Benching Brady (The Perfect Game Series)

by Samantha Christy

  Tears collect in my eyes. “I think Stryker would love to have it, baseball man.”

  He nods and smiles weakly.

  Then I notice something written on the wall of the stadium. “This is called Hawks Field?” I ask.

  He laughs. “It is. Pretty apropos, huh?”

  When we get up to walk out, someone comes over to Brady. “Well, I’ll be. Brady Taylor, nice to see you. What are you doing in our neck of the woods?”

  Brady holds his hand out. “Hi, Coach Brown. Good to see you too. I’m just here for the day. This is my girlfriend, Rylee.”

  “Good to meet you, Rylee.” He shakes his head back and forth like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “You’ve done well for yourself, Brady. I was sorry to hear about your injury. How’s that coming along?”

  Brady holds up his left arm. “It’s getting better every day. I’ll be back in the game soon.”

  Several of the players are coming up behind their coach. I back away and let them talk to Brady. I watch as Brady signs several Nebraska ball caps for them and answers their questions about the big leagues. He’s in his element talking about baseball. I see the gleam in his eyes return. I smile knowing that maybe all of this is part of his healing.

  “Come on,” he says, grabbing my hand after he says goodbye to his coach and the players. “I’m taking you on a tour of campus and then we’re going to eat at my favorite lunch place.”

  He walks me past a building called Oldfather Hall, talking about the classes he had there. Then he takes me to the student union, pointing out all the changes they’ve made since he’d been here. A few blocks beyond that is downtown Lincoln where he takes me to a place called The Old Spaghetti Factory.

  “Athletes love this place because it’s all-you-can-eat,” he says as we walk in.

  The hostess tries to seat us in the far corner, but Brady refuses. “We’d like to sit over there if that’s okay,” he says, pointing to the opposite wall.

  I look at the corner table wondering if that was where he used to sit with Natalie. Or perhaps he would bring Keeton here.

  When our meals arrive, Brady laughs at my voracious appetite. “Natalie was the same way,” he says. “She was small like you, but she could eat her weight in spaghetti.”

  I smile, thinking this is the first time he’s ever shared a happy memory.

  “Does that bother you?” he asks. “Me talking about her?”

  I shake my head. “No. It doesn’t. She was an important part of your life and you talking about her keeps her memory alive.”

  “It’s her shirt I wear under my jersey,” he says. “Well, it’s mine, but we got it together a long time ago when we were still in high school.”

  “Your lucky shirt,” I say. Then I cover my mouth. “Oh, Brady. That was the shirt I put on that night at your hotel, wasn’t it?”

  He nods.

  “I’m so sorry. I never should have—”

  “You didn’t know, Rylee. It’s fine.” He sighs deeply. “A long time ago when we first met, you asked me why I chose number three for my jersey number?”

  “I remember.”

  “Natalie’s and Keeton’s birthdays were both on the third day of the month. Nat’s in November and Keeton’s in March. And we got married on the third day of the month as well.”

  “What a lovely way to honor them, both then and now. Don’t ever change it.”

  He grabs my hand across the table and kisses it, but he doesn’t say another word about them for the duration of our lunch. He tells me about playing baseball for the Cornhuskers.

  On our way back to the car, we’re stopped by a few groups of students for more autographs. I caught some of them taking pictures of Brady and I walking together hand in hand. I’m sure it won’t be long before those get posted on the internet. It’s happened a few times before, and my name even got published last week. Brady doesn’t seem bothered by any of it, other than he talks about keeping me safe, so I try not to let it bother me either.

  After he calls his former in-laws to make arrangements for Goodwill to pick up anything in the storage unit they don’t want to keep, we’re back on the plane by three thirty.

  “Murphy said she’d hold dinner for us since I have to go there anyway and pick up Stryker. Are you okay with that?”

  He looks at the glove that he’s still holding. “Yeah. That’s fine.”

