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A ghost of a smile appears on his face. “You’re twenty-two, Mav. I think it’s alright for us to have a beer together. Especially today.”
“Yeah,” I say, getting over my surprise. “Okay.”
We go back downstairs. I follow Dad into the kitchen, where he grabs two beers and pops the caps on both. Standing on either side of the island, we each take a long pull. I focus on the burn, trying to let it overtake everything else.
“Maybe Christmas will be better,” Dad says without much enthusiasm.
I lean my elbows on the counter and roll the neck of the bottle between my palms. “Maybe.”
“We’re going to do it at someone else’s house. Probably Paul’s,” he says, referring to Mom’s brother who lives about an hour away. “I think that might be easier on Lilly, not to have it here.”
“I think so, too.”
“What about you?” he asks. “Is it hard for you to be in the house?”
I look around the kitchen. There’s the expensive mixer Mom didn’t let anybody else touch, the backsplash she redid a few summers ago, the random gardening things on top of the fridge. I have a thousand memories of this kitchen, and most of them revolve around her. “Yeah, it is.”
Dad nods slowly. His eyes look far away. “Me too.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I take another sip of my beer.
“Listen,” he says after a moment. “Jonathan called me the other day.”
I plunk my beer down hard in surprise. The last time I spoke to my agent was this summer. My dad and I met Jonathan for lunch, thanked him for all he’d done for me, and informed him that I was done. There would be no draft, no signing, and no fat commission for him. “About what?”
“He’s getting inquiries,” Dad says. “A couple of teams were asking about you, wondering if you’re going to play this year. He told them he’s no longer representing you but that he’d pass their interest along.”
There’s roaring in my ears. “When was this?”
“Not long ago. Monday, I think.”
“Why didn’t he call me?”
“He, ah…” Dad grimaces a bit. “He and I spoke privately a couple of times after we all had lunch, and I told him that you were struggling. He wanted me to figure out how to tell you.”
“So…” Absolutely blindsided, I struggle to keep my thoughts straight. “If I played this year—”
“You could still be drafted,” Dad says. “Obviously, it wouldn’t be as high, and I'm parroting Jonathan here, but you’re a riskier choice now that you’ve missed so much time and have an injury history. It’s not anything close to a guarantee, Maverick. It’s just two teams wondering if they should keep tabs on you or not.” He must be able to see the wheels in my head churning as I try to formulate ways this could possibly work, because he leans forward and regards me sternly. “You still walk with a limp.”
“I know,” I say. “But not like I was. I’m close to running full speed again—”
“Have you spoken to your coach about playing this year?”
Reluctantly, I shake my head. “No.”
“And I bet they’re planning to have that underclassman take over first,” Dad says. He’s right—I did hear through the grapevine that Andy Plough, two years behind me and relegated to utility infielder last year, is going to be the starting first baseman. He’s supposed to be good. And he’s earned his chance to prove it. “This is a long shot, Mav. I thought about not even telling you because I knew it would muddy things up for you more. But in the end, I decided you deserved to know where everything stood.” He nods at the bottles between us. “If you’re old enough to have a beer with your dad, you’re old enough to have all the information and make your own decision.”
I let myself imagine it. I could call Coach tonight. I could push myself harder in PT, start hitting the gym again. I could have one more college baseball season. It’s a given that I wouldn’t perform as well as I did before my injury, but if I can get anywhere close,someonewill pick me up. First and last round draft picks all end up in the same place: the minor leagues, trying to prove themselves worthy of the majors. Once you’re in, you have a shot.
I’m deep into this line of thought before I spare a thought for Azalea.
Azalea, who I’ve promised to follow anywhere.
Azalea, whose entire life has been shaped by being left behind.
And even with those things being true, I’m pretty sure that if I called her up right now and said I wanted to give baseball another shot, she’d tell me to go for it.
“Azalea and I are together,” I blurt out.
