“Strike!” The ump signals a zero and one count.
“Why’d he lay off of that? Swing at those, Jayden!” Jake grumbles.
“It was outside,” I point out.
“Pfft, so take it to the right. It’s a meatball. Fuckin’ . . . put me in, and I’d tag that shit.” He wipes away sweat from his forehead, his catcher’s helmet propped atop his head.
“Keep putting in the work, Jake. You’ll get your shot,” I say, a promise I can’t make but one I have to believe in because otherwise, what the fuck am I doing out here?
“Also, I told him to look to pull today, so he’s being disciplined at the plate,” I grumble. I’m not defending Jayden so much as defending my process. Also, Jake won’t get anywhere with a sense of entitlement. Not out here, anyway. He’s already wearing the right last name. If that hasn’t opened any opportunities for him, then it’s pretty clear he’ll have to stand out on his own.
He gripes a bit more, mumbling something about hitting so much last week that he’s got blisters, and eventually wanders back down the field to the bullpen. Jayden, meanwhile, has worked the count to full, fouling off the last four pitches and pushing the Sugar Land starting pitcher into the eighties on his count.
“Come on, Jay. He’s gonna give it to you,” I whisper to myself, adjusting the edge of the iPad against my midriff as my eyes narrow on the ball being worked behind the pitcher’s back. I glance at my father just as the pitcher nods, and smile when I catch my dad sitting on the edge of his seat with his hands balled together against his lips.
I look back to the mound as the ball sails toward Jayden, and everything plays out in slow motion. It’s a skill I honedduring college, first during my own at-bats, then refining while coaching the softball team during my grad years. It’s the only place in life where I seem to be able to mentally slow down time. The ball seems to have tight backspin, the axis slightly tilted, the angle perfect—it’s coming in right at his sweet spot. My gaze flashes to Jayden’s thigh muscles as they flex, and I hold my breath as he rests his weight on his back leg before stepping at the ball as his bat whips through the air with the speed of a master’s sword.
The crack is so loud it manages to reverberate off the seats along the third baseline, and the home crowd collectively holds their breath as the ball climbs upward like a jet leaving the runway. The only hurdle to clear is whether it stays fair or tips foul. There’s no doubt it’s leaving the stadium.
I lean to my left, and the players near me do the same, the lot of us trying to drive the ball where we want it—fair. Jayden is side-stepping his way to first, still clutching the bat in case the ump calls, “Foul!” Once it clears the pole and leaves the confines of Sugar Land field, Jayden flips his black Victus toward the dugout before continuing his well-earned trot around the bases.
“There he is,” I say to myself, noting the path of his ball while recording the stats that come up for his exit velocity and launch angle. When I look back at the stands, my dad is standing with his hands threaded together atop his head. He must have tossed his hat off in celebration. The grin on his face is massive, and it’s not that he’s taking credit for helping build the swing that just did that, it’s that he feels blessed to be here to witness the result of hours upon hours of hard work. To see Jayden be the guy we all knew he could be, the player we believed he was. To break free from the bad decisions his brother makes, and to veer even further away from his father’s fate. I just wish like hell that Adriel Sr.’s fate wasn’t so deeply tangled with my own.
EIGHT
JAYDEN
I never expected Colby’s dad to show up at one of my college games. Still, I always looked for him in the stands. I was only four hours east, and LSU home games have a certain allure that I partly hoped would be enough to convince him to make the drive and forget how we ended things.
But I also knew better. Coach Rick Kessler likes his routine. And he loved his wife. I am a walking, breathing symbol of a wrecking ball, a reminder of how a split second can knock a whole family off kilter. Canceling high school practice or picking one of my weekend games over his own daughter’s was never in the cards. Still . . . I always looked for him. That’s part of my routine, I suppose.
Today, when I looked, he was there. I heard his voice above every other sound. He was all I heard. And for a few hours under the glare of the sweltering Texas sun, I was justthe kidagain, his go-to stud, the hot shot or ringer he bragged about to other coaches. I washis.And I fought like hell to make him proud.
So I don’t know why I’m so damn nervous to walk across the concourse and shake his hand. I’m legit shaking in my shoes. I’m twice his height at this point—well, a full foot taller at least. Yet, one sharp glare is all it would take for him to wreck myconfidence back to the ground. I’d never be able to talk to his daughter again.
“Hey! Quite a game, son,” he says as I approach. I exhale.Son.
I laugh nervously and hold out my hand to shake his. He pulls me in for a hug instead. His hand lands heavy on my back, proving he’s still as strong as he ever was.
“Colby didn’t tell me you’d be here today. Probably to keep me from getting nervous at the plate.”
I figured he’d show up to one of the games, but I didn’t expect him so close. I’m glad he was. I’m also glad it was a surprise. The anticipation would have messed with my head.
“You look good at the plate. Pulling the ball.Hmm, wonder if anyone else has ever told you to to your strength like that?” He puzzles his face, his expression exaggerating his sarcasm as I back away from our hug.
“I think your exact words were, ‘Just hit the effin’ ball over the right field fence already.’” I do my best impression of his grumble to really sell it, and he laughs out hard—thank God.
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t say effin’. I don’t take shortcuts with my words,” he says with a chuckle.
I lean toward him and mutter, “I was trying to be professional.” I wink, and he pats my bicep twice before dropping his hand in his jeans pockets. Colby slings a travel bag over her shoulder as she exits the away clubhouse and joins us. Her eyes scan back and forth as she approaches, likely trying to survey what kind of conversation she’s walking into.
“Good win today, huh?” she says, nodding to me, then turning her attention to her father.
“Ha! I mean, I’d say so. Five of those runs were thanks to this fella. So yeah, pretty effin’ good game.” Rick winks at me, and both of us hold our laughs in through puckered lips while Colby scrutinizes our faces.
“O—kayyy, then. We should probably . . .” She gestures toward the exit.
“Right, hit the road. What time does your flight leave?” I ask, hoping I guessed right when I changed my flight last minute. Last night. At about eleven p.m.
