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The destination is a gamble,but once we arrive at the batting cages at Hudson River Park, I can tell Austin will need the hard sell.
He stands there glowering as I check in and grab us a couple of bats and helmets. “No way,” he vows.
“Yes way,” I reply brightly. “You told me that baseball clears your head. Helps you rely on instinct. We just need to tap into those instincts now.”
But Austin shakes his head stubbornly. “This is different,” he argues. “This is my business, and I’m failing.”
I take a deep breath. This man and his spirals. I can see it swirling behind his eyes, that he sees catastrophe instead of an annoying hiccup. “Humor me,” I ask. “If this doesn’t help, I’ll… Take you to bottomless mimosa brunch, or fishing with Hal. Whatever you want.”
“Anything?” his eyes drift over me, and for a moment, I could swear there’s a spark of heat there.
But that’s impossible.
I clear my throat. “Within reason,” I add. “But you have to take a few swings first.”
He sighs. “Fine. It won’t help,” he warns me, following me to one of the batting cages and grabbing a bat. “This is serious shit going down.”
“Uh huh.” I move behind the netting and stand back. “Do your worst.”
Austin gets situated. He strips off his button-down, so it’s only his undershirt, tucked into jeans. My eyes dart to the shape of his chest, and I swallow, hard, before glancing away. I did this to myself…Why did I do this to myself?
Oh, right—for his business slash my job.
He tugs on the helmet, second nature.
In the batting cage, he squares his stance. Inhales. The ball leaves the machine with a pop and, a split-second later, clangs off Austin’s bat.
Damn.
I admit, the swing is something to behold: The way his strong body twists, concentrating all that power. I’d watched a few videos of Austin Banks at bat, but, in person, the motion feels different—elegant, but shockingly sharp and fast. I can hardly take in the precision at that speed.
I watch, mesmerized, as Austin crushes a dozen more pitches.
Did I say I didn’t care for baseball? I stand corrected. I can see myself caring a whole lot more now that I’ve had such a… personal demonstration.
After the last ball has been sent careening into the nets, Austin looks over at me, his lips curled in a reluctant smile. “Okay, you were right. That didn’t entirely suck.”
I exhale in relief. Bringing him here was a risk that could have seriously backfired, but I had an instinct it might get him out of his head for a while. Let him unwind, away from all the pressure and responsibility of the spa.
He pauses, setting down the bat and uncapping a bottle of water.
“When’s the last time you did that?” I ask.
“My final MLB game.” He takes a long drink, leaning against the wall.
“But… That was years ago!” I exclaim, surprised.
He shrugs. “I really was burnt out. I needed to step away, just let the whole thing go… Otherwise, I don’t know, I would have been pulled back in. Not playing, but, coaching, maybe, sportscasting.”
“You didn’t want that?”
He shakes his head. “I needed a clean break. Some of these guys, they cling to their former glories… One of my old teammates is even trying to get me to play in a charity ballgame next month,” he adds. “You know, relive the good old days for the crowd. I told him thanks, but no thanks. I’ll write a check and cheer them on but get out there on the field again?” he shakes his head. “It would be like taking a giant step back.”
“You want to write a new chapter instead of rereading the old one,” I guess, and his face lights up.
“Exactly.”
