If anything, my reply seems to make him more upset. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice his jaw clench.
“Got it. Well, I can ask around if you want. Maybe one of the guys on the team knows something.”
“Thanks.”
Fortunately, the Cedar Creek Inn really is just a few blocks away, because the strange tension that snapped into place between us as soon as I told him where I was staying is becoming uncomfortable.
He pulls up to the front door, which, thankfully, is under cover so I don’t have to get drenched walking inside. But when I move to get out of the car, his hand lands on my arm.
“Wait.”
I turn back to look at him, the sound of the rain pouring down outside louder now that my door is open.
“Thanks for letting me give you a ride,” he says.
“Pretty sure I’m the one who should be saying thank you. I would’ve been drenched if I tried to walk.”
“I’ll drive you any time. Every day. Whenever you need it.” He stumbles over the words as they spill out.
It’s endearing.
I want to close the distance between us and kiss his cheek.
I want to hug him, whether as a thank you, or a good night, or something else—I don’t know.
I don’t do either of those things.
“Well, it’s been a really long day. I need a shower, some food, and some sleep.” I climb out of the car, and just before closing the door, I bend down to look at him.
“Good night, Brady. Thanks again for the ride.”
Then, without giving him a chance to respond, I close the door, pivot on my foot, and walk quickly inside the hotel.
Away from the man who’s making me feel things and want things I have no business feeling or wanting.
13
BRADY
The soundof my bat connecting with the ball never gets old. If I’d gone pro as a pitcher, I wouldn’t get to hear that sound. But here in the Pacific Northwest Independent League, I swing at a fastball down the middle and send it into left field.
I take off at a run and land on first base, exhaling forcefully as I remove my batting gloves and slip them into my back pocket.
We’re on fire tonight, and I take second easily when Oakley connects with a line drive down the third baseline. Minutes later, I’m rounding for home, and heading to the dugout. It’s the bottom of the eighth and we’re ahead by three now. I don’t want to jinx us, but this game is ours for the taking.
It hits me as I drop to the bench and gulp down some water: A year ago, I didn’t think I’d ever get to play ball in a professional capacity. That goal was my entire identity for so long, until it wasn’t.
I’ve made peace with the fact that my life turned outvery different than I thought it would. My dream of playing ball in the major leagues was replaced with the dream of simply surviving until the twins were adults.
Then I blinked, and they were grown. We had made it. And I was faced with the uncertainty of not knowing who I was meant to be now. If I wasn’t a baseball player, and I wasn’t the guardian to my siblings, who was I?
Until I got the call from the Thunder. Now, here I am, back on the field. Finding myself on the mound again, throwing pitches they don’t see coming. Letting go of the stress of my life by hitting a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball.
It doesn’t get much better than this.
The fact that I’m getting paid to be here is icing on the cake.
Skimpy icing, but better than paying to play in the local beer league.
