“Of course I kissed you, Colby. It was literally the only thing that got me through that time in my life. I never once stopped thinking about it. I still haven’t. And I never will.”
Our eyes tangle in a silent war of emotions, and I lift my right shoulder, not sure what else to say beyond that. At least for now. Colby’s chest puffs with a deep breath, then her shoulders drop with a sharp exhale, a pattern she repeats a few times while I look at her like some foolish boy with a crush on his teacher.
“We’re done for today.” She stands quickly, bending to snatch up her iPad. She slaps the cover shut as she turns her back to me and strides out of the hitting area, pausing at the simulation computer.
“You should move to the side. And get your bat ready. This is what you’ll be facing on Friday.” She drops her index finger on the enter key, and the pitching machine fires up behind me. I do as she says, moving to the side just in time to avoid what looks to be an eighty-plus cutter. By the time I look back at the computer, Colby’s gone. It’s just me, my bat, and a robot giving me exactly what I deserve—strikeout after strikeout.
FIVE
COLBY
A good scream in the confines of one’s car can do wonders for the soul. Ten minutes of screaming, however, hasn’t done shit to curb the vice grip cinching around my chest, thanks to thirty minutes with Jayden Vargas.
This isn’t going to work. I don’t know why I thought it would be okay. I knew he was here when I took the job, but Ihadto take it. It’s my dream job. I’m living this for my dad as much as I am for myself. It’s what we always talked about when I was a kid and he coached me. The hours in the garage, hitting balls into the net.
I was never going to make it to “the majors.” There isn’t really such a thing for women. Yeah, pro-softball is a fledgling industry, and a few of my former teammates have gotten regular roster spots on teams in the Midwest. But their payday barely covers the summer season rent. And they all work second jobs.
Meanwhile, my life got comfortable the moment I signed my contract with the Texas farm system. A hundred grand with the potential of climbing the coaching ranks and breaking barrier after barrier was too tempting to let a little old flame drama squeeze me out.
Fuck if that old flame isn’t a damn forest fire, though.
I’ve been sitting behind the wheel of my hatchback for thirty minutes, staring at the stadium in front of me and theWelcome to Sweetwatersign in the distance in my rearview mirror. The sun is about to kiss the horizon, and the sky is slowly morphing from a dusty blue to the most brilliant orange. It’s stunning; so beautiful I could cry. And the sight of it makes me feel so goddamn alone.
I take a gamble that my father’s practice is done for the day, and press his contact information as I sink into the driver’s seat and wait for Mother Nature’s show. My dad answers on the third ring.
“Hey, how was your day, Coach?”
He’s been saying things like that ever since I took the job. It would have been easy for him to be jealous, and I’m sure part of him is, just not in a cruel or spiteful way. He’s genuinely happy I got this opportunity. I like that he gets to live it vicariously.
“Why do all ballplayers have their heads up their asses?”
He’s uttered these same words dozens of times, and he chuckles hearing the phrase come out of my mouth.
“You ever find that out, promise you’ll tell me?”
“Pfft.”
He chuckles.
“You do a good impression of me,” he says.
I sling a wrist over the steering wheel and shift my attention to the passenger-side window. A few of the players I worked with today are just now leaving the ballpark. Last I checked, Jayden was still in the clubhouse. After I left him, he hit for a solid hour to work his own way through the simulation rounds. I went back in and read the reports after lunch. He did all right. A solid two-ninety average off a guy I know is going to throw a full bag of tricks at him. If he hits like that off the real guy this Friday, he should do just fine.
“I worked with Jayden today.”
I know my father’s been dying to ask about him. I wasn’t lying earlier when I told Jayden he was my father’s favorite. He always was. Things may have gotten complicated for all of us, but my father’s faith in Jayden never once wavered.
“And?”
I let out a soft chuckle.
“You were right. He doesn’t like to hear when he’s wrong.”
My father’s laugh buries mine. He so enjoys being told he’s right. I keep my mouth shut on the subject, but the truth is, my father and Jayden are a lot alike—theybothdon’t take well to being corrected.
Their ideas. Coaching philosophies. Swings. Mental approaches. They are both dug so deep that outsiders must resort to tricks to break them out of their habits. I’ve learned how to work them both over the years. As much as they don’t like gentle correcting, they do love a good ego stroke.
“He did say the minor league facilities are shit compared to your old place.” I’m working on my father’s ego now. He had a decent training set-up for young ballplayers, but at its core, it was still a warehouse. And it was hot as fuck in the summer.
