Nola nods against my head. “I trust you.”
I pull away and study her face before tipping her chin with my thumb and bringing my mouth to hers. Grateful Emma is with her aunt, I can take Nola’s lips greedily without fear of interruption. She takes what’s offered, her hands fisting my hoodie. We’ve been tiptoeing around, offering up small kisses to satiate the moment but this is different. Our hearts are in this now and the timing couldn’t be worse with me leaving tomorrow afternoon.
My hands smooth back her hair as I deepen the kiss, taking it slow so I can memorize the feel of her lips on mine. The warmth of her body. How her heartbeat races, syncing to mine. She leans back and pulls me with her, breaking only to kiss my nose, my cheek, the corner of my mouth, before claiming my lips again.
We stay like this until long after the food’s gone cold.
22
MAXFORD
“Elbow up, Hutch,” Kevin Spalding, the Seafarer’s hitting coach, calls from a few feet away as I position myself to the right of home plate.
It’s been three days of batting practice and reading hops. And throwing. So much throwing. From third base to first base, from third base to second, to the pitcher’s mound, to the plate, and to the outfield for kicks and giggles. My arm is the good sore that lets you know you’re alive and doing the thing you love. It’s come back easy and stronger than ever. Batting, on the other hand, is how I lost my job in the first place and for all my prep the last couple of months, it’s still giving me trouble.
“Too high,” he tells me. I lower my right arm just so. “There you go.”
The pitching machine releases the next ball right down the center and I swing. The crack of the ball meeting the bat echoes throughout the empty stadium as I watch the ball go deep into left field. Rolling out my shoulders, I ready myselffor the next pitch and send that one foul. This goes on for a few more minutes until the bench coach flips off the machine.
Spalding comes to me and pats me on the back. “Your swing is getting stronger.”
“It’s not where I want it to be.” I run my hand along the side of my face, staring at where I sent the last ball.
He pulls the hat off his head and rubs a bead of sweat from his sideburns. It’s seventy-five, but for those of us who arrived in Peoria from winter conditions, we might as well be walking on the sun. “Nobody expects you to go out and hit a home run your first at-bat. You were brought in for your fielding skills. That’s where you need to focus right now and let the younger guys do the heavy lifting here.”
I appreciate how he’s trying to let me off easy, making me trust I’ll improve if I keep showing up and doing the work. ‘Hitting a home run is just around the corner, Hutch.’ We both know I’ll be the deadweight of the batting lineup, with my purpose to drive in a guy to third or pop a sacrifice fly. The kids who will start arriving tonight are young; they’re full of fire and willing to do whatever it takes to play the game a long time. Their bodies haven’t been broken down by the game and poor choices yet, and I’m working hard not to let that eat away at my confidence.
When Nola, Emma, and Stella dropped me off at the airport, they were so proud of me. The same enthusiasm wafted off them for me that I’d felt for Nola only the night before, looking at her painting.I couldn’t have asked for a better fan club send off.
When Stella was still in Palm Springs, I always visited her right before spring training started. She’d always taken me to the airport, dressed in the brightest kaftans from her collection, and would hand me a fresh $100 bill.
Yesterday was no different. Stella insisted on coming in one of her bright floral frocks, despite the freezing temperatures, because ‘tradition.’ She gave me a quick hug, tipped up on her toes to give me a kiss on the cheek, and delivered her same line from years past while handing over the cash. “This is in case you need snacks, Maxford.” If there was one person on this planet who respected the need to repeat a yearly superstition before sending me to conquer my sport, it was her.
As for Emma, she had still been a little unsure about how much she trusted that I’d see her again. She’d handed me a Costco-sized container of peanut butter M&M’s and said, “These are for you to eat during the game.”
“Thanks, kid. I’ll definitely eat these, but I’m not sure how much I’m going to reach for candy while I’m in the dugout,” I told her and tucked the tub under my arm.
“Jonah was telling me baseball players chew on sunflower seeds and spit them all over the dugout. Is that true?” she’d asked.
“Yeah. Gives us something to do when we are dealing with nerves.”
“Ew, that’s so disgusting.” Her face wrinkled at the thought. “Why are boys so disgusting?”
I blank on a good answer for her. “Not sure.”
“Well, I think sunflower seeds are gross, and spitting is grosser, but I wanted to get you something that would help you remember all of us.”
Nola went last. She hummed with energy and excitement about what lay ahead, which made me that much less anxious about leaving behind the most important women in my life. All I needed was knowing she believed in me. The last thing she whispered into my ear as she held me close witheverything she had was, “Let that crap go. You can lose it all but you won’t lose me.”
I’m the luckiest man alive to have that woman in my corner.
I toeoff my shoes by the front door before peeling off my shirt and leaving it on the couch. My shorts are next to go, dropped to the ground and forgotten by the lounge chair as I approach the pool. Left in nothing but my boxers, I glance at the stairs to my right, four feet away. Without a second thought, I push off the deck and bring my knees to my chest for a cannonball. Madelyn and Violet used to hate it when I’d interrupt their sun worshipping with a splash and I can’t help but smile, thinking about the grief they’d give me today if I pulled that kind of stunt around them.
With a lap across the pool and back, I hop out and grab a towel from the stash I’ve set out on the outdoor kitchen bar. They’re the same kind Nola has at home—the good, fluffy ones. The water was refreshing but still chilly if I’d planned to lounge around more than a few minutes, so I tinker with the heater and crank it a few degrees. The house is perfect—it’s not going to make any HGTV-type shows, where the host is on the hunt to find the coolest house owned by an athlete, but it checked all my boxes. There’s room enough for Emma to have her own loft space by her bedroom, and I already hung a TV and ordered a sofa for her. The kitchen gets the morning light and there’s a little nook where a breakfast table should go, but we can eat at the island because I think Nola would love to paint right there. Also important, there are a lot of really good takeout places within walking distance.
It’s not until I’m changed and warming up leftover salmonand broccoli from last night that I check my phone. There’s a text from Violet.
Violet: Happy first week back! I know you’re going to be incredible and I can’t wait to come stateside and catch a game.
