by Devney Perry
My laugh fills the connection but sounds anything but humorous. “I didn’t land a punch, if that’s what you’re asking. Not from a lack of trying, though.” I scrub a hand over my face, my feet eating up the squares of the sidewalk like they’re endless. “Tino and Drew were on me before I could throw it. The other guys grabbed him. It was a clusterfuck.”
“I’ve got calls in. I’m hearing it was Gonzo and two other Triple-A players plus Maddox.”
“Maddox? They traded fucking Maddox?” My head spins at the news.
“He had a big salary and isn’t having that great of a year.”
“Fucking Cory.”
“This is what he’s known for, playing moneyball—he comes in, cleans up, tightens budgets, and he wins pennants.”
“We win them. Not him.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to process how the hell Santiago is an Ace. “Please tell me I’m ironclad.”
“With that book of a contract we negotiated, you’re solid.”
“Finn . . .” I sigh as I cross the street and cut right, far enough from the stadium to breathe a bit freer, where I can talk a little less guarded, but am conscious that I’m still in the city I play for.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, answering my unspoken question: why trade for another catcher when I’m getting my clearance soon? “He’s a damn good left fielder, too. Circe’s been weak this year. Maybe they’re thinking of shifting him there when you come back. This is a business, East. You know that.”
“Bad juju, man.”
“Fucking juju,” he mutters. “Just tell me you can handle being in the same clubhouse as him and that I’m not going to get a call to come bail you out.”
“I’m not making shit for promises.”
“Good to know and glad to hear it. I’ll text you when I hear something.”
I look at the blank screen on my phone for a minute, wanting to call my dad but at the same time not wanting to. And when I look up, I realize where my feet took me.
Scout.
I stare at the front of her little townhome for who knows how long, trying to make sense of the trade and the club where I’ve devoted my career.
And all I feel is defeat. I’ve busted my ass for months to get back, and just as I get there, my team trades my enemy to my team? To play my position?
I should go have a few drinks.
I should turn around, head back toward the stadium, find a dark hole-in-the-wall bar and drink myself into oblivion while I watch the game. While I watch Santiago in my position. In my team uniform.
Fuck me.
I should leave Scout out of this. I’m not at my best, not what she needs to deal with.
I look around. Spot a bar across the way and down a little bit to the left.
Drink.
Scout.
Drink.
Scout.
I need both.
Scout
“Easton? Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for the past hour!”
Relief courses through me at the sight of him standing in my doorway, still in his practice uniform, almost as if he heard the news I found out about a little bit ago and walked right off the field. He’s a little bleary eyed and a lot unsteady on his feet but it’s his face that etches itself into my mind—part lost little boy, part defiant teenager, and a whole lot of pissed-off man.
“I needed a drink. I needed you first, but figured I should have a drink first.” He half slurs, half laughs and shakes his head. “I’m not making sense. Welcome to the motto of my day: nothing makes sense.”
“Come on. Come in.” I grab onto him, pull him inside, and lead him by the hand over to the couch. “I flipped on the TV to catch the game, and he was an Ace. I’ve been out of my mind trying to get ahold of you.”
He plops on the couch but doesn’t say a single word as I prattle on, trying to ease the anxiety I’ve had for the past hour and a half over whether he was okay.
“Talk to me. Please,” I beg as I look down at where he’s sitting in front of me. I need to know what to do to help him.
The silence stretches except for the low hum of the announcers’ voices in the background of the game, and I debate whether or not I should turn it off. His discord is more than obvious, magnified by the drink or ten he’s most likely had, and I feel helpless standing here staring at him while he’s staring at his hands clasped in between his legs.
“I’m going to get you some water,” I say, and just as I take a step, Easton takes me by surprise, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me into him so that his arms wrap around my hips, and he rests his forehead against my belly, his hat falling backward off his head.
My heart breaks for him, for what he must be thinking, because I’ve been thinking the same. So I do the only thing I can: I thread my fingers through his hair and just let him hold on to me and take whatever it is he needs from me.
Half an inning expires while we stay like this and I try to figure out what it is I can say to make it better. Then I laugh at how stupid that sounds. So I say the next best thing I can think of.
“I talked to Dr. Kimble today. We’ll give Santiago three weeks to rent that spot behind your plate and show his skills. Then you’ll be back, and when you step on the field, the difference in your skill level will be so obvious, everyone will realize how much they missed you.”
He chuckles. The heat of it hits my belly as his fingers tense and flex against my hips before he slowly leans against the back of the couch. His hands pull on my hips and guide me to straddle him. I follow his lead, my eyes steadfast on his, waiting for him to look up so I can get a glimpse of what he’s thinking.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he rests his head back and closes his eyes; his thumbs, now resting on the sides of my hips, rub circles against the denim of my jeans. “I turned my phone off. Sorry I didn’t pick up, but I thought it might be best to not talk to anyone for a bit.”
