Switch Pitching (Off the Bench #1)

29. Ethan

29

ETHAN

There’s a certain kind of sinking dread that you only get toward the end of a game. Specifically, the end of the sixth Championship Series game after blowing a two-game lead with three consecutive losses.

Oh, right. To make things even bleaker, we’re also down by a run.

Thunderstorms over Toronto kept us in Boston for Game Six, and we’re all running on quickly fading hope that home-field advantage pulls through for us tonight. We’re still batting first, though, since this is technically an away game for us.

James and I are sitting next to each other in the dugout. He has full approval to come to games with us, and I’m not in tonight’s lineup. Our team is strong and we’ve gotten this far, but I can’t stop my stomach from sinking further and further down as the game goes on.

We’re at two outs, still down by one. Dave is up to bat, and I hold my breath. He’s one of our best hitters and if we have any hope at all tonight, it’s through him. The pitcher winds up and fires at Dave. It looks easy, almost too easy.

Dave swings and connects with a resounding crack, and he’s off. The ball soars high, and everyone in the dugout tilts their heads up to follow it through the peak. It’s coming down, and Dave is rounding second, sprinting for third.

And then I see him. An outfielder on Toronto’s expanded postseason roster who I’ve never met, likely from the minors. He’s watching the ball closely while running in what seems like an awkward angle. My eyes flit to Toronto’s dugout, and the coaches are collectively facepalming. A few nervous, optimistic smiles are playing out on Boston’s side, but I’m not smiling. I know what this guy is doing because I’ve done it myself.

He’s tracking the ball, and while I’m not one to bet, I’m almost certain he’s going to dive.

It’s risky. I’m not sure how experienced he is, but that move isn’t something I’d even think about trying during a temporary promotion. It took me five games with Boston before I dared to pull that off. The guy has balls, I’ll give him that.

Dave is still running, just rounding third. Then it happens. The outfielder jumps at a weird angle, and I watch as his arm stretches out.

Then the ball drops cleanly into his glove before he closes his fist, landing hard.

It’s over.

I glance at Dave who’s still running, but then he notices the outfielder jogging in, holding the ball up like it’s a trophy.

The next hour is like a blur, even though I didn’t have any game time tonight. I change out of my uniform, give a cursory media interview to the two reporters who bother asking me about my season, and slip out with James.

Before we make it to his car, our phones beep with a text from Dave in our group chat.

FALCONS GC

DAVE SMITH

Commiserate @ mine?

James turns to face me. “Look man, I know we all want nothing more than to sleep this off and forget, but we should spend one last night out with the team.”

I nod. That makes sense, and it’ll be a fitting end to our first major league season.

We change direction and head toward the T stop, pull our hats down to escape recognition, and make our way to Dave’s house in Back Bay where we all proceed to get absolutely obliterated.

When I wake up, the omnipresent smell of James’s intoxicatingly delicious cologne distracts me from my mild but annoying headache. We collapsed into bed right after getting back from last night’s get-together, and as I drag my eyes across the ceiling, I make a mental note to change and wash the sheets later.

The weight of James’s warm blanket keeps me lying still for a while. The room is still dim, thanks to the new blackout curtains, and James remains asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

I shift carefully, trying not to wake him up as I shuffle quietly to the bathroom. The cold tile beneath my feet jolts me awake as I turn on the shower, letting it warm up before stepping in. As the water washes over me, rinsing off the last traces of the night, I lean my forehead against the wall and let the jets beat down on my back as I try to clear my mind. The loss stings. Part of me knows that the chances of winning the World Series in my first major league season were slim, but hey, a guy can dream.

With a sigh, I finish my shower and step out, determined to put the season behind me. I dry off and hang my towel back up before heading back to the bedroom. James is still blissfully asleep, so I don’t get any of his joking protests as I get changed.

The apartment is quiet thanks to the triple-glazed windows. I turn on the coffee maker and program a cappuccino, which begins to sputter out. My mind drifts, thinking about what comes next and we’re left with everyday life. I’ll ask James what he’s doing, and I might join him, at least for part of the winter. Without the regimented routine of training, games, and practices, it’s up to me to decide what to do with my free time.

I know I should catch up on emails since the coaches gave us a heads-up about media requests after the game, but I’m not in the mood.

Still, I open my inbox, deciding to take a quick scan through the flood of messages so I don’t have to do it later. Spam, a message from my agent that I can get to later…

I set my coffee down with a surprised, forceful thud as my eyes reach the third email in my inbox.

Anna Edwards. It’s Mom. She’s using her maiden name, but it’s her.

I’m transported back to that night almost four years ago, the day after Thanksgiving of my sophomore year. The door of my parents’ house snapping shut in my face. The frenzied dash out of their driveway. The frantic calls I made to everyone I knew, trying to find a place to sleep for the night because it was already ten, and there was no way I was making it back to Burlington.

