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The Famous Lanes flick their polite switch. Wearing matching polite smiles, they thrust out their hands in unison, and I swear those sweet, Southern accents get stronger. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Coachis just fine.” He shakes both their hands—gently, I notice—and then that’s it. Introductions are over; the real show begins.
“Better be decent,” Coach calls as he raps his knuckles against the door behind him, but the lack of hesitation as he pushes it open tells me he knows we’ll be greeted by a sea of suited-up men.
Not for the first time today, I’m struck by a bout of nerves. I’m unsure what kind of reaction I’m gonna get. It’s been months since I spoke to anyone on the team, not for their lack of trying. Texts, emails, calls, all have gone ignored because… Because lots of things. Because I was miserable and then I wasn’t but I didn’t wanna be reminded of my misery, or of any misery that might occur in the future. Because I missed them enough without hearing their voices. Because I hate that I might never play with them again, but they’ll keep on being a team. Whatever the reason, they have every right to be pissed at me yet as I follow Coach into the locker room, I’m met by the same warmth I received during halftime.
Ezra is the first to spot me. My teammate—former? Current? Soon-to-be rival?—grins at me over the shoulder of another teammate of questionable tense. He says something undoubtedly polite and charming, because that’s his brand, the antithesis of mine, before excusing himself and jogging my way, arms spread wide and ready to engulf me in a hug. “The prodigal son returns, huh?”
When he pulls back and aims a playful fist at my gut, I bat him away. “Figured you could use a good luck charm.”
Ezra snorts, rolling hazel eyes in that inherently good-natured way of his, before directing his attention to my companions. “I see you brought two.”
I’ve always wondered where August gets the more shy side of his personality from; from the little interaction I’ve had with his sperm donor, John has never struck me as the timid type, and Sunday is anything but.Normallyshe’s anything but, but as my teammates swarm her, something unusually bashful rears its head, and as the same thing happens to her son, it’s like staring at two carbon copies.
“Jesus,” I reprimand playfully, pulling August into my side and Sunday back against my chest, sneaking a hand beneath her jersey to palm her stomach because I can’t help it. “Let them breathe.”
“We’re in the presence of a miracle,” Ezra retorts. “Can’t blame their enthusiasm.”
“Dude, I can’t believe this is real.” Harrison Banks, our star catcher, eyes the bump beneath my palm with equal parts amusement and disbelief.
When a hand swats my ass, I know it’s Archie Cruz even before the second baseman is even close enough to shove away. “Good job, Papi. Impressive at your age.”
“Congratulations.” Oliver Shaw addresses Sunday gently. “You know what it is yet?”
“Not yet.” We find out next week, at her twenty week scan.
He cocks his head, pale eyes scanning, assessing. “Definitely a girl.”
“You get a medical degree while I was gone?”
“Fatherly instinct, my friend. She’s carrying the same way Lauren did.”
“Aggressively?” more than one person quips.
As a round of snickering breaks out, I lean down to murmur in Sunday’s ear, clarifying, “Pregnancy did not agree with Oliver’s wife.”
She snorts. “Yeah, well, I don’t think growing a person would agree with any of you.”
Pausing his attempt to give Archie a noogie, Oliver snaps his fingers at Sunday. “That’s what I said!”
Everyone laughs and it’s so normal, so like nothing has changed, I can breathe evenly again. When August steps forward, brazen in a way my eyes can’t quite believe as he introduces himself, and more laughter fills the room, more teasing, more chatter, it sets me at ease. Makes me wonder why I was ever worried. I didn’t know I needed this until now, to see my old family and my newly acquired one getting along, but God, apparently I really did.
Content to just watch, I drift towards the sidelines, and my coach joins me. “How’s the shoulder?”
Instinctively rolling it back, I nod. “It’s good. Healed.”
“Good.” Coach sighs, and I swear I hear relief in that one little noise. “And coaching?”
My gaze flicks to August. “I like it.”
“Had a feeling you would.”
“It’s not the same, though.”
“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”
I remember, suddenly, that Delgado’s situation isn’t all that different from mine. It was his Achilles that took him out but he was a player forced into retirement before he was ready too. Maybe that's why it hurts so much, his dismissal. Because the fact of the matter is, if Delgado wanted me on his team, I would be.