I nod my head, and then realize he can’t see it. “Understandably. I’m sure your dad is worried about you. Did you talk to him at all?” He doesn’t reply, just gives a half-hearted shrug that doesn’t give me any insight.
“You know what gets me?” he asks with an audible skepticism I can understand. “What did I ever do to him? Get a better contract with a better team? There are a hundred guys out there who have better contracts . . . so why pick me to fuck with? Is it just because I’m the privileged legacy son, so he doesn’t think I deserve it? Is it because he thinks I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth and a gold bat in my hand when he had to struggle? Doesn’t he get that it wasn’t all fucking cherries being Cal Wylder’s son? That I’d give my eye-teeth to have one moment of my baseball career that wasn’t overshadowed by the fact that I better perform as expected from the Iron Giant’s son?”
He lifts his eyes and looks at me for the first time, weary and a little lost.
“You know what’s even more fucked up? You know what I thought about as I sat in the bar across the street?”
“What?” I ask gently.
“I love this game, Scout. I told you the other day that I played because of my dad, and fuck yes, I do . . . but I also play because I love this game. Baseball is so much more than just a game to me. It’s sights and sounds and smells—the roar of the crowd when you crank a home run, the tack of the pine tar on your bat, the smell of the popcorn in the air, the pop a glove makes on a screaming fastball, the sting of a broken bat vibrating through your fingers and up your forearm, the awe on the little boy’s face standing above the dugout when you toss him the game ball as you jog off the field . . . Shit, Scout. I could go on forever, but that is the soundtrack, the movie, the everything of my life. It is my life. How stupid was I that it took Santiago showing up to reaffirm the love I have for something that’s been a part of me before I was even born?”
There are tears in my eyes that I don’t even bother to blink away. The reverence in his voice speaks louder than all the things he just said, and
they were pretty damn loud.
I lean forward, bringing my hands to frame his cheeks, and press a tender kiss to his lips before resting my forehead against his.
“I promise you that we’ll have you back in top form. You’re already there—we just need to work your arm up to playing a full game.”
He nods, his breath hot against my lips, and the scrape of his stubble rough against my fingertips.
“Santiago being on the team means nothing. Maybe there was an old trade that linked to this one. The ‘a player to be named later’ kind. Maybe they brought him on to spur your ass into gear.”
“Or maybe Cory’s an asshole and just wanted to fuck me over.”
I know that’s the alcohol talking, but he still has a point. “I get why you feel that way, but at the end of the day, you’re Easton Wylder. The Aces’ franchise player. You’re not going anywhere, so why cause trouble just to add strife. There has to be a valid reason.”
“And I’m sure if I listen to my thirty messages, there will be, but right now I don’t care. Right now, I just want to feel sorry for myself, have another drink, sit here with you, and figure out how exactly I’m going to see that fucker every goddamn day and not break his nose.”
I chuckle and press my lips to his before shifting and nuzzling my forehead against the side of his neck. “Ignore him.”
“Easier said than done.”
“True, but the best way to get back at him is to come back and blow him out of the water. The assumption is that you’re injured and won’t be one hundred percent. Won’t it be the ultimate ‘fuck you’ to be just the opposite?”
“The mother fucker deserves it.”
“He does.”
“Do you really think I can get there?”
The cautious hope in his voice digs its claws into my heart and doesn’t let go. “I know you can.”
“There are no guarantees.”
“You’re right, there are no guarantees,” I repeat his words back to him, “but it’s the possibility that should keep you going.”
When the guys call him after the game and ask him to meet up for drinks, I encourage him to go. He needs their camaraderie right now. He needs their reassurance that they have his back.
And I need time to myself.
To think.
To process.
To reread the email that Sally forwarded, explaining how they’ve pulled my dad’s name from the transplant list.
It’s not like I didn’t expect this. A new heart was out of the question. His body is too frail, his immune system too weak to accept a foreign organ.
But while his name was on the donor list, there was a false sense of hope.
And now there’s not.
My heart just needs more time to accept what my mind already knows.
But there will never be enough time to accept this.
Scout
My feet stop the second I spot Easton.
The moms pushing strollers have to swerve around me and a little boy bumps against me, but I stand still, trying to comprehend how the mere sight of him eases the stress of my day.
He’s lying on a slope covered in grass beyond the left field fence, his legs are crossed at the ankles, his hands are braced behind him, and an Aces baseball hat sits low over his brow. His attention is focused on the Little League game playing in front of him where little boys about five or six years old are trying their hardest to master his game.
The boys are adorable and the man observing from his incognito spot in the outfield even more so, and yet I can tell something is bothering him. He’s never missed a training session like he did this afternoon, and the simple text he sent me offered no explanation.
I should leave. The fact that he didn’t reply to any of my texts should be a big enough indicator that he wants to be left alone and me being here is anything but leaving him alone.
