“Nothing set in stone yet.”
We had agreed to keep things as vague and open-ended as possible when addressing any future matters. That way, when we inevitably “broke up,” we wouldn’t have to cancel any previously made plans. Little did she know I had no ambitions of breaking up with her. Quite the opposite in fact.
Matty set the dog back on her feet. We followed her toward the front where our cars were parked. “Look, I know it’s a mess and that I might only be around for a couple of years—”
“Hey,” Soren interjected, cutting him off. “I don’t want to hear that.”
Matty shrugged. “It’s true. You’re locked in for five years, and let’s face it, you’ll probably retire after that.”
“Not likely,” Soren muttered under his breath. If the old man had it his way, his rotting corpse wouldstillbe playing third base, long after he was dead and gone.
“Pink’s contracted for eight.” He cocked his hip and leaned into the side of his pickup. “All I’m sayin’ is none of us know how long we’ve got. I need . . . something else.”
Soren’s eyes met mine. The guy had over a decade on me, but this was one of those moments where we both understood where Matty was coming from.
Even the best players’ time in the game was limited. Most guys never got the opportunity to see the major league for a multitude of reasons. Some of them, like Soren, spent the first part of their careers bouncing from one minor league team to the next. Matty was a different case entirely. He’d suffered what could have very easily been a career-ending shoulder injury in his second season with Philadelphia. He’d spent the next two years rehabbing his arm and learning to throw a ball again, this time with his left hand.
There was no certainty in the game of baseball.
“I’m not handling any electrics,” I told him. “I refuse to get electrocuted.”
Matty’s lips curved up.
“And I refuse to touch anything that may or may not be shit,” Soren added.
“Speaking of . . .”
I trailed off, nodding my head across the front yard. Both of my teammates followed my line of vision toward an abandoned chicken coop, just as Mo crawled out from beyond the chicken wire.
Covered in shit.
Later that afternoon, after my weekly hardware store visit, I decided to make a short detour to the antique mall one town over. There were a couple of vintage garden trellises I’d had my eyes on for a while now. Plus, maybe I could find something for Matty’s new (old) place.
Ideally, something rusted and crusted in tetanus to go with the Bruised Banana’s overall aesthetic.
I was still about five minutes out from my freeway exit when my sister called. “Hello, dearest sister.”
“Hello, dearest brother. Got a minute?”
“For you? I’ve got five.”
Her exasperated sigh through the car’s Bluetooth speakers made my stomach churn. The loud sniffle that followed nearly had me turning the car around. I could be at the airport in an hour if needed.
“What is it, Belles? Are you okay?”
“Don’t hate me.”
“Never.”
She sniffled again. “I failed my British Literature exam.”
I veered off the freeway while I fumbled for a response.
“Jare-bear?”
“I’m here, Belles. Since when are you taking literature classes?” Last time I’d checked, Bella was double majoring in business administration and environmental science.
“My advisor recommended it. She said it would be an easy elective.”
