And I’m going to keep following it.
“You good?” Hayes asks a bit later.
“Yeah. Good game tonight.”
He looks at me a beat longer than the question requires. Then he lets it go with a nod. “Good game too.”
I stare at the back of the seat in front of me.
Three more games before we’re home. I’m going to focus on keeping my spot on this team and keeping my throws where they’re supposed to go and not doing anything that costs me my brother or my contract.
Penelope Ripley is going on a date with a doctor, and I’m not going to try to stop her. It will be the hardest thing I’ve done all season. Which is funny since I’ve been booting routine grounders for three weeks.
Chapter
Twelve
Penelope
* * *
I knock on the door, and my dad’s muffled voice says, “Come in.”
Stepping into my dad’s office, the first thing I notice is that Hazel’s pictures outnumber mine on his desk five to one. The second thing I notice is all the dry erase markers—and just like that, I’m nine years old again.
It’s amazing how the smell of dry erase markers can make me feel at home. I grew up in offices like this one. I did homework on couches like the one along the wall while men talked batting averages at the whiteboard.
I have no idea why my dad wants to see me—at his office nonetheless—but I forgot how comfortable I was in his favorite space. I guess that’s what happens when your mom gets the house and your dad gets the weekends.
He rises from behind his desk, dropping his reading glasses on the folder in front of him as though it’s already been a day. “There she is.”
He opens his arms, and I step right into them. The scent of his aftershave makes me close my eyes and inhale deeper. These are the things Hazel is missing, and I feel it every time I’m in his arms. The security of the first man in your life who loves you no matter how much you screw up. I want my daughter to know this feeling of security and acceptance too.
I tested it in college, and I’ll never do it again. I know what that feels like.
“Hey, Dad.” I go to the couch, sit, and cross my legs.
He stands and rests his hands on either side of his hips, leaning back on his desk. “Do you want anything to drink?”
“No. I’m good.”
He nods and changes his stance, crossing his arms. I really hope whatever he’s brought me here to talk about has nothing to do with the Davis twins. I’ve spent three years carefully constructing a life that runs parallel to theirs without intersecting, and the last thing I need is my dad accidentally pulling me into their drama.
“I was called into Shane Whitaker’s office. You know the GM?”
I chuckle. “I know him, Dad. I’ve met him more than a few times.”
My dad isn’t usually nervous around me. Well, that’s not entirely true. He gets nervous when he has to deliver bad news, and right now he has the exact same energy as the time he told me he was moving out of Philadelphia.
My chest tightens, my breaths a little harder to take, but I don’t spot any cardboard boxes lying around. “Dad?” He quickly shakes his head, and I sink into the couch, thankful he hasn’t been fired. “Good. Then why don’t you sit?”
He pushes off the desk and sits on the chair adjacent to me. “You sure you don’t want a drink?”
“No, Dad. Now what is it?”
The silence stretches thin enough to be translucent. “Shane is upset that we don’t have a WAG group. Says the Trojans are winning the hearts of this city.”
The Trojans are Chicago’s other professional baseball team.
