Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
I whistle. “That is downright impressive. Look at you, Gage. Finding a way to make your favorite form of entertainment educational.”
My brother lifts his chin proudly. “That’s right.”
He squeezes Eliza’s foot playfully—lovingly too—and my heart expands.
We make our way to a nearby quick-serve organic café. Over smoothies and tofu tacos, we catch up on how Eliza’s doing in summer camp. When she grabs crayons from a cup on the table and starts to draw a cat, I ask Gage how work is going.
“What’s the latest with the boss man?”
Gage slumps in his chair. “The other night, Neil was harping on me about the glasses. Oh, there’s a speck on this one. It was our best night in a month, and he’s focused on smudges on the drinkware. I’m not even the dishwasher,” he says with a huff.
“He sounds like a pain in the you-know-what,” I say.
“Butt,” Eliza puts in as she colors in a cat.
I laugh, then Gage continues, scratching his jaw in resignation. “But that’s what bosses are. He’s kind of like you-know-who.”
Dad, I mouth.
“Yup.”
“Bet you’ll never leave a speck on a glass again,” I say heavily.
He shudders. “Learned my lesson. Maybe I’ll find another bar, but the pay is good, so it is what it is,” he says, then crunches into a taco.
I wish I could solve this problem for him. Swoop in and get him a new boss. Or, better yet, a new elbow. But I can help in other ways, and I wonder if now would be a good time to ask if I can set up a college fund for Eliza? I don’t have a deal in hand yet, but I want to do this for them so badly. Trouble is, Gage has been so committed to carrying the weight of parenting solo that I need to find just the right moment, and while he’s venting about his job is probably not it.
Still, I dip my toe in with, “Let me know if you need anything.”
“I’m good, man,” he says with a firm I’ve-got-this grin. “I do appreciate you listening though. And coming here and hanging out with us. I know you’re busy.”
I scoff. “Never too busy to see my favorite people. I’ve got plenty of time before we play Phoenix tonight.” I bookmark the college-fund discussion as I turn to Eliza. “Got any hitting tips for me against the Phoenix pitching staff?”
She screws up the corner of her lips. “Daddy says you need to stop swinging at bad pitches.”
I crack up. “Your daddy is right. But it’s kind of his fault. When we were growing up and playing ball together, his cut fastball was too darn tempting. I swung at it every time he threw it my way.”
“And always missed,” Gage says proudly. “That was a fun one to throw. I miss that pitch.”
The whole drive back to San Francisco, I’m thinking of the games he pitched his year in the majors. Remembering them fondly. Wishing he had them again.
There’s no room for sad memories in my head when the game starts that evening. On the field, I laser in on each play. At the plate, I zoom in on every pitch. But still, I go hitless in my first three at-bats, and that pisses me off. I need to do better. I’ve got to get on base.
When I head to the batter’s box in the bottom of the eighth, I review my strategy against the relief pitcher who takes the mound.
Wait for my pitch.
But as I step up to the plate, a flash of memory streaks through my concentration—the utter shock on Gage’s face when he told me about the team doctor’s diagnosis of his elbow injury. “My career is over,” he’d said in a hollow voice. It was like someone had died.
I try to shake off the thoughts, taking a few extra practice swings. But those horrible words echo in my mind. My career is over.
I swing terribly at the first pitch. Then the next. Then one more. I strike out, and we go on to lose the game.
Next time I’ll do better, I tell myself as I trudge to the dugout at the end of the night. That’s the beauty of baseball—it keeps giving you chances.
As long as you’re healthy enough to keep taking them, and good enough to make the most of them.
The morning after the Phoenix game, I board the team plane, checking my phone one more time. Our series against the Miami Aces starts tomorrow, and I’m antsy as fuck.
I’ve been watching my texts all morning for a message from Maddox. It’s been radio silence, though, and it’s driving me batty. No word on the meeting with Priyam. It was supposed to be this afternoon in London. Maddox should be done by now.
I grab a spot in the fourth row, slumping into the seat with a huff. Another glance at my texts. Still crickets.