“Batting second and playing right field, Brayden…” There’s a pause as if the announcer forgot Brayden’s last name. As if anyone in this whole city could forget theForsythname. ThePA squeaks back on. “Batting second and playing right field…Brayden…Forsyth.”
“Now batting third and playing centerfield…Asher…huh…” The microphone really does cut out then, as if the announcer is having a whispered conversation with someone else up in the booth. Then a crackle of static. “Now batting third and playing centerfield…Asher…Adler.”
Brayden and Asher take their respective positions on the field, hundreds of feet from where I’m sitting. Their backs are to the crowd. For some reason, a murmur goes through the stands. I pull up the play-by-play app on my phone. Top Peaches news:Forsyth and Adler back in lineup after multiday absence with flu-like symptoms.
Of course that’s the story the team went with. Theflu. As if our relationship was simply an unpleasant illness that passed with time.
Maybe the crowd is just reacting to them being back, even if their cheers have a tone of confusion. I contemplate that through the top of the first inning, the Atlanta pitcher lobbing beautiful curveballs that the opposing players swing over—one, two, three easy outs.
I’m preparing myself for the bottom of the first when a familiar voice chirps, “Hey, girl!” Lexi’s standing there, Izzy at her hip. “This seat taken?” She gives a little wave to the usher who smiles at her and then waves more intently to her son, who’s wearing a miniatureMcDonaldjersey.
I move my purse out of the seat next to me and pat the foam seat cushion. “C’mon, I owe you my life.”
“Just buy me a drink and we’ll call it even.” Lexi sits next to me, bouncing Izzy on her knee. “Papa’s about to hit!”
Sure enough, Isaiah comes to the plate, maybe twenty feet in front of us, though our view of him is partially obscured by theumpire and the opposing team’s catcher. He spots our group, turns and waves.
“Let’s go, Papa,” Izzy chirps, hands clapping as his father readies the bat to hit. Two pitches later, he ropes a single into right field, then takes his base to the stadium’s applause.
Brayden’s been standing in the on-deck circle. Nearby, the crowd does the same questioning murmur as it did with him in the outfield. When he gets to the plate, I understand why. His jersey is…different, the familiar letters ofForsythreplaced by ones in much smaller font that arches up around his number and descends on both sides.
Three names. Forsyth…Burke…Adler.
Next to me, Lexi’s blond eyebrows are nearly buried in her hairline. “Huh.” Though she says it as if she’s not completely surprised.
The rest of the stadium clearly is. The crowd’s murmur goes to outright dismay.What are they doing?I sit up straightas if they’re going to shine a spotlight right where I’m sitting. Then panic sets in.Everyone’s gonna know.Everyone does know.
Everyone knows.
Victoria will know. She might be happy for me or angry—in her disapproving Victoria way—for keeping this from her.
Forrest probably knows. Will he hate me for crash-landing with him, not for fleeing a bad marriage, but running from a good one I was too scared to embrace?
The team knows. The team knew and covered it up. Now Brayden decided to make it front-page news. They might bench him, trade him, cut him. I’m surprised they even let him set foot on the field. He might be throwing away his entire career—Asher’s entire career—for a few short weeks of happiness.
Brad and Barb know. Fuck. They essentially removed one son from their lives for the crime of moving toBoston. What’ll they do when they find out that Brayden is in lo?—
I cut myself off mentally. We haven’t said those words, not yet. But here he is in a jersey with all three of our names on it.
The umpire circles his hand, commanding the opposing pitcher to hurry up and get on with it. Baseball, right. What Brayden is actually here to do. The pitcher tosses the ball. Brayden swings, makes good contact, ball skidding past the other team’s infielders for a single into shallow left field. And I have just enough time to stand and cheer for him when Asher comes up to the plate.
His jersey has the same long string of names. And if the crowd didn’t pick up on it before, they certainly do now. We’re close enough to the field to see Asher’s expression as he stands in the batter’s box and prepares to swing. Not a smile—but that knowing smirk, as if he’s in on a secret. Only now everyone’s in on it with him.
This is a PR disaster. A scandal. Headline news.
My heart swells in my chest. I blink back tears like I did in Dr. Ghorbani’s office—only this time, they’re from happiness. I don’t know what’ll happen after the game or after the season’s over. But none of that matters, not when Asher hits a double and clears the bases, driving in Isaiah and Brayden, and giving the Peaches a two-to-nothing lead. Standing on second, Asher’s looking right at me, jersey proud on his shoulders. He removes his helmet as if he’s signaling to the batter now standing in the box…but no, he’s waving at me.
The crowd around us—mostly season-ticket holders and local businesspeople—begins pointing and murmuring. News of this must hit social media; my phone starts buzzing in my hand.
Next to me, Lexi nudges my arm. I turn to her, face burning, trying to explain any of this. “I don’t know where you get the energy,” she says. “One ballplayer’s more than enough for me.”
I laugh, can’t help it. “I don’t have a toddler to chase after.”
She smirks. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Not for a while.” But maybe, someday. Briefly, I picture a little girl with my hair and Brayden’s gray eyes, a boy with Asher’s serious expression and wiry frame. All of us together, somehow—and that somehow feels a lot less distant than it did when I woke up this morning.
In the seat next to me, Izzy is clamoring for attention, clapping his chubby palms together and sayingplay ball,even if he can’t quite manage thels.
