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Slowly, Cal’s father hauled his attention from the field to rest on her. His green eyes were familiar enough since Cal possessed the same shade of spring grass. But whereas Cal’s smile was one hundred percent genuine, his father’s seemed like an overused reflex and a little condescending besides.
“Nice to meet you, Josie Vance. I’m Clint Ramsey.” He shook her hand, but he didn’t seem terribly enthused about it.
Cal, on the other hand, relaxed a fraction beside her. She couldn’t see it so much as feel it—the slightest decrease in friction. Which meant she was far too in tune to the man’s every mood.
“You must be proud to see how many people turned out to cheer on your son.” She waved an arm to indicate the nearly one hundred people filling the reserved section of the park.
Beyond the people who’d ridden the bus Clint had reserved, many residents of Last Stand had made the trip on their own, joining the group at the field. There were tables full of neighbors catching up on gossip, downing hot dogs, and admiring one another’s kids. A few preschoolers pushed trucks around the planked floor, weaving in and out of tables and knees.
“Proud? Yes.” Clint gave her a wink. “Although it’s possible half of them are here for the free food.”
“No one drives an hour for the sake of a hot dog,” she assured him.
The crowd on the bleachers outside the party deck erupted in applause, drawing her attention from the conversation. Around her, a murmur of excited interest went through the Last Stand visitors, and she heard someone behind her say, “Nate’s up next.”
The light-up display board in left field didn’t show photos of the visiting team’s player like it did for the home team, but it did broadcast Nate Ramsey’s name and number. She could feel the tension of the two men on either side of the table. Both Cal and Clint were focused on the field where the tall, rangy ballplayer seemed to take his time getting comfortable in the batter’s box. He adjusted gloves, tapped his cleats with his bat, repositioned his feet, then tugged on his batting helmet in a ritual that looked borderline obsessive compulsive to her admittedly untrained eye.
No one around her seemed to think anything of it, however. For the first time, she saw the full extent of the resemblance between Cal and his father. They wore identical strained expressions, like the future of the free world rested on this at-bat.
“Let’s go, Nate!” a man shouted behind her.
Josie jolted, looking over her shoulder just as a couple of women wolf-whistled then collapsed into laughter.
Biting her lip as she turned back to face the field, Josie found it all sorts of distracting. To make things worse, she’d failed to see the first pitch, but it must have happened because the scoreboard announced a gleeful “Strike One” in rainbow-colored letters, the words spiraling around the screen and flashing.
Clint swore. Cal leaned closer to the field. She forced herself to watch the pitcher more closely this time, and she spotted the ball when it left his glove, but she missed whatever Nate did on his end.
The “Strike Two” announcement was even more celebratory, with digital fireworks exploding in the background. Nate backed out of the box and walked in a circle, watching his coach give a sign before he returned to the batter’s box. Repeated the helmet-tugging thing.
“You’ve got to get your bat off your shoulder in this situation, Josie,” Clint imparted with a tone of helpfulness that struck her as somewhat demeaning.
“I’m sure your son is aware of that,” she returned quietly, not bothering to look his way.
She thought she saw Cal’s shoulders twitch, however, and hoped that meant she was functioning well in the buffer role. Too bad she couldn’t bring him to Florida with her to run interference the next time she saw her mother. If she ever went back to Florida.
And wasn’t that a foolish wish? She gave herself a little shake as she realized that she was letting herself like Cal too much.
When the next pitch came, the crack of the bat was audible proof he’d hit it, infusing her with a moment of hope before she realized he’d fouled it off somewhere behind him. He did that twice more.
The third time the bat connected, however, the ball sailed in a line drive to right field. The player out there had to run after it to throw it in, and his throw was garbage, apparently, as it bounced around the shortstop’s feet. Around her, everyone on the deck was going wild, shouting and clapping for Nate.
Everyone except for his father and brother, oddly. Clint gave a nod of satisfaction, though. Cal clapped twice.
And how was that for bizarre family dynamics? She planned to quiz Cal about it on the way home from the game. In the end, Nate got to second and drove in a run, but the next batter struck out to end the half inning.
Clint shifted in his seat and stood to leave, then clapped Cal on the shoulder. “Looks like Nate staved off following in your footsteps for another night.”
The comment was uttered so good-naturedly, with that ever-present smile, it took Josie a moment to understand what he meant as Clint stalked away. Cal didn’t say anything, just turned back toward the table to take another sip of his beer. Even then, his neutral expression made her wonder if she’d misunderstood.
“Did he mean—” she began.
“That Nate’s lucky he won’t get cut from his team the way I got cut from mine?” Cal nodded. “Yes. That’s exactly what he meant.”
She’d thought her mother was needlessly cruel with the way she criticized Josie’s work, her character, and her choices. But there was something troubling about a father who tried to undermine offspring who succeeded in a sport that was only a dream for most people.
“How petty.” She wondered what it had been like for Cal and his brothers to grow up with that kind of pressure. For that matter, their father’s know-it-all expertise about their jobs had to affect the relationships they had with him even as adults. Who wanted a parent second-guessing their every career move?
“He was probably still smarting from that hot dog comment,” Cal teased, a wicked grin unfurling as he took her hand and squeezed it. “I wish I’d seen the look on his face when you told him no one would drive this far for a hot dog.”