The sheer numbness and shock I felt that whole night is back. Gripping the counter, I try to ground myself and stave off the familiar start of an emotional spiral.

I don’t even notice James across the island until he speaks. “Ethan, are you okay?” His gaze bores into me, concern etching his tired but handsome features.

“It’s an email,” I say, my voice coming out way flatter than I intended. “From my mom.”

James stiffens. “Your mom?”

“Yeah.”

Silently, James walks over and plants himself next to me, his eyes locking onto mine. “Do you want to talk about it?”

My fingers graze the edge of the laptop. “I don’t even know what to think. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Yeah, you’ve never really talked about your parents, other than when you told me what they did,” he says.

I let out a dry laugh and lean against the counter. “After all this time, I don’t think about them. Ever. Getting an email from my mom didn’t even cross my mind until it happened.”

James places a hand on my shoulder. “Are you going to open it?” he asks.

Pressing my fingers to my temples, I close my eyes and then open them again. “Sure. Let’s read it together and see what she has to say.”

Dear Ethan,

I know you might be surprised to hear from me, especially after so much time. I’m not sure there is a good way to start this, but I’ve realized that I can’t keep silent any longer, and I hope you’ll hear me out.

First, I want to apologize. I’m sorry for not standing up for you when you came out to me and Dad. I should have been there for you. Instead, I let your father dominate the conversation, and I failed you in a moment when you needed support. This is something I regret every single day.

I want to let you know that your father and I divorced not long after you went back to college. He refused to accept you, or take you back, and I could not stand by him any longer. I know that this does not erase my previous inaction, but I wish to make it known that I wanted to support you. I didn’t have the strength when it mattered, and I am truly remorseful.

I don’t expect forgiveness, especially after everything. I know it might be too late to make things right, But I want to try, if you are comfortable to do so. I miss you more than I can put into words, and I’m hoping that we can talk.

If you’re willing, I’d love to hear from you—my number hasn’t changed. I understand why you blocked us both, and I’m so sorry that I didn’t stick up for you sooner.

Please take your time, Ethan. I completely understand if you’re not ready or if you need space. Just know that I love you, and I’m hoping we can find a way to reconnect.

Love,

Mom

My eyes scan over the words again and again, but they don’t sink in. I inhale sharply and hold the breath in, not knowing how to feel. The apology is everything I never thought I’d hear, but now that it’s in front of me, it’s bizarre.

James watches me quietly. I know he’s waiting for me to say something, but all I can do is sit there, my hands frozen on the counter.

“Honestly, I don’t know what to think,” I mutter. “It’s been years, and now she’s saying all this?”

He leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “It’s a lot to take in, that’s for sure.”

My mind races back to that night again. It’s all so clear in my memory, and now I get whatever this email is. Part of me wants to believe her apology is genuine, but I can’t forget how easily she let it all happen.

Up until five minutes ago, I had managed to forget everything. Or at least keep it out of my mind.

“I don’t know if I can trust her,” I say. “She says she’s sorry, but she didn’t stop any of it when it mattered. She let Dad throw me out and stood there while everything went down.”

James reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder. “You don’t have to forgive her.”

He’s right, I don’t owe her anything, but in the back of my mind, I’m starting to think that I could get some closure by talking to her.

“Maybe I could tell her directly just how much she hurt me.”

Firming up his mouth, James looks at me with sympathetic eyes. “That makes sense,” he replies.

I close the laptop. “I’ll call her at some point later today, but I need to prepare.”

My thoughts spin. Calling her would mean stepping back into a part of my life I’ve given up on. For the first time in ages, I let myself think that maybe, just maybe, speaking to my parents might help.

Even if it’s only to get closure once and for all.

The only sound in the apartment is me tapping my fingers against the counter restlessly. James is still next to me, and I know he wants to help, but even he can’t tell me how to handle this.

“She’s a CPA with a tax practice,” I mutter, more to myself than to James. “It’s Friday, but it isn’t the end of a tax quarter right now, so she probably isn’t that busy.”

I could use that as an excuse to wait and buy myself a few more hours or days, but I wouldn’t accomplish much by delaying. It’s clear that I’m putting this off by waiting, but I’m not ready to make the call right away.

“Maybe after four?” I say, glancing at the clock on the oven. It’s not even noon, but by saying something out loud, I give myself something to stick to.

“Four sounds okay,” James agrees, his tone gentle. “That gives you time to think.”

I stand up and pace around the kitchen. Sitting still isn’t helping, and I need to do something with myself.

“I’m gonna go work out, maybe clear my head a bit.”

After grabbing my headphones from the counter, I head to the home gym and try to focus on my push-day workout. I load up the barbell with more weight than is probably safe without James here to spot me, but I’m beyond caring at this point. Every time I think about calling her, my chest tightens. After about thirty minutes of an intense but half-hearted workout, I give up and head to the ridiculous spa-bathroom next door to rinse off. As I turn around to rinse the conditioner out of my hair, I see the covered hot tub.

