I’m refilling my reusable water bottle using the purified water spout at the kitchen sink when I hear Kenzie’s ringtone for her parents. “Old MacDonald” blasting from the direction of the living room makes my lips twitch upward. My phone is face down on my bed, one tab open to the Fur-Ever Homes forum and another to the order confirmation for the front-facing cat sling that should be delivered tomorrow. It’s been incredibly helpful as a new pet owner to reach out to the forum whenever I have a question—even if this one was more about Kenzie than Banks.
When I find the sparkly pink case wedged between couch cushions, the ringtone is on its final verse. I hesitate for half a second and then swipe the video call on. I’ve spoken toKenzie’s parents many times over the past year. Often, Kenzie will hand them to me while she finishes a quick task or runs to the restroom.
“Hey, Loretta,” I say when Kenzie’s mom comes into view. Her red hair is tucked beneath a purple bandana. Kenzie mentioned once that her mom loves purple almost as much as she loves pink. “Kenzie is already asleep. I didn’t want you worrying when she didn’t answer.”
“Oh, hi, Trevor. I knew it was late, but I wanted to try.” Loretta collapses into an old wingback chair in their living room. Their cozy kitchen flashes for a split second before the yellow fabric of the chairback blocks my view. “We had a long day, and this is my first chance to call.”
“How is planting going?”
Loretta rolls her eyes. “The tractor stalled out again this morning, putting us hours behind, but we finally got the last of cold-hearty crops in. Then there was a mix up while sorting seeds in the greenhouse for the May planting and—” Her sentence drops off in a sigh. “Not that any of that really matters. How’s my baby doing?”
“She’s getting there,” I hedge.
I worried about Kenzie nearly every second I wasn’t on the field but didn’t want to come across as overbearing, so I kept our text conversations focused on Banks. Finding her so distraught when I came home tonight nearly tore me to shreds. It makes me want to go back to when Aaron was sitting next to mein the dugout earlier today and sucker punch him in the gut. It’s completely unfair that he gets to move on with his life like nothing happened after decimating hers.
“Is she eating cereal right out of the box like a racoon?” Buck, Kenzie’s father, comes into view when he folds his arms over the back of Loretta’s chair.
“It’s more like free-range cereal grazing.”
Buck snickers, but Loretta’s face falls. “The poor thing. Everyone’s first heartbreak is tough, but add on the media scrutiny…”
“None of this should have happened to Kenzie.” When my words practically end in a growl, I soften my tone. “Fortunately, sports news has moved on.”
Two days ago, a Chicago player’s wife gave birth in the stands after having the world’s shortest labor. Within seconds, reporters were scrambling harder than a shortstop trying to field a bad hop.
“I don’t know how you handle being in the limelight all the time.”
I shrug. “It’s the cost of playing the game I love.”
Over the years, I’ve had extensive media training. With one hundred and sixty-two regular season games, we’re in front of reporters more often than other athletes. We’re taught how to handle tough or leading questions, to avoid giving bulletin-board material, how to stay calm after a bad game, and what to say—and not say—about injuries. At one point, theyeven brought in a body language coach. That’s what you get when you represent a billion-dollar franchise.
Loretta sighs again. “Will you send Kenzie our love and make sure she eats somethingotherthan cereal?”
“I made her grilled cheese before she went to bed.”
“Good man,” Buck adds. “Thanks for looking after her.”
I bite my tongue to keep from telling them it would be myabsolute privilegeto truly care for Kenzie.
“That’s what roommates are for.”
Loretta tilts her chin, sharing a silent look with her husband. Before I can interpret what that glance means, they’re saying their goodbyes and ending the call. I find an extra phone charger in the junk drawer, plug in Kenzie’s phone, and then stop by the thermostat, bumping it up several degrees. Kenzie mentioned that she’s been cold the last few days. I might not be the man who can make her happy, but I can keep her warm.
Two hours later, I’m burning up in my room. My ceiling fan is about to launch itself into space, it’s spinning so vigorously. My throat feels drier than the dugout roof on an August scorcher. Sweat slides down my bare chest as I swing my feet to the ground and grab the water bottle on my nightstand. There’s probablyno chance that Kenzie is awake, but just in case, I throw on a t-shirt. A groan escapes my lips as the fabric sticks to me.
I’m still tugging one-handed, trying to straighten out the clingy shirt, when I find Kenzie in the kitchen. She’s wrapped in her Paul Rudd blanket, sitting on the ground in front of the open fridge, eating cheese like…
Like a raccoon who’s hit the dairy jackpot.
Kenzie hides her face in the crook of her sweatshirt. “Don’t look at me.”
“What, ah—” I glance at the half-dozen discharged wedges of cheese scattered around her crossed legs. It looks like she took a tiny bite out of all of them. Slowly, I lower myself to the ground beside her. “What’s going on here?”
My damp shirt now feels incredible with the cool air gushing out of the fridge. She’s probably ruining the compressor having the doors open like this, but I couldn’t care less. I will buy seventeen new refrigerators if it helps Kenzie through this.
“The food you cooked made me feel better.” Kenzie’s hand flops to her knee, still gripping an aged Manchego. “But it’s not working coming straight from the source.”
“Do you want me to make you another grilled cheese?”
