Page 13 of The Way We Swing Back

Mr. Quinn lowered his paper and gave me his full attention. Suddenly, the room fell too quiet. I shoved my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie—one I’d stolen from Tanner’s closet—the smell of acorns filling me, and focused on the coffee table so I wouldn’t lose my nerve.

“My shoulder’s been bothering me,” I said. “For a while.”

“How long is a while?” Mr. Quinn asked.

“A couple of weeks. Since, uh, since last spring, really.”

Mrs. Quinn’s brow knitted. “And have you seen anyone yet?”

I shook my head again.

“Easton,” she said, voice soft but serious. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Gavin shifted beside me. “He didn’t want to be a problem,” said the gremlin, unable to stay quiet, “but I saw him flinch real bad today. He’s not okay.”

Mrs. Quinn set her glass on the table with a quiet clink. “You are not a problem.”

I finally looked at her. “It shouldn’t be a big deal. I figured it’d go away. But... it hasn’t.”

She stood. “Okay. Then we’re going to take care of it.” Just like that. Not mad. Not panicking. Just moving into action.

“I—what?”

“I’m calling Dr. Fennelly in the morning. He’s the orthopedist we took Zach to after his hip thing; he’ll point us in the right direction. I’ll get you in by the end of the week, maybe sooner.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” she said, stepping closer. Her voice didn’t rise, but it landed with promise. “You might not be family, but you may as well be. In this family, we don’t wait around when something’s wrong.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

She gave me that same look she used when Gavin was sick or when Zach had been limping after a game. “You need anything for tonight? Ice? Advil?”

“I took Tylenol already,” I managed.

Mr. Quinn stood, too, walked over, and put a hand on my back. “We’ll figure it out, alright? Focus on resting that arm. And absolutely no throwing until you see the doctor. That includes batting practice for Gavin.”

It was the steadiest thing I'd felt all day, and I didn't know what to do with a hand that wasn't going to hurt me. Or with the way he knew my biggest test would be Gavin asking me to throw to him.

Mrs. Quinn stepped forward and—like it was the most natural thing in the world—wrapped her arms around me. Loose enough that I could’ve pulled away, but with a warmth I didn’t want to move from. “You don’t have to hurt alone,” she said near my ear.

I nodded into her shoulder. When she let go, I wiped at my face, more out of reflex than need.

Gavin didn’t say anything. He just bumped his elbow against mine as we turned to leave the room.

I didn’t look back. For once, leaving a room didn’t feel like getting away with something.

I’m nine, and Dad and I are in the backyard, only the two of us. The sun is setting behind the fence, turning everything that dusty orange color that makes the grass look dead. Dad decides I need to learn how to catch a “real” throw, not the soft lobs he usually gives me.

He winds up like he’s pitching in the majors, and before I can even get my glove ready, the ball slams into my thigh. A sharp, mean sting lights up my leg, and I yelp before I can swallow the sound.

Dad drops his arm, sighs, and walks toward me, annoyed. “Come on, Easton,” he says. “You've gotta toughen up. Men don’t cry over little things.”

My eyes burn, and I try to blink back the tears. I hate crying in front of him. It feels like failing a test I didn’t know I was taking.

“It hurts,” I whisper, rubbing the spot. The seam of the baseball leaves a red imprint through my shorts.

“Of course it hurts,” he says. “Life hurts. Baseball hurts. Being a man hurts. You handle it anyway.” He crouches down so we are eye-to-eye. His breath smells like beer and mint gum. “This?” He taps my leg. “This is nothing. One day you’ll laugh about getting hit by a stupid ball.”