  “Maybe you should buy Stryker his own glove and keep that one in a special place,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “I’d rather give it to him if it’s all the same to you.” He turns to me and holds my eyes with his. “Would you mind if I taught him how to play ball? He’s almost four, isn’t he? He should start now.”

  I can’t help my smile. I was hoping he would ask. “I would love that. And so will he.”

  Brady shrugs. “Maybe it’ll help us, you know … bond or something.”

  “I think that’s a fine idea.”

  He puts the glove on his tray table and stares at it.

  “Will you tell me about Keeton?”

  He closes his eyes for a second and I’m not sure he’s going to talk.

  “I knew he was a carbon copy of Natalie the instant he was born. They had the same hair. The same eyes. The same smile. He was going to play ball, that’s for sure. When he was a baby, he loved to roll baseballs across the floor. When he started walking, you’d be hard pressed not to see him carrying a ball. And when I gave him this glove for his third birthday, he took it to bed with him. He was always swinging a bat or throwing a ball. He broke more than a few things around the house, but we never punished him for it. He was just taking after me.”

  Those last few words were hard for him to choke out and he turns away and gazes out the window.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I want you to feel comfortable talking about him—about them—whenever you want to.”

  He nods. “I brought all the photo albums back with me. I’ll show them to you someday.”

  “I would like that.”

  He grabs my hand and turns back to me with misty eyes. “Thank you, Rylee. If it weren’t for you, I’m not sure I would have done this.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m glad I could help.”

  He runs his finger across my knuckles. “You did. You helped more than you’ll ever know.”

  He motions for the flight attendant. “We’ll take those drinks now.”

  “Right away,” she says, rushing to bring us the champagne we refused earlier.

  He raises his glass to me. “To the future.”

  “To the future,” I say, tapping my glass to his.

  ~ ~ ~

  It’s almost nine o’clock when we get to Caden and Murphy’s. It smells divine when we walk through the door.

  “Hey, you two,” Murphy says. “I hope Mexican is okay. Caden requested it. He just got home himself. Stryker crashed on our bed about an hour ago. He had tacos earlier.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for watching him,” I tell her. “I know it was a long day.”

  “Are you kidding? That child is an angel. I’ll watch him any time.”

  Caden comes down the hallway, hair still wet from a shower. He pours everyone a glass of wine. “We missed you at the games,” he says, patting Brady on the shoulder.

  Brady flew home early from Minneapolis, missing yesterday’s and today’s games so we could head out to Lincoln at the crack of dawn this morning. Being on the disabled list, he’s not required to be at all the games, but he likes to go anyway.

  “Thanks,” Brady says. “I had shit to take care of.”

  “And did you take care of it?” Caden asks.

  Brady nods and looks at me. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

  The guys talk baseball while I help Murphy put the finishing touches on the meal. Then she calls everyone to the kitchen. “Caden, can you and Brady take the platters over to the table please? Here, Rylee, you bring the wine. I’ll get the rest. And can someone open the salsa?”

 
Caden is still filling Brady in on the game when Brady picks up the jar of salsa and opens it effortlessly.

  “Oh, my God!” I say, my jaw slack as I stare at him.

  “What?” he asks.

  I nod to the jar of salsa.

  When he realizes what he just did, he says, “Holy shit!” He looks at me. “Holy shit!”

  “Murphy, do you have any more salsa?” he asks.

  “You don’t like that one?” she says.

  I’m tearing through Murphy’s pantry before she even realizes what’s going on. I come out with another jar and hand it to Brady. He opens it with a huge smile on his face.

  “Well, it’s not pickles, but I’ll take it,” he says. “I’ll fucking take it.” Then he picks me up and spins me around.

  I’m laughing and crying at the same time while Murphy and Caden are looking at us like we’re crazy.

  “I’m back!” he yells at the ceiling.

  “You’re back,” I say. “I never doubted it for a second.”

  He stops spinning and kisses me. Right here in Murphy’s kitchen with the two of them watching, he kisses me with as much passion as he’s ever kissed me before.

  He pulls his lips away, but he’s still holding me. “Marry me,” he says.

