Dallas gives me another approving nod, then finishes the game by including me in conversation with the others. Skye and Wren point out important faces in the crowd. The seats behind home plate are occupied by Skye’s sister-in-law. I smile when she points out a woman standing with a little boy perched on her hip.
“They always sit there,” Skye says. “It’s tradition for the whole band.”
“Band?”
“Perfectly Broken. Bridger, our brother-in-law, he’s the singer, but Parker grew up with all the guys in the band. They’re usually the worst hecklers by far.” Skye sighs. “It’ll be strange when Park retires, but they’ve promised we can sit by them and join in the heckling.”
I scan the seats again and pick up on the line of men with tattoos, women at their sides, a few kids in the mix. What a small world. Connections everywhere seem to tie me to this team. I almost tell her I have a slight tie to the drummer through the group home, but hesitate. How much of a tragic backstory is appropriate when people first meet, after all?
As the game wraps up, my knee isn’t bouncing anymore, I haven’t choked on a cheese fry, and I’ve even begun to initiate conversations as if I’ve known these people forever.
The crowd begins to disperse after Griffin and Parker thank the crowd for supporting their All-Star foundation. They announce a charity banquet in a few weeks, then the Kings give a final look at their field they won’t touch for the next few months, and head for the clubhouse.
Dallas stands and looks at me. “Well, are you ready to meet everyone involved in the project?”
Unexpected. I guess this means Idohave the job, but I didn’t realize there were more faces to meet and impress. I bury the sudden jolt of sharp anxiety and stand, brushing the wrinkles from my skirt. “Absolutely.”
Skye and Wren and Alice, the woman with the pixie cut, tell me they’ll be giving Dad and Charlie a tour of the clubhouse while I’m in the conference room.
Only once I’m halfway down a corridor heading to the offices in the clubhouse do I realize that by sitting at the table with everyone involved means Ryder Huntington.
Ryder
There issomething I’ll never admit to these three guys: moments like this, where we’re sprawled out on our backs in the dressing area of the clubhouse, are my favorite.
It’s still here. Calm and steady. A thick scent of butter and fried grease and too much woodsy cologne lives in these halls. But when it’s quiet like this, and only the occasional gulps of sports drink are heard, I can breathe easier.
Here, with Parker, Griffin, and Dax, I can take a moment to simply . . . be.
The rest of the team showered and fled for an after party. Most years, I don’t attend. Sometimes these guys don’t either, but we never miss this ritual of passing drinks back and forth, staring at the ceiling, as we recount memorable moments from the season.
The All-Star game is always the last moment of glory before our attention shifts to holidays and rest and family.
Future All-Stars is the foundation run by Griff and Parker. The final game for the charity is always played by the Kings and the Scorps post-season, and it is the final wave farewell to Burton Field for the winter months.
“Gah, I hate to say goodbye, my guys.” Griffin rolls his head to the side, a somber expression on his face. “It’s been an honor to serve beside you.”
I fight a grin. “You say that every year.”
“Doesn’t make it less true, buddy.” Griffin sighs and looks around the room.
I close my eyes and breathe in the leather and dirt from shoes and dirty baseballs. I don’t even let myself think of Ava sitting in the big suite the entire game. It was a nagging thought I kept in the back of my head through every play, every run.
Part of me wanted to know if she cursed at me like she used to when I fumbled on an out. Another part wanted to hold the heart symbol over my chest whenever I took the field. But the greater piece of me, the cynic who took up residence years ago, grumbled about the distraction.
She’s signed the contract. She’s working for the Kings. Ava Williams is back in my life, and I put her there. Only time will tell if I made a blunder or the best move of my life. Either way it leaves me feeling a great deal like a snake coiled in the corner with nothing else to do but strike anyone who comes too close.
“You’re growling, man.” Dax taps the rim of his drink bottle to mine.
“M’not,” I grumble.
“Like a bear.” Dax chuckles. He might be antisocial and completely content to hole up in his house the entire off-season, but Dax doesn’t shy away when we need to be smacked upside the head.
“Want to talk about it?” Parker asks without looking away from the ceiling.
“Nope.”
Griffin sits up and looks at me. “First rule in relationships: no secrets.”
