Page 38 of The Way We Swing Back

My dad.

I locked in on him, trying to convince myself this wasn’t a mirage. He stood there, tirty yards away, watching me pitch. Why? Why would he come here?

“Easton,” someone said near third base.

I looked over, and Joe flipped the ball to me. The ball hit my glove without me processing.

I stepped onto the mound and looked at Gavin, trying to prepare for the next pitch. Gavin’s signs blurred to the point that I had to step off. Sweat dripped onto my forehead and seeped into my eyes, stinging my vision even more.

“Can I get time, blue?” a voice said somewhere.

Who was that? I turned my whole body toward the sound, trying to match the voice with a name. My feet stuck in the dirt, and I nearly tripped over the rubber.

“Easton.” That voice. A good voice. A hand landed on my shoulder. “Easton, look at me.”

I did. Tanner.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded.

“Take a deep breath,” Tanner said.

I did. Slightly calmer.

“Can you keep pitching?”

Pitching. Right. That was what I needed to do. I nodded.

“You need to say you’re fine, or you’re coming out.”

“I’m fine, Tanner.” I took a breath again, regaining a sliver of a sense of my job. “Can you get him out of here?” I asked.

“Coach Berrios is already on it,” he said. “Look.”

I did. Coach Berrios had walked next to my dad. So had Mr. Quinn.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’re pitching great. Keep it up.”

Tanner jogged away from me, his voice still in my head, grounding me. I wiped the sweat out of my eyes, pleased to be able to see Gavin behind the plate.

The last six innings of the game blurred. I had a vague notion of scoring twice but couldn’t remember any pitch sequences. I only threw three innings and managed to get by giving up one run. All things considered, I had survived.

The quiet at the Quinns’ house after the game freaked me out nearly as much as my dad appearing. We sat in the basement, uniforms still on, the smell of sweat and Icy Hot hanging over us, avoiding the words nobody wanted to say.

Zach typed on his phone, his legs hanging over the edge of the couch, his eyes darting between the screen and me. I’d never directly told him what had happened with Mom and Dad, but I was pretty sure Gavin or Tanner had.

Gavin didn’t know what had happened at the field, but he read the room enough not to say anything. He hadn’t heard my dad say my name like everyone else but knew I’d been frazzled. He’d tried talking to me between innings, and I’d brushed him off; I couldn’t remember my words to him, but he’d walked away.

Tanner had forced me to grab a controller, and the vibrations stabilized me in the basement as we played a game I didn’t care about.

“Pizza is here,” Mr. Quinn said as he and his wife joined us. The smell of pepperoni distracted me, but that lasted all of one bite.

“Easton, can you come upstairs when you’re done so we can talk?” Mrs. Quinn asked.

Why would I want to do that? I took a sip of water, trying to figure out how to say that politely.