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“Coming?” he asks.
Not yet.
Later.
When I replay that smile, alone in my perfect nest.
Wearing a T-shirt marked with Reese’s number, and his buttery, chocolate scent.
I catch up, weaving between rusted lounge chairs.
We reach a concrete building that doesn’t match the island theme, but it’s the rare structure with unbroken windows and a solid roof.
“Exercise room.” Reese opens the glass door. “Bish hooked me up to practice.”
It’s hard to notice the darkness when Reese glows so bright.
We pass a waterlogged reception desk, but the tile floor is swept. Everything’s so weirdly empty, I feel like an explorer when we pop into the former weight room.
Benches and dusty machines are pushed in front of a cracked mirror, freeing the room for the rectangular net frame rigged to the ceiling.
A big, boxy pitching machine—the kind they have at real cages—waits next to two buckets of brand-new balls and a pile of batting gear.
Reese rubs his palms with a World Series grin. “Should we check if it still works?”
“Right now.” I’m dying to knock the shit out of something.
My soul needs an outlet, and nothing’s better than smacking a ball into the rafters.
“Help me with the net?”
Whoever they had install the ceiling frame left the netting crooked. Reese lifts one side, while I pull the other.
It’s so normal.
Like those afternoons we spent together on the field, not really talking. He’d pitch to me, or practice popping balls to the outfield, then we’d switch, wordlessly determined to keep moving.
We were always alone together the most.
Everyone else had somewhere better to go.
“You still play?” Reese asks when the nets are fully draped.
“Not really.” I lasted half a season with the OCC softball team before the rich girls ran me off the field. The SAS officers have a beer league, but they’d never ask me to join, and I wouldn’t volunteer.
“Thought you would.” He scratches his beard, tempting me to do the same.
Just one stroke.
I curl my fingers.
I’m not that unhinged.
Yet.
“We should grab the machine.” I hurry to keep moving, so I won’t stare at his beard or moon over long-gone memories.
As soon as I lift my side, Reese tosses a wicked curve.
