“You knew I wouldn’t be able to leave it at one and done, Roddy. I’m a glutton. Hard-headed. I need a woman to shoot me down at least six times before I even think about giving up.”
It’s never taken six times. It’s never taken more than once, to be honest.
“Some might call that stalking, you know.” He puffs out a short laugh, then slings a towel over one shoulder before pushing his locker door shut.
“Persistence. Stalking. Same thing. Anyhow . . .” I push my tongue into my cheek and let my focus get fuzzy as I stare off to the side for a moment. I fix my gaze back on him with a shrug.
“She’s coming to the game.Mygame.”
“You meanourgame.” He’s quick to correct me, and I roll my eyes as I drop my leg back to the floor.
“Yeah, fine. Whatever.Our game.Now, are you going to help me out or not?”
His head falls back with a bark of laughter.
“Oh, hell no. I’m not getting involved in this. I mean, it’s bad enough I’ve gotta catch for your ass. No way am I feeding Dale Blackwood’s daughter to some rookie on an ego trip.”
“Come on, man,” I groan, sitting up straighter. “I promise I’m not a dick. And I’m not just trying to score points or one-up the other guys. There’s something about her. I don’t know what it is, but I feel like I’ve got to put in the work and see this one out, ya know?”
He stares at me, almost like I left him speechless. He’s not saying anything, so I suppose I did. Finally, he exhales and meanders toward me, straddling the opposite end of the bench.
“Okay, so give me the lay of the land. What’s your progress?” He drops his chin a touch as he glares at me.
“I talked her into taking my family seats for Thursday’s game. She’s bringing her dad. He seems to like me more than she does.”
Roddy laughs out hard.
“I bet he does. Dale’s a retired high school baseball coach. Won a few state titles here in Sweetwater. His uncle used to work for the Mavericks as a hitting coach. The Blackwoods are a bit of a baseball family. They’ve also got deep roots in Sweetwater. And Dale Blackwood is beloved by this town.”
I nod, taking it all in.
“What’s his deal? I mean, what happened to him? He had a walker, and he seemed to struggle when he spoke.” I don’t want to make assumptions.
Roddy nods slowly.
“Yeah, he’s had a couple of strokes. The last one was two years ago, and that’s when Renleigh came back home to help him out. He’s come a long way, though.”
“I see,” I say, sucking in my bottom lip as I let Roddy’s words sit with the picture I’m beginning to paint of Renleigh’s situation. I’m about to ask Roddy for tips to ensure Dale is in my corner when his gaze shifts over my shoulder. I follow the path of his stare and notice the young catcher he was arguing with the other day has walked in.
“You’re late,” Roddy says, and there’s something in his tone that makes me think I should busy myself and give the two of them space.
“I was with the trainer. Coach knows.” The young catcher doesn’t look Roddy in the eyes. He doesn’t even bother to glance over his shoulder, in fact. He simply grabs his gear from his locker and snaps the door shut before walking back out without another word.
“Wow, and you thought I had an attitude,” I mutter.
“Yeah, well . . . he’s got a better reason than you do,” Roddy says, getting up from the bench and heading toward the showers, pausing just long enough to say over his shoulder, “He’s my son.”
My attention zings to the exit where the young catcher is long gone. Despite that, I try to reconstruct his build, the color of his hair, his eyes, the sound of his voice—all of it. It’s fucking uncanny how alike the two of them are. I feel stupid for not putting it together earlier. Hell, I’m probably the last to know, which I guess goes along with Roddy’s assumption that I’m some self-absorbed egomaniac. I guess, in a lot of ways I am. It comes with the pitching gig. It’s hard to be so responsible for a win or a loss and not shoulder some of the God complex along with the burden. But if Dale Blackwood is as passionate about baseball as Roddy says he is, I think he’ll be the first one to defend me.
I’m definitely going to need him on my side.
Looks like it’s time to pay the old guy a visit.
***
There are a few perks to living in a small town, at least as far as I’m concerned. I like my congested cities and various strip malls, crowded rooftop restaurants, live music venues, stadiums . . .plural.But I can’t deny there is a charming quaintness to places like Sweetwater. The fact the addition of the second stoplight, something that occurred about a week before I got here, was a media frenzy for this town is amusing. And the way everyone looks familiar, even after only being here for two weeks, does lend to the sense of home. But perhaps the best advantage I’ve come across so far is how easy it is to find literally anyone who lives here in under an hour.
One visit to the main market was all it took for me to figure out where the Blackwoods live. I did have to hear the produce man’s favorite story about playing ball with Dale Blackwoodback in their day. It was a good tale, even if I’m not quite sold on his recollection that Dale hit a ball so hard the cover came off during their state title game thirty years ago.
