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“I’m not joking. Stokard was injured last night. Torn tendon in his left wrist, so he’s out for the season.” He’s way too excited about another man’s stroke of bad luck. “The Sharks called Devin up this afternoon once Stokard saw the doctor. The commentators were just talking about how Devin barely had time to catch a flight out of Jacksonville and make it to New York on time.”
“Oh. My…” I barely have the wherewithal to move my salad off my lap as I stumble to my feet, nearly walking through the closed glass door in my haste to get inside. “I don’t have my television hooked up yet. He’s playing in the majors? Oh, my gosh, Crew.” A burst of air explodes up my chest and out of my mouth, then I cry. Suitcases and boxes surround me, and I have a river of tears dripping off my chin.
“Novie?”
Tonight the boy I met five years ago who shrugged and told me, “I’ve never deluded myself into thinking I’d play pro,” because he was too scared to admit how much he loved the game, has earned his big chance.
“I’m good. Let me put you on speaker, so I can connect the cable. I’m not even sure if I’ll have the game here. What if it’s blacked out?”
My gaze strays to the door. I could run down to Mike’s, the Irish sports bar on the ninth floor. Certainly they get the games. I don’t care that I’m in dirty clothes and stink. I can’t miss Devin’s first professional game.
Setting my phone on the ground, I rip open the box of cords and supplies meant for my bedroom and search for the connections for my small television. It’s luck that I have a television up here in the first place. Even though Leo told me not to bother, I spent the last few hours unloading anything light enough to carry on my own. Basically, boxes of kitchenware, clothing, cleaning supplies, bathroom products, and the small television I hang in my bedroom.
“What’s happening?” I shout at Crew as I frantically connect the power plug and cable to the television, then the wall.
“It’s only the first inning. The Mets are up to bat. One out.”
My hands shake. “The Sharks are visitors. They batted first, right? Is he in the batting order?” I spit out questions like a baseball-watching pro. I rarely watched a game until Devin Hawthorne came into my life. Pulling up live streams or game casts from Monterey Bay, Pensacola, and then Jacksonville when he moved up to triple-A this season has been something of a secret hobby of mine for years now.
“He’s batting seventh, and no, he didn’t get up in the first inning. They only got through four batters.”
This means Devwillbat in the second inning.
I groan, my tears are still streaming as the light on the television blinks and the screen flickers to life.Hurry, hurry, hurry,I’m cursing to figure out what channel shows the games here. Why do I not know this already? Come Monday, I’ll be working at a sports agency. I should know where in the hell to find a baseball game.
“Two outs! Oh, I see him. They showed him, Nov!”
I want to scream as I find the channel guide and start scrolling. I can’t very well ask Crew what Devin looks like in the uniform. I can only— “Ha!” I yell into the empty condo as Bally Sports Florida pops up with Miami Sharks versus Mets. Hitting enter, my stomach flips in anticipation as the green field appears, then the packed stands, and then the camera pans out.
I press a hand to my racing heart as the camera returns to the Mets’ batter just as the pitcher releases his pitch.
“Strike three. Innings over, Nov.”
“Yeah, I’ve got it on now. I’ve…” TheUp Nextgraphic flashes on the bottom of the screen, and there in a little box is Devin’s smiling face, a Sharks ball cap on his head. It’s a generic team photo, but the sight has the waterworks running again.
“We know a professional ballplayer. How cool is that?”
I swipe at my cheeks, managing a smile at Crew’s enthusiasm. “He was a pro before tonight, you know. And you’ve met plenty of professional athletes. Don’t let Dad overhear you acting like his team at Burton isn’t good enough for you.”
“Yeah, yeah. You know what I mean.” He huffs like the fourteen-year-old boy he is. “I bet Willa is excited.”
Willa.Why in the world did she not call me? I’m sure Devin called her or Sharon the moment he found out.
Crew continues rambling as graphics for the station and game appear, and my fingers ball into fists in my lap.
“Hey, Crew,” a lump burns the back of my throat as I cut him off. “I need to watch this alone, okay?”
There’s a pause before he says, “Okay.” His tone is the soft and sweet one he uses when he hugs me extra tight, which he did a lot over the past few months as I healed from everything that happened last fall.
“Thanks for calling me, bud. I never would have known if it weren’t for you.” I pick up my phone, but hesitate to press end. “Which, how did you know so fast?”
The first batter for Sharks appears on screen as Crew answers. “I started following him online after the wedd…after last year. I got a notification.”
Of course, he did. Crew is an athlete. Like Dad, he prefers boards, but for school, he plays football and baseball, the same as Devin.
When the first batter lands on first base, I end the call without speaking, and drop my phone.
The next batter is up and swinging, and I’m immovable, sitting crossed-legged on the cool tile floor two feet from my television, with my hands wringing in my lap. There’s movement in the corner of the screen from some angles, and I’ve watched enough games to know Devin’s taking practice swings as he awaits his turn.
