Colby rolls her neck until we’re facing one another again, and she shrugs a shoulder.
“Our bullshit. That’s what this means.” She circles the space between us one more time.
“Right. Your point is noted, Coach. But for the record, that’s the only thing I’m struggling with in this relationship. Our bullshit. I respect the fuck out of your expertise. Always have.”
For a beat, I hold what Ithinkis her gaze through her glasses, then turn my eyes back to the plate, where a new hitter is trying to impress the coaching staff by taking long hacks at curveballs.
Jake joins us for a few rounds of hitters, and the three of us pick apart the rookies’ swings. It’s nice, just talking technique with two other pros. I like Jake seeing this side of Colby, too. I like the ease of our conversation. And when Colby steps into the cage to work with one of the hitters, Jake fills me in on why Brooks didn’t travel with the team for this series. Apparently, he has a kid. One he didn’t know about until the mom showed up out of the blue. Suddenly, my and Colby’s bullshit doesn’t feel so serious.
Jake excuses himself to go warm up our starter for today, just as Colby steps back around the cage.
“You hear about Brooks?” I mutter.
She nods, avoiding eye contact. She’s never been one to gossip. Neither of us has, really. Her father never tolerated gossip, or what he called “unproductive conversation” on his field. We were both basically reared by him . . . and afraid of being told to run poles until the end of practice for pissing him off.
“I miss him. Brooks,” I say instead of picking at his situation.
“Hmm, yeah,” she sighs out in agreement. As quiet as Brooks is, over the last week of our hitting lessons, he’s sort of become this steady glue for Jake and me and to some extent, Colby andme. He’s a safe zone. His quiet makes it okay to be quiet. And staying quiet has kept me from saying shit I probably shouldn’t.
“Sunday . . . ride back next to me.”Shit like that.
“It’s a bad look,” she says.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight and nod.
“You’re probably right.” I bite my tongue, trying to hold in my follow-up, but I have waited so long to have a moment like this—one real goddamn moment to just talk to her.
“Do it anyway?”
I rest my forehead against one of the support bars at the back of the backstop and roll it slightly, just enough to give her a sideways glance. She holds my gaze for a second, then flickers her attention to the hitting practice happening a few feet away. Her lips part, and I hang on her breath, waiting for one small word—yesorokay.I’d takefine.
“I can’t,” she says, sticking to her guns.
My eyes drift shut, and I swallow.
“I get it.”
I do. But also, I don’t. We always talked growing up. We had a special connection. She has to miss that at the very least. If that’s all we can have, a friendship, then that’s enough. Nobody would fault us for having that kind of history. For being close, like friends.
“I’m not riding back with the team,” she adds after a few quiet seconds.
I open my mouth to ask why, but then realize the significance of everything. The weekend. Where we are. Mother’s Day. Close to home.
“How are you getting to Katy?”
“Dad’s coming to Sunday’s game.”
I nod. Of course he is. My heart races, and a sour taste coats my tongue. I miss her dad. I haven’t seen him since I left forcollege. Since he told me not to ruin his daughter’s life, and I took the request to heart.
“I fly back on a red eye. I already booked it.” She keeps her attention fixed on the field as she speaks. This subject isn’t one we can dance in for long. Neither of us wants to be in it. Her less than me, and justifiably.
“I’ll make sure I find your dad before y’all take off, then. To say hi, and . . .” And to say sorry. Or to ask him why? I’m not my father. I’m not Adriel either. I’m a better man.Aren’t I?
“He’d love to see you.”
She reaches over, resting her hand on my bicep before she turns and heads toward the dugout. Her fingertips drag for the slightest second along my forearm, and despite the softness of her touch, it leaves invisible cuts behind that do very little to distract from the ache anchoring my heart in the depths of my chest cavity.
SEVEN
