Page 13 of Convincing the Catcher

It’s not a question, but I nod my head faintly.

“Well, her medication … it’s extremely important that she gets it.” She speaks so softly, like she doesn’t want anyone to overhear, even though this place is almost empty now. “What did you say to her about it?”

My eyes fly up. “N-nothing,” I say quickly. “I waited till she was off the phone, and then I pretended like I hadn’t heard any of it. I didn’t know what to do or say. I barely know the girl, Mom. What was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “That’s tough.”

On the table, my phone continues to buzz. It’s just notifications from Instagram, and I don’t have to look to know that none of them are good. Everyone hates me because a few of the baseball players at Casco Bay have made it their mission not to let the fire go out. Fuck no, they keep stoking it and making me sound way worse than just some kid who spray-painted a fucking dugout.

When I don’t say anything back, my mom gives me a knowing look.

“You’ve always been my protective one. The one who worries about everyone else.” She breathes out the smallest laugh. “Even when I wished you wouldn’t, you would. You’ve been this way since you were a kid. When we lost your dad, you worried about me being okay. And when Avy had a tough time in school, you wanted to protect her every second she was there. With Cash, you wanted him to play hockey and to have every opportunity with that.”

She reaches across the table, patting my hand. “I don’t know this Harley girl, and like you said, you don’t either.” She shrugs. “But if you feel like you need to extend a hand to a fellow athlete, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that, Cane.”

“I don’t know,” I mutter. “She seems very independent. I don’t know if she’d accept help from someone she hardly knows.” I grimace. “Not to mention that the entire softball team probably hates me right now for the whole … dugout thing.”

The last few words come from my mouth quietly because I hate to even bring it up. It’s taken over so many parts of my life, and I wish I could turn back time and just erase it.

“True,” she whispers, stirring the straw slowly in her drink before her eyes lift. “But you know what? Maybe you could offer help anyway. Sometimes, people are too proud to ask, even when they need it most.” She snorts. “Look at me and Tripp, for example. That was all him.”

Oddly enough, when Tripp and my mom met, she was a widow with three kids and a daughter in desperate need of brain surgery, and Tripp—who was in love with my mom instantly, I swear—was an NHL player with good health benefits and offered to marry her so that his insurance would cover Avy’s surgery. Obviously, this isn’t knowledge outside of our household, but I still like to bring it up because my mom—a law-abiding rule follower—did something so illegal, and I love it.

Now, all this time later, they are still so happy together. And I love that because after my dad died, I didn’t think my mom would ever be happy again. And thanks to Tripp, she is.

Eating one last fry, she slides from the booth and stands. “Come on then. I think you’ve got a catcher to talk to.”

Slowly, I slide from my seat and follow her toward the exit because she’s right. I’m sure this is a time-sensitive thing, but fuck … I’m nervous to go talk to her.

EIGHT

HARLEY

With the bucket in my hand, I walk around the outfield, collecting all the balls I hit out here. The lights shine against the grass, and aside from a few cars driving by, it’s so serene here tonight. I love the peace the field brings me, even though it’s also one of the most stressful places I know. Somehow, it brings both things to my life—chaos and serenity.

I talked to my dad a little bit before I came here tonight, but he was too weak to say much. Everything inside of me is saying to go home, but it’s not an option, and when my dad first got sick, he was adamant that he did not want me to leave my team just to sit next to him in bed.

But still, it feels wrong. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t even be here today at NEU.

“Figured I’d find you here,” a voice calls faintly, but it’s so far away that I can hardly hear it.

Looking toward the dugout, I frown when Cane walks over the pitcher’s mound, heading straight toward me.

Grabbing the last ball, I head toward him with my bucket just as he makes it past second base.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, holding onto the bucket of balls. “You know, some may call this stalking.”

“Yeah, well, so what if they do?” he teases, holding his hand out, his fingers grabbing the bucket’s handle.

“What are you doing?” I pull back. “I can carry my own bucket of balls, thanks.”

“Never said you couldn’t,” he tosses back, keeping his fingers around it. “But I want to lug it in for you. Trust me, it won’t make me think you’re any less of a badass. You can hit better than most guys I know, and I’ve seen clips of you taking some pretty bad hits behind the plate.”

“Wow, you’re definitely a stalker,” I mutter, eventually giving up and letting him take the bucket.

Slowly, we both walk toward home plate, and after he sets the bucket down, he suddenly starts fidgeting nervously with his hands.

“Uh, so … I don’t really know how to say something, so I’m just going to blurt it out.” He looks down before his eyes lift to mine. “The other day, I heard you talking on the phone. I wasn’t eavesdropping.” He cringes. “Well, not purposely. I just … I came to clean this dugout first, and you were in it.”