Just the wooden recreation of the Wrigley Field sign would have been reason enough to drag me to the garage. Or the pitchback, stationed in the center of the fake grass outfield. But the back wall, covered in floor-to-ceiling craft ivy; the forest-green stadium seats, which are either perfect replicas or stolen straight from the third-base line; and the sizable collection of Cubs player portraits, framed and autographed…I think I just stepped into a miracle.
“This is Dad’s retirement project,” Ellie explains, flipping on a space heater in the corner. “I figured you would appreciate it.”
Appreciate itis an understatement. I want tomove intothis garage. I follow a few paces behind Ellie, each step weighted with the cautious excitement of a little kid entering a museum. “This is wild,” I say, not really to anyone but myself, but Ellie breathes a laugh anyway.
“The original plan was to build it in my room when I left for school,” Ellie explains, “but I like this better than sleeping in the garage when I’m home. Although Mom hates that she has to leave the Subaru in the driveway.”
I trail my fingers along the taped-off square in the center ofthe pitchback. It’s a little worn, but not enough to suggest any real use. “Does your dad play?”
“No, that’s leftover from Dad’slastproject. Turning me into a softball star.” Ellie’s smile is small and apologetic. “He gave up on that one somewhere between sixth and seventh grade.”
“So you played?”
She sputters in dissent. “What part of me walking the mile would make you think that?”
I’m tempted to mention that not all softball players are runners, but it hardly feels like a relevant argument. “I guess the crossover between AP Art and extracurricular sports is…”
“Zero.”
“I believe it.” Beside the pitchback, a white paint bucket filled with baseballs catches my eye. The mitt balanced on top doesn’t have an autograph or any kind of sticker labeling it a collector’s item, so I slip my hand inside. It fits like, well, a glove.
“Remind me exactly when you quit playing again?” Ellie asks.
“Midseason junior year, when I tore my rotator cuff. Just in time for the recruiters to show up to watch me ruin my career in real time.” I select a baseball from the top of the bucket. Again, no autographs, no stickers, no nothing, so I throw it into the mitt, adjusting to the size and weight of it. Softballs are heavier, but the brace of my wrist and the clap of a ball against leather is the same. A prickle of familiarity inches up my forearms and toward my chest, and I fight the urge to imagine a life where I never had to take the mitt off. If everything had gone according to plan, I’d be gearing up for a third season pitching for a D1 team—ideally U of I, but I would’ve gone anywhere with apersuasive recruiter who could guarantee I’d be pitching all four years. It’s all fantasy now, but unlike most days, my reality isn’t so bad. It’s a decked-out garage, a mitt that fits, and a girl who’s waiting to see what I’ve got.
After a centering breath, I adjust my stance, wind up, and throw a knuckleball dead center into the pitchback. The net recoils, launching the ball right back into my mitt.Thunk. God, I missed that sound.
“Oh wow,” Ellie whispers. “You’re likegoodgood.”
“Not like I used to be, but I still remember a little.” I wind up again. Curveball this time, right into the sweet spot. The pitchback does what it’s meant to do.Thunk, right back into the mitt.
“Seems like you still remember a lot.”
I turn the ball over in my hand, inspecting it for scuffs. “It’s like riding a bike. Once it’s in your body, it stays there.”
“Deep,” Ellie teases.
“Shut up.” I throw a third pitch, hitting the corner of the tape this time. Not my best. “See?” I point at the pitchback as evidence. “They’re not all perfect pitches.”
A flicker of something wicked and wild dances through her eyes. “It doesn’t have to be perfect to be good,” Ellie says, and the breathy rhythm of her voice tests my balance more than I’d ever admit.
“Using my own words against me, huh?”
“You know it.”
For the next few pitches, she watches me closely, her eyes hot on my skin with every throw. Eventually, she stops following the ball, examining only me. “How’d you hurt yourself?”she finally asks. The inevitable question anytime my softball career gets brought up.
I tap the mitt against my right shoulder. “Overuse. I kept pitching even when my shoulder started to bug me, and then during a tournament it just…” I shudder the memory away, unwilling to relive the details. “Long story short, bad form did me dirty.”
“Really?” Ellie arches a brow. “You look good to me.”
My stomach twists. She steps up behind me, and on my next pitch, I can feel her mirroring my movements at half effort, like a dancer marking her choreography. When my weight shifts, her weight half shifts. When I follow through, she half follows through. When I turn around, she blushes, caught in the act.
“You need a mitt if you’re gonna catch it,” I point out.
“Or you could just catch it for me.” Ellie rests a hand on my shoulder, watching her own thumb as it strokes tiny circles against the knit of my sweater. There’s no one here to witness her tenderness—not Kara or Otto or even Bo—but no part of me wants to remind her of that. “How’s your arm now?” she asks.
“Better. I can throw a little.” I tip my head toward the pitchback as if it’ll agree. “If I took it easy, I might be able to play in a community league or something.” Just the possibility sparks a little hope in my belly.
