“No, don’t be. Honestly, it’s kind of nice to know you’ve been through the same shit.”
Isla frowned. “When I say I’m here, I mean as a friend. And if you need to call someone for something, anything, I hope you’ll consider me.”
“I will.” Abby worked her answer past a tearful swallow. To her relief, she spotted their server across the way and subtly nodded at him for another round.
“Are you going to play this season?” Isla asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You should.”
Abby bit her lip. She’d put the game out of her mind for months, avoided it like she avoided everything else that once instilled joybut now fell flat. “I’m not sure I want to or if the team will even want me.”
“Coach Whitley would be thrilled. I’ve already talked to her about you.”
She sighed. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“Just think about it, okay?”
“Why do you care?”
Isla shook her head, blinked and shifted as if embarrassed. “I don’t. I was just trying to be helpful. But forget it. Only do it if you want.”
Two more shots arrived, and this time Abby raised her glass to Isla’s. “To our asshole dad, our messed-up mothers, and not having our shit together.”
They clinked glasses, scowled through the booze, and chuckled. Abby clung to the warmth in her chest, ignited by the tequila, but fanned in Isla’s presence. She’d lost almost everything that spring, but gaining a sister, no matter how strange the concept, gave her something solid, steady, real. Enough to consider returning to other aspects of her life, including the game that had once stood at the center of her world.
October crispened the morning air, turning leaves brittle on their branches. Kate Hutchins plunged into it with gusto, each breath on her run a cleansing bath for her lungs. She cut across campus, past the quad and athletic facilities, winding through town, until she jogged parallel to the water.
This was her year to be the strongest, fastest, best. She took care to lift in the offseason, building her core, pumping up her throwing arm, improving her flexibility. After two seasons of fighting for her spot against an upperclassman who despised her, Kate’s position on the softball team was finally hers alone.
She arrived home to the blue house in time to shower beforemorning classes, counting the hours until practice. Not only did she crave the game, but reuniting with all her teammates, meeting the freshmen, and seeing Coach incited the anticipation of a family reunion on an unofficial holiday.
“You know there’s no extra credit for practicing before practice,” Mick, her roommate and the team’s catcher, said as Kate entered the kitchen. She hovered blearily over a bowl of cereal, her short straw-colored hair poking out at odd ends.
“It’s not practice. I run because I like it,” Kate said. “You’re always welcome to join.”
“Please, I have two good years left on these knees, if I’m lucky.” Mick poured another helping of cereal. “I heard the freshman class is going to be shit this year.”
“Can’t be any worse than last year.” T.K. stretched as she entered the cramped, barely held together kitchen and helped herself to coffee as though she lived there. “Have you seen my cleats?”
Mick glared as T.K. plopped into the seat beside her. “No. I’m not doing it this year.”
“Doing what?”
“Keeping track of your shit and mine.”
T.K., the squad’s left-handed hurler, wouldn’t know where the field was if the team didn’t remind her. She missed practices, chased more than one game day bus, and lost three softball mitts last season. Mick functioned as T.K.’s keeper, the pitcher-catcher duo more like a disgruntled married couple than teammates.
“I’ll help you look.” Kate sorted through the shoes piled at the door. “But how’d you get in here?”
T.K. poured herself a bowl of cereal. “Shupe never locks the back door.”
“Damn it, Shupe!” Mick shouted.
“What!” a voice shrieked from upstairs.
“You’re going to get us robbed or killed.”
