Page 7 of The Way We Swing Back

“What?” he mumbled.

“Why aren’t you talking?”

“Just don’t want to talk right now,” he said as he raised his knees closer to his face.

Zach caught my eye, his raised brow telling me we were thinking the same thing—Gavin had never once not wanted to hear his own voice.

“Spill it, Gavin,” Zach said.

“I suck,” he said.

“Yeah, you do,” I said before I could help myself.

Zach shot me another look, his eyes sharp. “No, you don’t.”

“I have one hit this summer,” he choked out.

“You’re fourteen playing against eighteen-year-olds. What did you expect?” Zach asked.

“I’ve never sucked before,” Gavin said, sitting up, his face filled with pain. I felt it, too, wishing I could help him.

“Join the club,” I said.

I watched the kid slumped next to me, smaller than usual, his eye black smudged halfway across his cheek. My mind fumbled over what to say. Gavin was the easiest of the Quinns to talk to—always had been. But this version of him, quiet and crushed? That was Tanner’s territory. Tanner, who had no idea how awful we’d looked today.

How was I supposed to help? I didn’t have a clue what it was like to have a hitless summer. I couldn’t remember the last time I hadn’t gotten a hit in a game. But then again... hadn’t I spent the whole day failing, too?

“You’ve been playing well behind the plate,” I offered.

“Big whoop,” Gavin said.

“I didn’t shake you off once today,” I said, finding a second compliment.

“Maybe you should have with the way they lit you up,” Gavin said, catching my eye, almost smiling.

I jumped on him, finally seeing the Gavin who was easy to make happy. I pinned his shoulders down with my knees and flicked his ears—huge targets to hit.

“How about we go outside, and I’ll throw to you?” I said. “Turn you into a varsity-level hitter one of these days.”

Gavin’s laugh vibrated from under me as he failed to kick me in the back to get me off him, and Zach just shook his head.

For a second, I almost forgot how badly we’d played today.

The following Saturday, I walked out of my grandparents’ house when Zach beeped the horn from the driveway.

I pulled open the mailbox on the way to the car—I was still waiting for an invite to a showcase—and I saw a plain white envelope with my name on it. As I unsuccessfully checked for a return address, my foot nailed one of those stupid gnomes; I always hated how those damn ugly statues stared at me as if I was doing something wrong. Tanner called them his favorite jury, but I was pretty sure they creeped him out, too.

“I’m getting two hits today,” Gavin said as I got in the car and shut the backseat door behind me. One batting cage session after his confidence dip last weekend, and he was back to being Gavin.

“Sure you are,” I said as I stared at the envelope. I vaguely recognized the handwriting, and the back of my neck went cold.

I ripped open the right side of the envelope. Inside was a folded piece of loose-leaf paper, as white as the envelope.

Gavin continued to ramble as I unfolded the paper and started to read, my stomach churning from the first sentence, sweat dripping onto the page.

Dear Easton,

I’ve missed you, son. I read about you in the papers and how good of a season you had up until that last out. Sucks you couldn’t come through; I bet if I’d worked on your swing last year, you would’ve gotten a hit.