I meet his gaze and nod, the smile on my face feeling permanent ever since I left the courthouse with the paper in my hand. It’s the renewal I need, a reminder of what all of this is about. I was determined when it was just me, but I would have been content to spend a few years in the minors, building up my baseball cred, then slipping into a coaching gig somewhere and calling that a good life.
But now? I want more—for her.
My late-round, one-hundred-fifty-thousand signing bonus is only the start, but I don’t want to have to touch that until Holly’s eighteen and getting into Harvard or Yale. Because yeah, my girl is going to be brilliant. And she’s going to have the world at her fingertips without the pressure and fear of living in poverty.
My life has been one big gamble. My college grades were all right, but I got an easy pass simply because I could hit a fastball out of the park. I don’t even know what the details of my business degree qualify me to do. My guess is telemarketing or selling season tickets to Hawkeye basketball back in Iowa. I’ve never really had a dream other than this game—playing it or coaching it.
I slip out of my shorts and put on gray mids before slipping my arms through the sleeves of my jersey. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over the thrill of seeing my name stitched on the back of something.
“You’re hitting lead-off tonight, Callahan,” Coach says as he pops his head into the clubhouse. I hold my thumb up in response.
“Awesome. I’m feelin’ it tonight, Coach,” I say, my voice vibrating a bit and giving me away. I hope he can’t tell how fast my heart is racing all of a sudden.
I wait until Coach leaves the locker room, then shift my gaze to Jake as my jaw drops. I haven’t hit higher than the six hole since I got here.
“Time to show up, son!” Jake says, holding his fist out. I pound my knuckles into his, then stand to indulge in one more glance at Holly’s sleeping face on my phone screen. I kiss it, then close my locker door.
It’s show time.
I didn’t expect Lindsey and the boys to get here so early. After my first round of batting practice, though, I hear a whistle followed by my name, and when I glance over my shoulder to spot the random fan, I am met with my own personal fan club. I’m not sure where Lindsey found a Mavericks onesie, but when she holds my daughter up and waves her tiny hand at me, my eyes tear up.
My teammates still haven’t stopped giving me shit for it, but I don’t care. The older guys get it; the ones with kids of their own. The young players might understand one day, if they’re lucky. And I am lucky.
When Holly first showed up at my door—in my life—it felt like the end of everything. I was scared, afraid I’d somehow fuck things up the way my parents had. But it didn’t take long for those fears to morph into sheer determination. Those first few nights, when I wasn’t sure I’d ever sleep—ifHollywould ever sleep—were intense. And I wasn’t my best self to anyone I camein contact with. I was a real dick to Hunter when he got called up. I felt like he won the lottery while I was being buried.
But I was wrong. If ever there was a winner in this life, it’s me. Holly taught me that.
I pop my head out of the dugout and scan the seats for her tiny head. I spot her clutched in Lindsey’s lap and the two of them wave at me, though really Lindsey’s doing the work for both of them.
“Let’s go, Brooks!” Deacon and Riggs shout. It’s the fifth time they’ve screamed my name, and I haven’t yet stepped up to the plate. But I’m finally about to, and it feels good to have people cheering my name.
I carry my bat to the on-deck circle and rub on some pine tar while the Louisville pitcher warms up. Alberto Tovar has a great slider, but his bread-and-butter is his fastball. Funny thing, though—so is mine. And I love to hit that first pitch.
I time up my swing, watching his release point for clues. I did the work before BP, watching his video again. He doesn’t show the slider right away, so if I can jump on his ninety-seven-mile-per-hour strike right out of the gate, I might just surprise him. I steady my breathing, drawing in a slow stream of air through my nose before holding it hostage in my lungs. My pulse thumps against my eardrums, rattling my helmet. I’m used to feeling my nerves, but I’m also good at subduing them.
I move closer to the plate as the catcher throws down to second, and pause just outside the batter’s box, resting my bat against my thigh while I adjust the Velcro on my gloves one last time. I keep to my routine—the same set of habits every at bat. That’s my secret. And that’s how I’m going to win today.
“Now hitting, number seventeen, Brooks . . . Callahan.”
I smirk when the announcer calls my name. Hearing that never gets old. The slight pause, and the little lilt in his tone when he utters my last name. It’s perfect. I used to practicethis moment as a kid. I’d go to the Little League field by the Inglewood Baptist Church all by myself and hit crushed water bottles at the fence because I didn’t have enough balls to sustain my imagination. Now, I simply need to complete living out that fantasy and send the ball over the fence. Or at the very least, to it.
I dig my back foot into the hard clay, twisting my toe into the dirt until it’s set, then shift my weight back and steady myself with my front leg. One more deep breath, and I’m ready. I hear the whistles behind me, the chants from the few local diehards who come to every game, and the high-pitched hollering from Lindsey’s boys. But it all quickly fades into a hum in the background, and all I see is the ball in Tovar’s hand.
I catch his grip on the way into his glove, and his wind-up is fast. Two seams spin toward me, no curve to them at all, and I . . . just . . . know.
The ball flies from my bat with acrack, soaring over the second-baseman’s head and into the right-field gap. I press the gas as I round first and dive headfirst into two, and by the time I stand, my heart is pounding in my ears twice as loudly as before.
I pump a fist toward the dugout, then shout, “Let’s go!” before clapping my gloved hands together. I spare a quick glance toward Lindsey, Holly and the boys, and catch the twins high fiving in celebration. Lindsey is holding Holly at her chest, making sure she can see, not that my baby girl has a clue what’s going on. Still, maybe there’s a chance she sees this. Maybe she’s watching me do my thing. Tonight, I intend on her watching me be great.
Jayden hits behind me, a deep fly ball that gets me to third before Roddy steps in and brings me home with a double of his own.
“Hell, yeah!” his son, Jake, shouts as I jog back to the dugout. He is pretty burned that his dad is getting more time than heis behind the plate, but he’s not letting that get in his way of celebrating me. That’s a class act.
I leap toward him outside the dugout, and we bump shoulders in the air. When I look up at the seats, Deacon and Riggs attempt the same thing. It’s a lot less graceful, and a bit more painful looking, but it doesn’t seem to slow them down at all. They’re rushing up the steps a second later, chasing down a foul ball.
I laugh and shake my head when my gaze reaches Lindsey again. She rolls her eyes, seemingly calling out her wild boys, and I duck into the dugout, earning myself a swift slap on the ass from Coach as I pass.
I end the night going four for four, two singles and two doubles, and I have to stick around at the field for a while after to talk to the local reporter who covers our games along with the rep from the radio services. He gets a few soundbites from me, then I head down to the outfield gates that lead to the clubhouse.
