“Or . . . he’s already loaded from a signing bonus, so a couple hundred bucks walking away isn’t something he’ll miss.” I shrug and quickly dive back into my meal. I make it through two bites this time before Lindsey hits me with a follow-up.
“Whatkindof signing bonus?”
I bother to look her in the eyes this time, and the arched brow I expected to see greets me.
“I don’t know, a big one?” I mumble, no longer caring that I’m talking with food in my mouth. Lindsey’s lucky this pepper is the best thing I’ve ever eaten because I’m willing to overlook her meddling just to get to eat it.
“Did you hear that, Daddy? Abigone. So, this guy—he must be a pitcher!” My sister’s guess isn’t as impressive as she makesit sound. Nearly half the players in Sweetwater right now are pitchers. Every season starts this way, and having grown up here, she and I both know the ebb and flow of rosters. Several of the rookies will get sent to other affiliates in the next few weeks, as the coaching staff evaluates them.
“And she said he’s loaded from a signing bonus, so that leaves us with . . .”
Shit. I sometimes forget how well-studied my sister is in baseball.
“Brooks Callahan isn’t a pitcher, and Proctor McQuistion was a rookie last year, plus he’s still rehabbing from surgery. That leaves . . .”
Fucking hell.
I lift my gaze, mouth full and stomach heavy, and my sister slaps her hand over her mouth as soon as our eyes meet.
“Hunter Reddick tried to sleep with you!”
When my sister’s kids are called into the principal’s office in a few years, I’m going to be sure I bring up this moment.
“It was a bet. It wasn’t like heactuallywanted to . . . ya know.” I waggle my head, feeling the heat of being between my nephews and in the same room with our dad.
“Oh, Renleigh. Don’t play dumb with me. Ofcoursethat man wanted to?—”
“Could I get some water?” my dad pipes in, saving both of us from hearing my sister get explicit about my potential sex life.
“You sure can, Dad.” I jet up from my seat and head into the kitchen to fill a glass for my father.
I pinch my sister’s earlobe as I pass her on my way back to my seat, and she swats at my hand. My father takes the heavy glass in both hands, still needing assistance from his left hand to steady anything he grasps with his right.
“This discussion is to be continued,” Lindsey says, dotting each word in the air with her index finger.
“We’ll see,” I mutter, devouring the rest of my stuffed pepper, then promptly copping myself seconds.
Lindsey manages to hold off her pressure campaign long enough for her kids to fall asleep on the couch and our father to become engrossed in his nightly routine of watching SportsCenter.
Of course my sister and dad would know who Hunter Reddick is. Our dad spent thirty years coaching baseball at Sweetwater High. You don’t grow up in our house and not follow baseball news, at least the major headlines. And Hunter? He’s a pretty damn big headline. I played aloof with him, but I recognized his tall frame and blue eyes the moment he slid up to the bar.
And yeah, I’m sure if I let things play out the way Hunter planned, we would have been in his apartment within minutes, and I would have been hemming and hawing my way through stripping my clothes off or marching out the door in protest. But I know better than to get mixed up with the summer boys. And Hunter Reddick is going to be out of Sweetwater and on to the next mound in weeks, months at the most.
I pop the final dish into the washer and nudge the door shut with my hip before pressing the start button. My sister hands me a glass of wine, and I follow her to the front porch where the two of us fold up our legs as we sit in the pair of rickety lawn chairs parked on the wood planks. This place needs some love. My dad talked about painting the exterior of the house two summers ago. That was before his second stroke wiped out the use of most of his right side. He’s getting stronger, but I’m not sure he’ll ever have full function in the way things like hammers and nails require.
“He should sell this place,” I sigh out, patting the chair cushion by my hip so it emanates a poof of dust.
“He’ll never sell it. Besides, what will you and I fight over when he’s gone?” She winks at me and I chuckle before sipping some wine.
One of our dad’s go-to jokes is talking about the fortune he’ll leave me and my sister. The man has existed on a teacher’s salary his entire life, and the district pension barely covers his bills. Honestly, if it weren’t for his disability assistance, I’m not sure where my father would be able to live. Certainly not his house. Paid off or not, the taxes for this place are too much for his dismal savings alone to cover.
“Brandon coming to pick up you and the boys?” I nod to my sister’s full glass of wine.
“Yeah,” she sighs before taking a long sip.
It’s her second glass, and she’s a lightweight. My sister and her husband live about twenty-five miles away, closer to the city. Brandon works at the university’s downtown campus, but occasionally, he has workshops or lectures at the main campus here in Sweetwater. My sister always tags along so she can visit Dad and me.
“He’s cute, you know,” Lindsey says.
