Page 12 of Convincing the Catcher

“And if it doesn’t?” she asks softly. Even though she pauses, I know she’s not done talking by the way she’s looking at me. “Are you going to be okay, Cane? Because, despite how you may try to come off, I know damn well you care what people think of you. And … I may have looked at your profile and read some comments after I heard those girls talking, and, well … it’s not good.”

Zipping up my bag, I grab the handle and stand up straight. “Are we going to lunch or what?”

When she just simply stares at me, I raise my eyebrows. “I did this to myself, Mom. But, yeah, I’m fine. I haven’t even been going on my socials and don’t plan to until everything blows over.”

I’m lying. The truth is, I’ve read way more comments than I care to admit, and, yeah, it wasn’t that fucking fun having people I’d never met basically calling me a piece of shit. What was worse were the ones I did know, the ones who had been following my journey for a while now, telling me they were disappointed.

“Okay,” she says, nodding toward the parking lot. “Come on. Because even though I’m still pissed at you, I am legally supposed to care for you.” She stops. “Well, I mean, you’re an adult now. So, technically, I don’t have to.” Finally, she smiles at me for the first time since everything happened. “Let’s go.”

My mom would choose to eat lunch at the diner right off campus that’s currently swarming with the women’s softball team. They’re loud, all decked out in their softball gear, and taking up about half of the small restaurant. And of course, the redhead who’s been on my mind nonstop is sitting directly across the room, in plain sight.

I’ve been thinking about her a lot the past few days. Ever since I saw her in the dugout and overheard her talking about her insurance and medications, I’ve wondered if she got it straightened out or not. When you play at the level that we do, taking care of your body isn’t just important. It’s everything. And with type 1 diabetes, I can’t even begin to imagine how much extra effort she has to put into taking care of hers.

“It’s not lost on me that you keep looking over in the corner,” my mom whispers, grinning slightly. “Some pretty-looking softball players over there, I see.”

I snap my attention back to my mother, realizing I’ve probably been staring like a creeper for way too long. Thankfully, they all slowly stand, making their way toward the exit.

Harley is one of the last to go by, and she surprises me when she stops at our table. “No dugouts to sweep out today?” Her eyes glance nervously at my mom, and she flashes her a smile, as if trying to tell my mom she isn’t being a jerk to me.

“Not today,” I say, relaxing in my seat. “I’m saving that for tonight.”

“Well, hopefully not too many sunflower seeds to sweep.” She almost giggles, I swear.

“Hope not,” I say, pausing before the next words fly from my mouth. “This is my mom, Freya. Mom, this is NEU’s very own star catcher, Harley Meadows.”

My mom holds her hand out, smiling warmly, just like she always does. “I caught a few of your team’s games last year. Your arm is a cannon.”

This flushes Harley’s cheeks as she shakes my mom’s hand before releasing it. “Thank you. I hear this one’s is too.” She nods toward me before looking at the exit, where a few of her friends are waiting for her. Her eyes snap back to mine. “Well, make sure you clean the softball dugout good. Coach Brawn is a stickler about that.” She winks. Fucking winks. Because that’s how confident this girl is.

Looking at my mom, she holds a hand up. “It was nice to meet you, Freya.”

“Likewise,” my mom says softly, and I can’t help but watch as Harley walks—almost skips—away.

She appears happy today, so maybe that means she figured out her insurance shit. Or she’s got one hell of a poker face.

“She seems nice,” my mom says, a knowing grin on her lips. “And pretty. Very, very pretty.”

“I guess,” I utter, looking away from her and taking a sip from my Coke.

“Yeah, I bet you do,” she singsongs. “Been a while since I’ve seen that look in your eye, boy.” She fights a laugh.

“What look?” I play dumb, acting like the few times I’ve been around Harley Meadows, I haven’t almost made a fool of myself.

“Like … you have a crush on someone.” She sighs, still smiling. “Seems natural, you know. That your crush is on a star softball player and all.”

“I don’t have a crush on her,” I say instantly and probably a little too defensively. “I barely know her. I’ve talked to her a few times briefly. That’s it.”

My mom’s eyes sweep my face questionably, yet there’s zero judgment in them.

“Could have fooled me.” She shrugs, eating one of her French fries.

I debate asking her advice on if I should check in with Harley that everything is okay or if she needs help buying her medication. It seems so insane to even think about telling my mom the situation right now because I don’t even know Harley. And yet my mouth opens, and I can’t stop myself.

“It’s just … the other night, I was at the field, cleaning the dugouts, and I accidentally overheard her talking to someone about her insurance and medication. Like, she isn’t able to afford it or something.” I cringe, thinking back to how upset she sounded. “Whoever she was talking to, it sounded like they were in trouble too. I think it was her mom or dad.”

The grin is now gone from my mom’s lips, and a wrinkle forms between her brows as she examines my face with her gaze.

“I’ve read an article about her. She’s a type 1 diabetic athlete.”