Logan
Not crying.
Papa Fisch
Your mother hated being cold. You come by it naturally, Logan.
Liesel
Oh, Mom. She really was terrible at being Canadian.
Logan
Dude, she grew up in NORTHERN ALBERTA. If anyone earned the right to hate being cold, it was her.
Papa Fisch
It was forty below in *March* the first time I met her family. Edmonton is no joke.
Lucas
You all sound so soft right now. Except Lee. Lee, you’re tough.
Liesel
Thanks, bro. Stop crying over Pixar movies, and maybe you’ll be this tough one day, too.
Fun fact: while Logan and I are identical twins—mirror twins, actually—Liesel is our fraternal triplet. She works in data analytics for the Chicago Firebirds, keeping our chaos somehow measurable. Dad’s the top umpire in Major League Baseball, built like a John Cena body double, which means Logan and I can’t get too cocky about our appearance.
And Mom … she loved baseball so much, she joked she’d prove it by surviving Lou Gehrig’s disease long enough to see us drafted.
She did.
It was the last good day she had.
Man, I miss her. I swallow a lump of longing so cold, Edmonton in March has nothing on it.
A voice drifts from somewhere down the concourse, followed by the rattle of a bucket of baseballs.
I shake off thoughts of my mom and glance at the field. The precise lines of the lawn mower in the grass always make me feel calmer, as does the leather of new baseballs. Logan’s already cracking open the buckets of balls we’ll use today.
I start bouncing with anticipation. I love working with kids. Teaching the next generation to love baseball is like passing on the Olympic torch. Probably. I wouldn’t know. But it’s awesome.
We’ve got a solid routine planned for today—simple, structured, and fun, which is the hat trick of working with kids.
But my mind keeps wandering like I just saw a squirrel.
The squirrel is Scottie.
I can picture her walking down the stands to the field, her light blonde hair bouncing, eyes alert.
In my mind, there’s no coffee in sight, and she looks extra sour over it.
If I’ve learned anything in the last year, it’s that Scottie doesn’t actually have a favorite drink. She drinksvibes. And I could have sworn I was figuring out those vibes pretty darn well.
Logan huffs beside me, unaware of my internal struggle to focus. I stuff my hands in my hoodie pouch and crack my knuckles. The chill tries to bite through my hoodie, but I have Chicago in my veins—and Edmonton.
And the thought of the girl I can’t have haunting me like a ghost.
