“What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be in the bullpen?” I dig my elbow into my thigh, wincing.
“Just finished warming up. But wanted to come say thanks for the other night. For cleaning up after my shitty pitching.” He cringes, running a hand along the back of his neck. “I know we talked about it in the team meeting. I know that’s your job. But I hold myself to a higher standard than that. And I know we need to look good coming off the World Series ... and there are other ... things I need to live up to.”
I don’t miss the way his eyes shift to Matt’s retired number, hanging from a banner along the roof of the stadium.
“All good.” I exhale, sidestepping. I talked about Matty with Ren, but I’m not sure I want to talk about him with the guy who has his old job. I walk my feet together, popping up to stand. “Double plays are a pitcher’s best friend. Might as well make use of them when they happen.”
Joel snorts dryly. “That’s what they say, anyway.” He claps my shoulder before tipping his chin towards the stands. “You should go say hi before the first pitch.”
“Shouldn’t you be telling me to focus and get my head in the game?”
“Bit hard when they keep panning to her and everyone seems to be waiting with bated breath to see what happens next.” He points towards the screen, and the magnified version of Ren who sits there, blushing, sinking lower in her seat while she whispers behind her hand to her friend from the museum. Joel lifts hishand, jogging backwards towards the dugout. “See you in a few. Good game, yeah?”
I nod, tugging on the ends of my hair before I tip my head back up to the screen. When I do, the camera pans to me looking up at her.
Olson should give the production crew a raise.
Everyone in the stands loves it.
They love it even more when I raise my gloved hand in acknowledgement and jog over to the infield wall.
“No hot dogs?” I clap my glove against the top of the wall.
Ren wrinkles her nose through a smile before she shakes her head. “No. I heard a rumour the other night that the best ones in the city were outside the stadium. So, you know, as scientists and researchers”—she waves between her and a wide-eyed Imani—“we had to see if we could substantiate it.”
“And?” A grin tilts up the corners of my mouth, and I tug on the laces of my glove, waiting.
She flashes two fingers, shrugging one shoulder. “Second place, I think.”
“Oh yeah? Where do you get the first-place hot dog in the city?”
Ren lifts a brow. “Heard there are some really great ones outside the Danforth GO.”
My chest swells. “Yeah, heard those were pretty good, too.” My gaze swings to Imani, and I point at her with my glove. “And what did you think? As a scientist.”
“I didn’t drop it.” Imani frowns, fiddling with the frays on her denim shorts. “So, that’s already skewing the experience towards the positive.”
“Sturdier bun, maybe.” Ren flicks up a finger like she’s come up with some ground-breaking hypothesis.
“Great theory.” I point my glove towards the margarita perspiring in the cupholder of Ren’s chair. “Careful with that. You’re wearing my spare jersey.”
Slim fingers pluck at the jersey, right above the emblem. “Don’t worry. Adults don’t spill.” She cocks her head, hair tumbling down from her shoulder. “But they do offer good-luck high fives to their adult friends before their big games. Especially when they’re broadcast on the screen for the whole stadium to see.”
She points towards the screen, but she leans forward in her seat, closer to the infield wall. I don’t check to see that the camera’s still on us. She blinks up at me, and for the first time I notice these flecks of gold and white scattered in her eyes.
Really, really, fucking beautiful, I think, when I hold up my hand and her palm meets mine.
I can’t hear the resounding slap over the screaming of the crowd and this noise of the wildly swinging broken rib and her, taking up more and more space in my chest.
I try not to look at Ren or do anything stupid like I might have in the past. Old Miller would have pointed at her or taken some dumb showboating run up to the wall after flipping his bat in a stupid display that would have probably driven the crowd wild.
But I stay on top during that third game. Another double play, another home run, and we sweep the series.
It’s like that all the next week for the away series, too. And even though she’s nowhere to be found in the seats, it does feel a bit like she’s there in the stadium with me.
Think she’s building walls of a house in my chest, actually. Might even be constructing some sort of shelf or bench where it’s safe for Matty to sit.
She’s definitely on my phone. We text the entire week, trading pictures of fossils and the field. She tells me dumb jokes, and I tell her more and more about Matty. Hurts a bit less, each time I do.
