“Fuck,” Gordy murmurs, studying his sheet again. “The hell we gonna do without a catcher?”
I spare a glance over my shoulder, spying Evan giving Tally a piggy-back ride behind me. “I know a guy who knows a thing or twoabout getting some balls in his mitt,” I tell my husband, who, yes, does look very fucking strapping in his baseball uniform.
Mr. Steroid Cheerios will look better with itoffhim later though…
He pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “That’s yourbrother, Gannett.”
“What about me?” Evan asks, passing Tally to Brooks and approaching us.
I shrug. “Told Gordy you like fondling balls.”
He grimaces. “I do, yes, but why the hell are you talking about it?”
Gordy sighs dramatically. “We’re down a catcher. Evan, do you think you’d be able to fill in?”
Evan’s brows shoot up to his hairline. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. I mean, hell yeah, man. I’d have asked you to take that position full time if you lived evenremotelyin the area anymore.”
“Marcus is that bad, huh?”
Gordy clears his throat. “No, Marcus does alright. He’s just not as good as you were though…”
Evan blinks at him.
“It’s okay if, you know, you don’t want to. If it brings back bad memories or whatever,” Gordy continues.
My brother nods, tugging at his bottom lip with his teeth. “It’s uh, yeah. Yeah, I’ll do it. I don’t have a uniform though.”
I strip off my sun-blocking hoodie, revealing the one I was wearing with Gordy’s number on it. Doing the husband thing, you know—wearing your favorite player's jersey. I had meant it to be a surprise, but now it’s become a bit of a necessity. I’m sure that, with some duct tape, we can change this number one into another number in the teens or something.
It’s like Wagner always told me, if you can’t duck it, fuck it.
“Ow ow! Looks like we’ve got ourselves astripperon the sidelines!” someone inside the dugout shouts when I yank my Waters jersey over my head. When I finally rid myself of the shirt, I see it’s Steve. “I’ve got a sweater vest you can borrow, if you need. I know how much you admire my collection,” he teases.
I hold up my hoodie and give it a little waggle. “All good, bud. Thanks for the offer.”
He shrugs, taking a practice swing. “Well, it was worth a shot.”
“Sarah coming to watch you play?” I ask him.
He grins. “My wife said she’d never miss a game. She’s on her way here now; she just had an open house run into overtime.”
I snort. “And she used to callmethe workaholic.”
Behind me, there’s more muttering. “Christ, Mutha. Was this hill always this steep when Evan was in little league?”
Dad’s here.
Ma titters. “Yes, hunny. Your old bones just ain’t what they used to be.”
“Old bones my ass,” he grumbles. “You weren’t complainin’ about my old bones last week when I—”
Evan and I both cut him off yelling, “Wagner!”
Dad’s fluffy white brows knit. “What? I carried all the friggin’ groceries into the house on one trip.One trip, and, mind you, I’ve hadtwoheart attacks.Kiss my ass,old bones.”
“Gannett, dear. Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” Ma asks.
