Page 72 of The Way We Swing

“Can I tweet it?” Gavin said between fits of laughter.

Easton rolled off of Gavin completely and lay next to him. “Maybe after the game.”

“REALLY?!”

“No, you turd. Nothing happened.”

“So, you two aren’t together?”

“No, Gavin,” I said, exasperated. “Easton’s not gay. Let it go, alright?”

“Go get dressed,” Easton said, moving off of Gavin completely. “We can play catch before breakfast.”

I pushed through the hotel restaurant doors just as the other three seniors strolled in behind me. Without a word, we slid into the booth farthest from the entrance. The rest of the team filed in with untucked shirts and excited eyes.

This sport never had fans. Not like this. But today, our town had shown up—it seemed like the entire restaurant was packed with people I had grown up seeing walking around the streets.

I scanned the room, trying to trap every detail—how the silverware glinted, the way the chairs scraped the tile, the faint murmur of conversation floating under it all. I didn’t want to miss a second.

“I hope you’re ready for this shit, Captain Quinn,” Ricky said, tugging a menu off the stack like he was challenging it to a fight.

I rapped my knuckles against the wood. “I’ve been ready since freshman year.”

“We weren’t ready back then,” Silas said. “We just thought we were. We earned this.”

“Helps when you turn three double plays in the semis,” Maddux added. He wouldn’t pitch today—he’d thrown too many pitches the game before—so Silas was getting the start.

I glanced across the booth. “How’s the arm?”

“Doesn’t matter how bad it hurts, I’ll be good to go,” Silas said.

“You know what hits weird?” Ricky said after a beat. “This is it. Last time the four of us share the field. Win or lose, we're done being teammates.”

I’d thought that same thing a dozen times but always in the shadow of a loss. Not now. Win or lose, today was it.

“Dumbass, we’ll always be teammates,” said Maddux. “Just because we don’t put on the same uniform anymore doesn’t mean we aren’t teammates.”

“We’ve played over five hundred games together,” I said. “Today’s five hundred and four.”

“No way.”

“My dad still has the score books to prove it.”

We fell quiet again, letting that number sit between us. Five hundred and four games. And today, the last.

We traded favorite games, the dumbest practice fights, and inside jokes about Coach Berrios making each other cry. Plates came and went. But none of us moved. This was the part I’d miss most—not the crack of a bat or the roar of a crowd. This.

“Shit, Quinn is starting to cry, and we haven’t even laced up our cleats,” Ricky said.

“Shut it, Ricky,” I said, wiping the wetness out of my eyes. “I’m just going to miss you guys.”

“You fag,” Maddux said, but his voice was warm. A smile tugged at his mouth.

I snorted. “Tomorrow we’re having a talk about what words you’re not allowed to say anymore.”

He raised his apple juice like a toast. “Looking forward to it.”

Coach stepped into the middle of the room, clapping his hands once. He wore that ratty red-and-black pullover, the same one he’d worn all season, rain or shine—even today, despite the forecast of ninety degrees. He locked his hands behind his body as he always did before a big speech and started talking.