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Her tired eyes dart around my face, searching. “I want you to enter the draft.”
“Mom—”
“Your dad and I have talked. We agree. And we know you haven’t spoken to Jonathan in a while,” she continues, referring to my agent, “but we have. He says there’s still plenty of interest.” A coughing fit sneaks up on her, halting her words. I wait for what feels like an eternity as she fights to clear her throat, palm pressed to her chest. When she speaks again, her eyes are watery from the force of the coughing—or maybe it’s just the conversation. “Mavvy, we want you to play baseball like you always dreamed.”
Something stirs in me—something that’s been dormant ever since I left the team. There’s still interest. Still a chance.
I could still make it.
“It just doesn’t seem important anymore,” I tell her.
“It’s been important to you for your entire life, and it’s still important now.” Mom reaches for my hand. I meet her halfway, clasping my fingers tightly around hers. I can’t remember the last time I held hands with my mother. Now I’m wishing I never had to let go. “But you’re right that it’s not the most important thing. You’re a good boy. A good man. And a good brother, and a good son. That will always be more important than any career you have.”
“I know.”
“You have so much to offer the world,” she continues as if I didn’t speak. “So much to offer that hasnothingto do with how well you can hit a baseball.”
I shift my body downward so I’m laying beside my mom, shoulder to shoulder. She shoots me a smile that’s simultaneously warm and sad.
It’s how I’m feeling, too.
“I know,” I say again. And I do. I know there are more capabilities inside me.
I just don’t know what they are.
Some time passes in silence, both of us staring at the muted TV as the celebrity chef on the screen stomps around the kitchen. At the next commercial break, Mom turns back to me. “One more thing.”
I’m weary, but I concede. “Okay.”
“You’re in love with Azalea.”
“I—” I stammer, taken aback. “What—”
“I’m not going to make you admit it if you’re not ready.”
I inhale deeply. I could deny it, but what’s the point? It’s true. “Well, I’ve had a crush on her since she moved here. I only realized recently that it’s more than that.”
Mom smiles gently at me. “It’s alotmore than that, Maverick.”
“How long have you known?”
“A while.”
I never realized how obvious I was being. When Grant and Callie would tease me about Azalea, I just brushed them off as being their ornery selves. Azalea’s ex-boyfriend never liked me, but he was kind of a jackass anyway. With a sinking feeling, it occurs to me for the very first time:Does Azalea know?
“There’s nothing to do about it,” I tell my mom, trying to sound firm. “I don’t think she feels the same, and if I enter the draft—”
“Youaregoing to enter the draft.”
“Okay,” I concede, “then in a few months, I’ll be moving away. She’ll be here finishing her degree. It’s just not gonna work out, Mom.”
“You don’t know that unless you try.”
I can’t do this right now. My mind is too jumbled. There’s too much going on, too many emotions.
Too much at risk.
Too much to lose.