But I don’t move. Can’t. And I’m not blind to the fact that my inability to walk away stems from so much more than wanting to know why he bailed on his workout today. The kind of so much more that often wakes me up in the early morning hours and challenges me to pull up a thought that doesn’t involve Easton in some way, shape, or form, all the while being lulled back to sleep by the even rhythm of his breathing beside me.
The kind of so much more that has me standing in the middle of some recreational park a few blocks away from the stadium questioning why I chased after a man when normally I’m the one running the other way.
But there’s something about seeing him in this element, watching the game he loves in its purest form that tugs on my heartstrings and has me making my way over to him.
“You just can’t stay away from the game, can you?”
“Seems like it,” he muses without so much as a look my way as I take a seat on the grass beside him.
We sit in silence as the inning plays out and watch the extremely patient dads trying to coach their sons on how to swing the bat or field a ground ball. I can’t help but wonder what Easton’s thinking about. Would he trade his experiences for ones like this? Ones where the game was about having fun and absent of the pressure that came with realizing you’re expected to live up to the standard of play your father has set? Is that why he’s here?
Another inning ends. Another round of high fives is handed out as the teams enter or leave their respective dugouts. And I’m still in the dark about what’s going on with the man beside me.
“You blew me off today,” I say after a bit.
He nods. “I did.”
“Everything okay with your mom?” I ask, fishing for a connection with him when he feels so far away right now.
“Yep.”
“Just needed to get some fresh air?” I ask, scrambling for anything to keep him talking.
“Yep.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Nope,” he says and then hangs his head for a beat before scrubbing his hand over his jaw. When he lifts his head up, he glances at me momentarily, expression guarded, before he looks back to the game, but I can see he’s upset now. It’s in the sag of his shoulders. The defeat in his posture. The stress etched in the lines on his handsome face.
“You want me to leave?” Please say no.
“Nope.”
My sigh of relief is audible. All I want to do right now is rest my head on his shoulder, make a connection with him somehow, but know I can’t because of the ever-prying eyes of the public. It only takes one person to recognize the man in the outfield is Easton and take a picture with their phone and . . .
“Manny?” he asks pulling me from my thoughts with his guess on how I knew where he was.
“Yep,” I say, taking a page out of his book of one-word responses and earn a soft chuckle from him.
“My first season with the Aces was rough,” he begins to explain. “I had a few games that really tested me and messed with my head. Without confidence, skill can only take you so far in this game, and my confidence was shot. I was this huge prospect surrounded by all of this hype and I wasn’t delivering. Teammates and coaches were throwing advice my way but all I heard was white noise. After one particularly shitty game, Manny walked into the locker room and told me to follow him. I thought he was crazy. It was almost midnight and here I am traipsing after him through the streets of the city until we ended up here. He made me sit in the middle of the empty field and told me to tell him what I remembered about playing as a kid.”
“He brought the fun back,” I murmur. I can picture the two of them in the darkness out here and it brings a smile to my lips.
“He did. He made me remember all those first moments when I finally fell in love with the game. And then he told me to come back the next day at ten o’clock. I did.” He smiles and shakes his head at the memory. “There was a T-ball game starting. The kids were running to the wrong bases, swinging the bat backwards, and playing with the weeds in the outfield. It sounds stupid, but watching those little guys drowned out the white noise for a bit.”
“It is oddly relaxing,” I admit.
“It is,” he murmurs, “and ever since that night, this is where I find myself when I need to clear my head.”
“It’s a good place.”
“It is.”
Easton falls silent again, while I replay the story in my mind and wonder what he’s trying to clear from his head today.
Another inning passes. The red team scores a run, and Easton belts out a loud whistle in congratulations.
If they only knew the random bystander with the Aces hat on sitting in the outfield was Easton Wylder.
“I just couldn’t do it today,” Easton says unexpectedly.
“Do what?”
“Be in the same space as that fucker. The locker room. The field. The gym. He’s everywhere. I’m sick of having the guys babysit me. I’m sick of not being able to walk in my own clubhouse without wanting to throw a punch every time I hear his voice.” He pauses but his frustration continues to resonate. “I’m sorry for bailing on you, but I just couldn’t do it today.”
There’s nothing I can say to make him feel better. Honestly, I don’t know how he’s occupied the same space as Santiago for this long without a serious fight breaking out between them.
So, I don’t say anything.
Instead I move my hand to rest in the grass beside his and then hook my pinky around his. He looks over to me, his eyes a well of unexpressed emotion, but when he tightens his pinky around mine, it’s all I need to know that my silent show of support and little bit of affection is enough for now.
So with the sun slowly moving toward the horizon, we sit and watch the rest of a Little League game while trying to remember what life was like as kids. Back when my dad wasn’t sick and his shoulder wasn’t injured. Back when there were no contracts to abide by and we could just be a girl and a boy sitting on a grassy slope enjoying the warm Texas evening together.
We don’t feel the need to talk just to fill the silence.
Our pinkies are linked.
And the simple connection is all we need right now to reassure each other that we’ll get through this.