty lay on the massage table in the team’s training room. The walls were painted gray, the tile was gray, everything in the room was gray, matching his mood. He was in pain, a pain two extra-strength Tylenol couldn’t touch. But there was no way he’d take the tramadol he’d been prescribed, and no way he was taking the shot the team doc gave other players when they were having problems. He’d seen guys get addicted to that shit, and he wanted no part of it, even if standing from a chair sometimes felt like needles in his joints.

  One of the team’s therapists worked on the stiffness in his knees. And thighs. And pretty much everywhere else at the moment. After the ice tub took down some of the swelling, a good massage could help with some of the pain. Or create more. It was toss-up.

  “Aye! Watch it, Jerry. That hurts,” he shouted as the guy’s fingertips hit a particularly sensitive spot on the inside of his right knee.

  Jerry grunted and squeezed more gently on the same spot. “You thought anymore about what we were talking about last month?”

  “Of course. Think about it after every game,” he replied. Ty winced as Jerry kept digging muscular fingers into tired flesh.

  “Off season’s coming up in a few weeks,” Jerry mumbled. “Time to think about surgery more seriously. Then you’ll have a few months’ recovery before Spring Training.”

  Jerry finished and tapped his leg. Ty sat up on the table. “You know as well as I do that knee surgery is probably the end of my career.” At least Jerry had the decency to turn red and nod. “So I’ll consider it when I’m ready to stop playing. Okay?”