I’m not lying to make her comfortable. The trailer park isn’t much to look at, but the people living here have made it their home. All the trailers are well-maintained, and the grass is neatly trimmed. Even a handful of owners have new decks out the front of their homes, and the barbecue scent lingering in the air has me planning an extra-long getaway.
My mouth stops salivating when I’m scared to within an inch of my life. A large brute of a man is standing in the doorway of Summer’s dad’s trailer, eyeballing me like he’s trying to determine which body part of mine to barbecue first.
“Daddy,” Summer greets, her twang back to what it was the night we met. “I thought you said you didn’t have a buttoned-up shirt,” she jests while throwing her arms around his massive shoulders barely contained by said shirt.
“And I thought you said this boy was going to be the number one pitcher one day?” He fakes hocking a loogie that makes my stomach curdle. “I don’t see it. His arms are like toothpicks.”
“They wouldn’t look like that if you didn’t have tree trunks for forearms. Jesus! What do you bench? The sasquatch?”
I realize I said my comment out loud when Summer’s dad throws his head back and laughs. His chuckles are as booming as the veins in his arms.
“I told you you’d like him,” Summer whispers before scooting past her dad.
The scent of marinated meat, buttered corn, and mashed potatoes make sense when we break through the threshold her dad’s frame hogged. You know how some mothers bake up a storm when their children come home for summer break? Well, Summer’s dad seems to cook enough food to feed an army.
It dawns on me that my assumptions are accurate when the calvary arrives a couple of seconds later. Men and women vacate their trailers like Summer’s stomach contents did last night, and a group of men with arms as wide as Summer’s dad pull up in trucks out front.
“Is it like this every time you come home?” I ask Summer, stunned by the turnout. I’m used to the fanfare, but it only ever occurs when I’m walking to the mound. I’ve never once had it when I go home. My father prefers for the limelight to remain on him.
Summer leans into my side, her smile carefree. “Pretty much so. Come on, let me introduce you to everyone.”
It takes over an hour to do the rounds, another hour to stuff myself stupid with food Coach Lake would make me run ten miles to burn off, then another hour for Summer’s dad, Rye, to convince me he can handle one of my curveballs.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to pitch underarm?”
Rye’s glare is strong enough to send a shockwave through the trailer park. He stares me down like a big-time hitter before raising his bat in preparation to swing. I’ll give it to him, even with the bat being one-third the width of his arm, his hold is on par with what I face each inning. He wants to win our hundred-dollar wager so bad, and his ribs were so scrumptious, I’m considering letting him have it.
After giving Summer a look that says I’ll take it easy on her old man, I throw a curveball even a novice could hit. Every pitcher’s goal is the same—to defeat the hitter—but it’s backyard games like this that teach you it’s okay to occasionally take a chill pill. It isn’t always about winning—even when it’s more than your reputation at stake.
I duck within a nanosecond to spare when Rye’s worn-out bat collides with the ball with such accuracy, it sends it sailing out of the park.
“What the fuck was that?” I push out with a shocked groan when the ball sails across the interstate at a speed fast enough to be picked up by an officer hoping for a summer bonus. When Rye winks at me, his grin as smug as hell, I shift my wide eyes to Summer. “You played me.”
“Me?Never.” She rolls her eyes with the dramatics of a third-year college student before muttering, “But just in case, maybe add a little bit of skill to your throw this time around. If Daddy’s head gets any bigger, it may not fit through the front door.”
She tosses me another ball from the crate she dragged out from underneath the trailer before drifting her eyes to her father. “Over the interstate, not on it. If it hits a car, you’re out of bounds.”
While silently brooding that she’s on her father’s side instead of mine, I change my pitch from a curveball to a four-seam fastball. When Rye smashes it out of the park without the slightest drop of sweat beading his brow, I know, without doubt, I’ve been played, and Summer is the first person I announce that to.
After chasing her through the trailer park like I wasn’t nipping at her heels a second after she realized I was going to chase her down, I pin her onto a patch of grass at the front of an empty pool, then drag my sweat-drenched face down her cheeks and neck.
She hates getting sweaty as much as I love it, but you wouldn’t know that from the giggles roaring out of her mouth. She’s laughing in a way I’ve only achieved a handful of times the past three years, and the remembrance has me plotting ways for it to occur again and again and again.
But unfortunately, it most likely won’t be me making her laugh.
Summer’s blissed-up eyes shift to me when I ask her dad, “How long did you play?”
I say ‘did’ because while helping Summer wash up the dishes from the barbecue, she let slip that her father is rarely home because he works seven days a week. That type of schedule doesn’t allow time for anything, much less muck around matches of a ball game you played in your youth.
Rye takes a chug of his third beer for this evening before replying, “All through little league, every summer leg between middle school and high school, and in a handful of tournaments similar to the one you’re about to attend.”
“Then why weren’t you scouted? You clearly have talent.” My half-brothers don’t have one-tenth of the skill he displayed this afternoon, yet they’re out on the ball field every season.
I’d fall back into my chair if I weren’t already seated when he informs, “I was. Just other priorities popped up.”
“Priorities more important than major league baseball?” I spit out in shock, confident nothing could be more important than playing in the majors.
The blistering grin that hasn’t left Summer’s face all day brightens when her dad curls his arm around her slim waist to tug her into his side. Although her checkered shirt and ripped jeans are still on the boyish side, her tomboy status is nowhere near as obvious when a bunch of rowdy grease monkeys surround her. She actually looks pretty girlie, but with a touch of country you’d expect when you learn her parents are from the south. “Rebekah got pregnant a couple of months after we met, and I didn’t want her to raise our child alone.”
