Page 20 of The Way We Swing

Dad smirked at me and turned to Easton. “As for you, I need to know I can trust you with my son. You’ve made a big impression on Gavin. He’ll follow your lead more than Tanner. I don’t care that you are only sixteen—you need to act as if he were your own brother. Screw this up, and you won’t be around any of my kids again.”

“I already see Gavin as my little brother, Mr. Quinn.”

Well, I’ll be damned. He nailed that answer.

Dad smiled. He looked at Mom, who nodded stiffly. Then he said, “You’re good to go. I’ll—”

Gavin interrupted, “YES, SIR!” He leapt into the room, his right Croc flying off his foot and nearly hitting me in the face.

“Is anyone surprised he was listening the whole time?” I said, laughing at the little fool. He was dancing as if to music only he could hear. But I thought I heard it, too.

“Gavin, you need to listen. These two are in charge in the same way Mom and I would be. Got it?”

“I’ll do everything they say,” Gavin said.

“I’ve got to call Mark as well. He’ll have to check you guys in,” Dad said, following Mom out of the living room.

After they had left the room, Gavin turned to Easton. “Did you really mean that?”

“Mean what?”

“That you look at me like a brother.”

“Yeah, man.”

I watched them fist bump, and then Gavin ran out of the room trying not to smile.

My heart did that annoying thing again—tightening, expanding, breaking a little. Easton had no idea what he was doing to me.

CHAPTER 8

Gavin, Easton, and I loaded the Durango with suitcases, Gatorade, and enough clean underwear for three days before joining a caravan down I-54.

I kept checking the cupholder—wallet, phone, sunglasses—then glancing at Easton like he might vanish. My hand twitched every time his arm bumped mine at a stoplight as we battled for elbow room on the center console.

The field for the first game was nondescript; it looked to be the home field of a local high school. The dugouts were new, with an eagle painted on both brick exteriors. Two sets of batting cages lined both sides of the field, as did two shabby bullpen mounds.

A game was already underway. The visiting team led 10-2 in the third, and things looked like they were about to get worse. This game almost certainly was going to end early with the ten-run mercy rule.

Gavin joined his teammates, and they stretched on the open grass behind the field. They looked like a hive of bees, with their solid yellow jerseys and black pants. Gavin stood almost a head shorter than the rest—being the only thirteen-year-old made the gap feel even bigger.

He may have been small, but he was turning into a pretty good athlete. Gavin had come to every morning workout this summer, and he was in better shape than all the freshmen as well as every sophomore outside of Easton and Zach.

With the cages open, Easton and I decided we’d take a couple of rounds of BP. We walked back to the Durango to grab the always present bucket of balls and my favoritewood bat—you never knew when you’d have a free cage to hit in.

The chaos of bats cracking, parents yelling, and coaches barking surrounded us as Easton and I kept swinging. Gavin’s coach approached us between sets.

Coach Messina was in his upper forties. He was a bigger guy—maybe four inches taller than me—with a hint of a gut; his deep farmer’s tan was indicative of how much time he spent at the field. He and his wife never had kids, so he dedicated his summers to coaching what he called “the most important age of a baseball player’s life.” I had played on Coach Messina’s travel team when I was fourteen, during the summer before high school, and I’d enjoyed playing for him.

“How are you, Tanner? Glad you could make it out this weekend.”

“So am I. I’ve been wanting to get to some games, but we’ve had a full schedule all summer.”

“I’m sure. Are you guys going to be any good next season?”

“Yeah. Anything short of a state title will suck. Most of our guys are coming back, and we also added this guy,” I said, introducing Easton.

“Gavin won’t shut up about you,” Messina said.