  My eyes go wide. I’m not sure I heard him correctly. “Uh …”

  “Come on, Ry. Marry me.”

  I wriggle out of his arms. I look over at Murphy and watch as she grabs Caden’s arm and pulls him out of the room.

  “What the hell is happening here?” I hear Caden ask his wife on their way out.

  “Brady, you’re talking crazy. We can’t get married.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “We haven’t been dating long enough.”

  And you pretty much just buried your wife and child today, I want to scream.

  “We’ve been over this before, Ry.”

  “Yes. We have. And I love you, Brady. But before I commit my life to you, before I commit Stryker’s life to you, I have to be one hundred percent sure. And you should be, too.”

  “So the answer is no?” he says.

  “I’m not giving you an answer,” I say. “I’m not giving you an answer until I’m ready.”

  “I’m not giving up, you know,” he says. “Not until I get the answer I want. And I can be very persuasive.”

  I smile, knowing just how true that is.

  “Is it safe to come back in?” Murphy asks.

  “Yes, come on in,” I say.

  Caden and Murphy just stand there and stare at us when they enter the kitchen.

  “We’re not engaged,” I say. “Brady was just excited over his hand.”

  “Yet,” Brady says. “We’re not engaged yet is what Rylee meant to say.”

  Murphy gives Caden a knowing smile. “Okay, come on, let’s eat. And you can tell us what’s so great about opening a jar of salsa.”

  Brady tells them about the pickle jars and his grip.

  “So how long do you think before he can pitch in a game?” Caden asks me.

  I shrug. “I’m not a coach, guys, don’t look at me. But if I were betting on it, I’d say a few weeks to a month.”

  “I’m betting on a few weeks,” Brady says. “I’ve always beaten the odds when it comes to baseball.” Then he looks over at me. “You did it. You got me back.”

  “I guess we make a good team, don’t we?” I say.

  He puts his left hand on mine and traces his thumb across my ring finger. “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The past few weeks have been tough on Brady. He’s pitching again. But he’s not pitching particularly well. He was so looking forward to being out on the mound again, but now it’s almost like he dreads it. He’s lost his confidence.

  I think he expected to jump right back in where he left off and be at the top of his game. When that didn’t happen immediately, it messed him up. The team is giving him some latitude because they know it takes time, but even after only a few weeks, he tells me he can feel his manager’s confidence waning as well.

  It kills me to see him like this. I go to as many games as I can. I take Stryker with me a lot. He loves to watch baseball. He wears the glove Brady gave him. Keeton’s glove. Someday we’ll tell him where it came from.

  Brady always looks up at me when he’s walking to the mound. Sometimes he looks at me between pitches, especially when he seems to be getting frustrated. I just wish there was something I could do to calm him down. He’s always telling me that when he thinks too much about pitching, it messes him up.

  The past few weeks have been tough on me, too. Since he’s back playing, I haven’t gotten to see him much. Especially since he’s done with physical therapy. While it’s true that players get some sort of PT on a daily basis, they don’t go outside the organization for that day-to-day stuff.

  It’s plain and simple. I miss him.

  Today is Saturday and Stryker and I are getting our Hawks shirts on. Murphy and Lexi are coming by shortly and we’re going to the first game of their double-header together.

  Stryker already has his baseball glove on. “I’m gonna play baseball like Bwady,” he says.

  He stopped calling Brady ‘baseball man’ when Brady started spending more time with him. Ever since we got back from Lincoln, Brady has made it a point to eat with us—both of us—whenever he can. And he’s gotten creative about it, even coming for breakfast when he’s in town since he knows Stryker will be in bed by the time he stops by after his games. Sometimes he spends the night and then gets dressed before Stryker wakes up, pretending he’s just shown up for breakfast. I love those nights. Nights when I can lie in his arms and dream about the possibility of a future with him.

  He asked me to marry him. Marry him. I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t. And Brady hasn’t let me forget. He brings it up almost every time we’re together. “Marry me yet?” he says. And I give him my standard answer. “Not yet.”

