21
BRENNA
Now
Nathan’s first pitch stungmy hand.
His velocity had increased since I’d last squatted behind home plate for him. I’d also forgotten Nathan threw a “heavy ball,” meaning it moved late and often landed in a suboptimal spot in my glove.
In other words, it hurt like hell. I used to wear additional padding in my mitt, and I usually ended up having to ice my hand after games.
But this sting… I relished it. I was at home, not only behind home plate but also on the receiving end of Nathan’s pitches. We’d always made sense on the diamond.
“You good?” he asked from the mound while I tried to covertly shake out my hand.
I took my helmet off. “Never better,” I called back with a smile.
A shift happened after Nathan found me painting in the middle of the night. So much had been forced on us. Co-owning a house and business. Remaining in Middlebury to get it up and running. Living together to work on the house.
But no one made Nathan watch me dance or start a paint fight. Our routine didn’t change after that night, but itfeltdifferent.
Sometimes, Nathan’s hand would brush mine while passing me in the kitchen in the morning. Instead of disappearing to my room in the afternoon, I stayed on the first floor, playing with the cats or reading a book in the same room as him. At night, we sat closer together on the couch while watching TV.
“All right, let’s show them how it’s done,” Nathan said. He caught the ball I threw to him, and full-on grinned, making my chest tight.
I missed this—being on the field, part of a team. It was why I wanted to pursue a career in sports. Growing up, I spent so much time alone before moving to Middlebury. Nathan introduced me to this sport I loved and made me his partner. Baseball gave me a feeling of family I never got in my own house.
Something that was again absent from my life.
It wasn’t until the sixth inning—the final one in this shortened game—that Nathan’s face contorted in pain. I stood, whipped my helmet off, and stalked to the mound.
He lifted his arms in the air. “Throw me the ball, Brenna.”
I ignored him, keeping the ball in my mitt and continuing toward him.
“You’re making a scene.”
“I told you what would happen if I saw you grimace.”
He put his non-gloved hand on his hip. “I didn’t.”
“Are you saying I’m lying?” I narrowed my eyes.
“Course not,” he said, taking a step forward. I moved my glove behind my back. “But you’relookingfor a problem. There’s no problem.” He held out his glove, waiting for me to drop the ball into it. “We need two more outs, Bren. Let’s finish the game, then we can talk about what you saw. For hours, if you want.”
The place those words sent my mind.
I stepped close to him, then spoke into my mitt so no one else could hear or read my lips. This game had no real significance, but Nathan and I easily slipped back into the childhood versions of ourselves, competitive as all hell. “Is your arm fine?”
Nathan’s lip twitched before he raised his glove to cover his mouth. “Why don’t you go back behind home plate, and I’ll show you how fine it is?”
He managed to make the sentence sound dirty.
“You’re shameless,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Walk slowly, please.”
So he can watch me go.
