It’s her standard way of simply cheerleading me from across the globe, being the best big sister anybody could ask for. The time stamp shows me she left it while I was at practice, and when I do the time-difference math, I’m certain she’s long gone to bed. Leaving that one for tomorrow, I move on.
Madelyn: Yo. Call me.
I love my twin but there are two things I’ve learned over the years. The first being: the more vague her texts, the longer the phone call is going to be. The second is, if she wants me to call her—when she knows I’m currently getting back into the swing of things—she’s trending on some level. A quick internet search pulls up photos from last night at Nobu Malibu. They’re taken from far enough away to tell me these are paparazzi shots instead of from a fellow diner.
There’s a group of them at a table—one of them is definitely Madelyn. The auburn hair easily gives her away. Sitting next to her, so close I’m unsure if they’re sharing a chair, is a young guy I don’t think I’ve seen before. He’s got some facial scruff and moppy hair. A big smile that matches hers, the kind where all the teeth show. Everybody looks happy. Just my sister and some friends or costars out for dinner. I click through everything I can find, and she arrived and left alone in her Jag F-Pace. Nothing scandalous.
Me: Want to explain the much younger man?
Madelyn: All I need is for you to say your usual ‘no comment’ if anybody asks, okay?
Me: You’re up to something. You’ve told me yourself that Nobu is where you go if you want to be seen.
Madelyn: Nobu was a central spot for all of us. We all presented at the Golden Globes and wanted to go out to dinner.
Me: Did they run out of chairs?
Madelyn: That’s not why I asked you to call me.
Me: Then why did you?
Madelyn: Sometimes I miss you, that’s all.
She’s hiding something, but she’s stubborn, so if she told me to call and I didn’t, I’ve lost my chance to know whatever is going on. For now.
Me: Miss you too. We’ll talk soon. Or better yet, come watch a game—I’ll get you tickets.
Madelyn: That sounds like fun.
Me: I’ll get you two so you can bring the younger guy.
The message goes unanswered and I laugh.That struck a nerve with her, which makes me wonder what’s going on, but not enough to give in and make the time to chat. Instead, I settle in with dinner and pull up FaceTime to call my girls.
It causesme shame knowing a few months ago I thought working five days a week, running the mile with the kids in P.E. multiple times a day, was a lot on a person. I forgot how mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausting it is giving your all to five or six games a week. I pinch myself every morning that I’m really here. I’m wearing a uniform with my name and number eighteen on the back, hearing the National Anthem sung before every game, jogging out to third base, and feeling a swarm of butterflies erupt in my ribcage when I’m on deck. It’s the exhausting dream.
I’ve made it to week two, and everything is starting to feel second nature again. My instincts have woken up and remembered how to react to different situations on the field; I’m no longer having to focus on what every single move should be. I’m back.
I walk onto the field to stretch before a game and a young voice calls out, “Hey! Hutchings!”
I spin around toward third base to find Emma standing on the second rung of the railing, waving wildly at me. “Eighteen! Woohoo!”
Nola’s smiling next to her, and my jaw drops at the sight of her. She turns around to show me she’s wearing a jersey with my name and number on it. There may be fans who have the same one on but she’s hands down the sexiest. Pride surgesthrough me as she waves a foam finger and holds a Diet Coke, her smile stretching across her face.
They were supposed to get in this morning for a quick weekend. I was excited to pick them up from the airport but their plane got delayed. Spalding wanted me to get an extra batting practice in before the game today, so I rented Nola a car she could grab at the airport and hadn’t expected to see them before the second inning.
“You got a fan club, Gramps?” Seth Larsen asks, coming up beside me, pulling one arm across his chest in a static stretch. He’s a rookie shortstop from Idaho, who got called up from our farm team. Mid-twenties and thinks the sun rises and sets with him. I’m pretty sure he’s the reason the whole team has taken to calling me this. When the guys trickled in the first day, I had an underlying fear there would be a stigma surrounding me and the past. Instead, they took me right in, hazing me with elementary school pranks and calling me Gramps.
I look at him and respond, “Even better. I got a wife and a bonus kid.”
“No kidding. A wife? You tricked some woman into marrying you?” He squints at the two of them. “Bruh, she’s hot. Does she have daddy issues? Is that what she’s doing with you?”
“Not all of us are twenty-five. I get it, I’m old.”
He gives me a smug grin and spits out a sunflower seed.
“Larsen, you’d be the luckiest man alive to find a woman like her someday,” I say, flipping the hat off his head before he can respond and jogging over to Nola and Emma.
I leap up onto the railing and steady myself before pulling Nola in for a hug. “You made it!”
