Page 37 of The Way We Swing Back

I wasn't hungry anymore. I let myself out without a goodbye and walked home to the bottle waiting under my bed; the one thing that had never made me feel like I was taking someone's place.

Chapter 18

“Wake up.” The voice was annoying and scratchy, a reminder its speaker was in charge. It was a very punchable voice, especially when the sun hadn’t yet streaked through the windows.

I rolled over on the floor, Zach’s blanket still covering me like a warm hug I had no desire to break from. I kept my eyes shut, though I knew he was watching.

“We leave in ten minutes, and you two better be in the car. I’m not doing this for myself,” Tanner said. The door shut, signaling he had left the room.

“Your brother is a dick,” I mumbled to Zach as I stood up and pulled on a clean shirt and a fresh pair of shorts.

“Yeah,” Zach said.

True to his word, Zach had made sure nothing had changed. But the dynamics had. I still spent nearly every summer moment at the Quinns’, but I tried to make a bigger effort to at least include him; I hadn’t missed a lifting session with him in weeks, and I forced Gavin and Jake to come with us, too.

We made it to the car just in time, Gavin’s voice cracking as he greeted us. “Morning, guys!” His bright yellow Savannah Bananas shirt and powder-blue basketball shorts were another stark reminder that, like Tanner, he embodied the word go.

“Eat,” Tanner said, reaching over the center console and handing me an apple and water.

“Sir, yes, sir,” I muttered, unscrewing the cap of the water.

“You’re the one who asked me to do this,” Tanner said as he spun the wheel and backed onto the road.

“I didn’t think you’d be a drill sergeant,” I said.

He responded by looking into the rearview mirror, smiling at me, and raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” I said, “you’re right. I knew you would, but waking up at this time is insane.”

“Do you want to be trash again next year, or would you rather deal with a bit of Coach Tanner this summer?”

Zach sighed in the front seat. “If you ever call yourself Coach Tanner again, I’m done playing baseball.”

“Can you throw batting practice to us after this, Coach Tanner?” Gavin managed to spit out through fits of giggling. I lightly backhanded his shoulder and told him to can it as I bit into the tart Granny Smith.

A week ago, Tanner had moved back home for the rest of summer, opting to be around his family instead of alone in his apartment while school was out. I agreed with the choice, getting my favorite batting practice partner back. But dealing with him this early in the morning was too much.

The rest of the day sprinted by; the morning workout was similar to what Tanner had run when he’d been a senior, just with an added stop at the gym led by Zach. After a quick nap at the Quinns’ house, we got dressed for our summer game, and Tanner drove us to the field. I was slated to pitch for only the third time since Nate had cleared me.

“How’s the shoulder?” Tanner asked as we stood in the bullpen. He had asked Coach Berrios if he could help coach when he wasn’t at school, and Berrios had immediately accepted.

I threw a pitch to Gavin, smooth and easy, the ball sailing straight into the pocket of his glove. “Good so far,” I answered as I caught Gavin’s toss back. The air felt perfect tonight; the sun was out, and my body was moving the best it had in a year.

“Are you lying to me?” Tanner said, his eyes locked on me.

I fired another pitch to Gavin, this time with a bit more zip on it, my motion exactly where I wanted it. “Not this time.”

Tanner hovered over me as I finished my warmup. It was obvious what he was doing—he was watching my body language to see if I was still hurt. He knew me better than anyone, and there would be no hiding an injury flare-up now that he knew there was a shoulder to watch.

The first inning breezed by; I struck out two batters and got the third to roll out to Zach at short. We put up two runs in the first (partly thanks to Gavin, Zach, and me all getting hits), so when I jogged to the mound for the second inning, I allowed myself a quick smile. I was starting to believe this team was good again.

I attacked the first batter with a curveball—good pitch call, Gavin—then threw two fastballs in on his hands for an easy strikeout.

“Great pitch, Easton,” a voice shouted from the crowd.

His voice. I knew it before I looked over into the stands and saw him.

A beard that needed to be cut. A plain white shirt, a pair of khaki shorts, and a red Cardinals hat. My face, my eyes.