  I get down on my knees in front of my son. “Do you like Brady?” I ask. “He wants to spend more time with us, would that be okay?”

  He nods emphatically. “Bwady helps me play baseball.”

  “Yes, he does, doesn’t he?”

  I know Stryker understands the basic concept of a daddy, but he never asks me about it. I guess because he has a nanny and isn’t in a daycare setting, he’s not seeing men pick their kids up and then questioning me about it. Occasionally when we read books that talk about fathers, he will ask a question or two, but sometimes I think he believes kids either have a mommy or a daddy, but not both.

  The doorbell rings and I let Lexi and Murphy in. They both high-five Stryker and then he tells them a knock-knock joke.

  His joke is silly and juvenile and it makes us all laugh. It also gives me an idea. “We need to stop at the corner market along the way,” I announce.

  I put my Hawks ball cap on and give Stryker his and we go on our way.

  When we get to the stadium and find our seats next to the first-base dugout, I pull out the thick black marker and the poster boards I bought and get started on my project. I hope Brady doesn’t get mad. But in my defense, he only said he didn’t want me holding up ‘I love you’ signs.

  Brady looks up at me when he heads to the mound. I give him a thumbs-up and Stryker yells, “Go Bwady!”

  Brady winks at Stryker and then looks over at Caden, who’s his catcher. The first two batters fly out to center field. The third batter hits a ground ball and gets thrown out at first. The fans go crazy. But Brady isn’t happy. All three batters got a piece of him. He’s not going to be happy until he strikes out every last player on the team.

  When the Hawks are up and Caden comes up to bat, Murphy grabs my elbow. She still gets nervous every time he steps up to hit. We all yell and scream when he hits a double.

  Sawyer comes up next. He gets a few strikes on him and then hits a good dinger over the head of the second-baseman to bring Caden home
. It’s so much fun to watch Sawyer on base. He steals more bases than anyone in the league and everyone knows it. It’s a game between him and the pitcher—will the pitcher throw him out or will Sawyer add another stolen base to his impeccable record? Luckily, Sawyer wins that game most of the time. In fact, we’re all on our feet cheering when the next pitch gets past the catcher and Sawyer steals home.

  Brady doesn’t get to hit because the next few guys get out and he’s pretty far down in the lineup. Hitting is not Brady’s strong suit. Whereas Caden is one of the best batters on the team, Brady is considered average. They didn’t hire him because of his hitting ability. And that’s the problem. They won’t keep him because of his hitting ability either. If Brady doesn’t prove himself on the mound, there will be no reason for him to play.

  The second inning is more of the same. Brady gets the ball over the plate well enough, but balls are being hit to the outfield and the other team scores a run. I can tell how frustrated he is when he goes back into the dugout.

  When he comes out to pitch the third inning, I decide it’s time to hold up the sign. I turn around and apologize to the fans behind me and then I hold up the large white poster board over my head. It reads: KNOCK KNOCK.

  As usual, he glances over at me on his way from the dugout. He looks confused, however, when he sees me holding the sign. He looks away and then the batter comes up to the plate. He throws a strike, but then throws four balls and walks the batter.

  I hold up the sign again, hoping he’ll look over. He does. I stare him down until he mouths the words, “Who’s there?”

  I smile and change the poster to a new one. This one says: EUROPE.

  The second batter comes up and the first pitch is a strike. Then Brady throws three balls. He’s frustrated. Caden calls time and approaches the mound. Brady looks over at me and I hold up the EUROPE sign again. I stare him down until he acquiesces.

  “Europe who?” he mouths, reluctantly.

  I switch to the last sign and hold it high over my head. It reads: NO – YOU’RE A POO.

  He reads it and then shakes his head. I can’t see his eyes under the bill of his hat, but I’d guess he’s rolling them at me right now. Brady and Caden share a few words and then Caden walks back behind the plate. Brady glances over at me and the left side of his mouth turns upward into a half smile.