“Yeah, he’s ours. Atta boy, Reddick!” The praise comes from all directions as my teammates pile on, slapping my soaking wet jersey against my skin and ruffling my hair. They push me around like I’m their little brother, which, in the hierarchy of this locker room, I suppose I am. I love it. Every second of it. Even the ice.
“I’d say you’re part of the family. How about you?” Amy says.
I laugh hard as I pull a chunk of ice from the inside my jersey and throw it toward Kyle.
“I guess so,” I say.
“Well, you heard it here, Rob. Texas has a new starting pitcher in town, and this city—this team? They like him. I like him. And I know you boys in the booth like him. You talked him up all night.”
Amy nods in response to whatever the rest of the media team is saying. I pull the mic clipped on the collar of my jersey free and hand it to the camera man about three feet away from us.
“Thanks for that,” I chuckle, meeting Kyle’s grinning face.
“Hey, you earned that bath. Now, let’s make it a habit, huh?” He holds a fist out for me, and I tap my knuckles to his.
“Go on. Hit the showers. You’re going to freeze your dick off.”
He snaps a towel at me, and it stings my back.
I wait for the guys to clear out a little more before I check my phone. My heart does a double beat when there’s a text waiting for me, but then I realize it’s from my agent, not Renleigh.
SHAWN:Thanks for making my job easy. Tremendous, bud. What a start!
I smile to myself, and his words solidify my opinion on my start. That first inning was tough, but once I settled in, things started to feel natural. The stadium felt smaller, more intimate. Kyle felt more like Roddy. And in my mind, I was back in Sweetwater, or on the mound back in San Diego. It’s the same game. The players may be mightier, but the rules still stack up. The ball is round. The bats are heavy. The yard is deep.
And listen to the catcher.
I snicker to myself, wondering if Roddy watched the game. The Mavericks are traveling this week, but it’s a scheduled off day for him, and part of me really hopes he found a way to watch.
By the time I shower and change, then check in with Coach, most of the friends and family waiting for other players havegone. It’s just my parents and Kyle’s wife left in the family room that leads to the secure exit to our garage. The three of them are in deep conversation when I enter the room.
“The star of the show,” my dad says as my mom leaps from her seat and dashes into my embrace.
“I’m so proud of you, Hunter. You did it. You really did it,” she says through sniffles.
I pull the ball out of my hoodie pocket and hand it to her, and she studies it, scrutinizing every stitch.
“That’s the first strike out. I signed it and dated it, which I guess somehow makes it worth more, but I don’t know. The guy put a sticker on it. You can sell it one day.” I shrug, but my mom clutches it to her chest and stares into my eyes.
“No way! I am never selling this.”
“Shemight not, but how much are we talking about?” My dad’s joke earns him a swift jab in the ribs by my mom’s elbow. “I mean, we’ll keep it forever. Of course. Just like how we will never change anything in your old bedroom, despite what a great man cave it would make.”
My dad steps back this time, avoiding the jab, but he can’t escape my mom’s glare. He chuckles, and says, “Kidding. Of course I’m kidding.” He flashes me a look over her shoulder, though, that reads, “Phew!”
“You had a great start, Hunter. You should be very proud. Kyle was excited to catch you tonight,” Kyle’s wife says. I met her, briefly, before the game. I think her name is Stephanie, but I’m not sure, so I don’t want to guess and get it wrong. Besides, it looks like she and my parents have already made their own introductions.
“Thank you,” I say, taking her hand for a shake.
I swing my arm around my mom’s shoulder just as Kyle pushes through the door to the family room. He gets a lot ofpost-game work done on his knees, so he’s always the last guy to leave.
“Your son had quite a game,” he says, weaving his hand into his wife’s. I notice the way they instantly connect and don’t let go. There’s genuine affection between them. And Kyle’s wearing his ring. It’s one of those silicone ones. I paid attention because he wore it during the game, too. A lot of guys take them off, but not him.
“He’s been waiting for this moment for, well, twenty-three years,” my mom brags.
I lean toward Kyle.
“Maybe sixteen. For the first seven years of my life, I wanted to be Spiderman,” I confess.
