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“I’d like that.” Elise sinks back into the sofa and puts her head back on my shoulder with a sigh. “He hasn’t said much to me…but I can’t help wondering if he might be worried about the trade deadline.”
“I think we’re all a little bit worried,” I tell her, squeezing her close.
“What are we worried about?” Max saunters back onto the patio with three bowls of ice cream on a tray with sundae toppings.
“That you’ve gone soft,” Elise sits up with a laugh as she reaches for a bowl of ice cream and keeps the real source of our worries from her brother. As we enjoy our sundaes and the sunset over the water, that small, nagging fear in the back of my mind grows into something with more teeth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A Connection
MAX
Tomorrow is the trade deadline.
We have the day off today, atrueday off. No bullpen sessions, no practices, no drills. We’ve had a mediocre run since coming home from the road trip and recovering from Jack’s no-hitter. Roger thinks our lack of runs and wins and good baseball is because we need to rest. It’s the end of July and we’re all tired. There’s almost five months of baseball behind us, and four more months in front of us if we’re lucky.
This time last year, we were lucky.
We were looking at a playoff run. A playoff run that took us right to the precipice before our hopes were dashed. We are smack in the middle of the division standings right now, barely over .500, and it would take a miracle of our wins and everyone else’s losses for us to even begin to think about a playoff run this season. I’d love to end my career with a playoff run, but as we get deeper into this season, I’d be happy to retire with a winning record for my team.
“Add whatever you need to the cart,” Sutton’s voice travels up the stairs from the kitchen, “any supplies you need for your classroom.”
“Max already stocked my room withsupplies, so I won’t break your budget.” Elise laughs and I hear the hiss of the espresso machine as the smell of dark, strong, espresso wafts up the stairs. “I basically just need pencils and dry erase markers.”
“Add them to the cart,” Sutton insists. “Enough for the year and then some. Erasers. Crayons. Snacks. You’ve got little ones, so add some clothes and underwear too in case they have accidents.”
“Sutton, are you sure?”
“I’m sure, Elise.”
“You might want to listen to her, Leecey,” I join them in the kitchen, snagging Sutton by the waist and pulling her in for a kiss. “I’ve seen what she does to our hitters when they don’t listen.”
“He makes me sound much worse than I am,” Sutton protests with a wink.
“I’m adding pencils, dry erase markers, crayons, and reading resources right now,” Elise laughs. “I put my softball girls through drills, and I don’t want to be on the receiving end of big league hitting drills, thank youverymuch.”
“Good call,” I laugh, accepting the latte that Sutton hands me. “What are you two up to today?”
“A whale tour,” Elise excitedly answers. “Sutton has never done one.”
“Why wasn’t I invited?” I feign offense as I sip the obscenely good coffee that Sutton made.
“Because, it’s Girls’ Day,” Elise answers matter of factly, eyes still on Sutton’s laptop screen as she adds more and more school supplies to her virtual cart. I haven’t seen my sister this loose and happy and...herself…in a very long time. “And you’re not invited.”
“That’s alright, I have plans of my own.”
After seeing the girls off to their whale tour I make my wayto Bainbridge Animal Shelter, where Maria greets me from her usual spot at the front desk.
“Good morning Mr. Harrison, should I tell Dr. Henderson you’re here?”
“No need, Maria, I’m your volunteer for the day. Dr. Henderson should have given you a list.”
“So you’re the one on dog walking duty today,”Maria grins as she hands me the list and a handful of leashes and harnesses. “Careful with Benji, he likes to wander.”
With my list in hand, I make my way through the kennels and find the dogs I’ll be walking this morning. The first few dogs are puppies up for adoption, and I’m here often enough that they know me, and come right to me as soon as I open their kennels. They happily let me hook them into leashes and harnesses and finally I get to Benji. He’s a new addition to the shelter, only been here a few weeks.
Benji is a pomeranian poodle mix, ten years old and surrendered by his family before they had to make a cross-country move. He snarls at me as I loop his harness over his head and around his torso. Once he’s hooked up and on leash with the other dogs, he’s fine, and he trots off in the front of the pack as we make our way down the road for our walk.