It was always way too hot out to use it ever since we moved in, but it’s October and I’m stressed, so it’s time to try it. Shutting off the water, I towel off before realizing that I’m about to get wet again, and then uncover the tub. Someone from the building comes by every week to maintain this thing when we aren’t home, paid for by our condo fees, so I turn the bubbles on and sink right in.

This is so soothing. I’m mad at myself for not using this before today.

James appears a few minutes later and retrieves a bucket of smooth rocks from a drawer next to the hot tub.

“Uh, here. These are supposed to, like, relax you or something,” he says, approaching me with the rocks. He proceeds to place one on my head.

I chuckle, even though I know he’s being thoughtful. “Those are supposed to go on my back.”

He grins. “It still feels nice though, right?”

“Yeah, it does,” I agree.

James leaves me to stew in my emotions and the bubbling water, and after a while, I pull myself out of the hot tub after my fingers adopt a concerningly raisin-like texture. After getting changed, I head to our home office which we only use for interview calls, and James follows me in.

“You ready?” he asks, sitting down in the black armchair across from the desk.

I give him a terse nod, even though I don’t think I’m ready at all. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Do you want privacy for this? I’ll still be around if you need me.”

Fidgeting with a pencil, I hesitate before stopping him. “Stay. Please. I can put you on speakerphone.”

James sits back down. I power up the conference phone on the desk which I don’t think either of us have ever used since moving in, and punch in my mom’s work number. It’s always been the same, and I know the seven digits by heart.

I’m greeted with a low, monotonous beep. James looks over sympathetically as I stare at the phone, wondering what’s going on.

“The line might be busy,” James suggests, before trailing off.

“Area code,” I mutter. “We aren’t in Maine, and this is the first time I’m calling her from out of state.”

I jiggle the receiver and reset the phone before dialing again, this time remembering to add the all-important 207 before her number. My hand hovers over the last digit for a moment, my heart pounding in my chest, but then I hit it before I can think too much.

The phone rings twice before I hear her voice on the other end.

“Anna Edwards, Tax and Advisory,” she says, her tone polite and professional.

“It’s me,” I manage to say. “Ethan.”

“Ethan,” she says, her voice softer. “I’m so glad you called.”

I swallow hard. There’s no turning back now. My chest tightens, and I grip the phone a little harder, trying to keep my head straight.

This is her, the woman who stood by while my dad threw me out of the house.

But this is also the woman who wrote me an email, apologizing for all of it. The woman who left my dad because of what he did.

“I got your email,” I say, my tone neutral. “Wasn’t expecting it.”

There’s a brief pause, and I can hear Mom shuffling papers on the other end. I remember that Mom’s the kind of person who prepares talking points for every important conversation, and she’s probably pulling up notes. Maybe I should have prepared notes.

“I want to apologize again,” she says, her voice softer now. “I know words don’t undo the damage, Ethan, and I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I need you to know that I’m truly, deeply sorry for everything. I should have been there for you when it mattered.”

Silence follows, and I don’t respond immediately. My fingers tighten around the arm of the desk chair, keeping myself grounded.

“Look, I appreciate the apology,” I say, my tone measured. “But I can’t forget what happened. You left the room when Dad started laying into me. You stood back when he threw me out, and for four years after that.”

“I know,” she says. “That’s something I regret every single day. I wasn’t strong enough back then. Rocking the boat even more wasn’t something I wanted to do, but I ended up losing you. I can never make up for that.” Her voice cracks, and I take a breath.

“What happened between you and Dad?” I ask, steering the conversation into territory I can handle. “You said in the email that you separated.”

There’s another pause. “Your father never changed. He refused to accept you. Even when I kept trying to reason with him, to tell him that you were still our son and that there was nothing wrong with you. And then I found…” Her voice trails off, and I can hear her struggling to continue.

I sit up. “Found what?”

She takes another deep breath. “He used my phone to send you awful, bigoted messages. When he realized you blocked him, he took my phone and sent those horrendous things to you. It took a while for me to find out, but when I did, I knew there was no going back. I couldn’t stay with him any longer.”

James is watching me closely, his brow furrowed in concern. My heart is racing, but I don’t give anything away.

“I didn’t receive those messages from you,” I admit. “Because when I blocked Dad after he sent his messages, I blocked you as well. Cell, work phone, email, everything.”

“I’m glad you didn’t have to read what he wrote,” she says. “To be honest, I saw red when I first realized. I have no idea how he could even think those words, let alone write them out. You two used to be so close, and he just flipped.”

Leaning back in the chair, my mind spins. I try not to go back even further to a time when my dad and I were close. I can’t go there. Not yet.

“I’m open to the idea of us having some kind of relationship,” I say cautiously, steering the conversation toward a shaky conclusion. “But I’m not ready for anything completely normal.”

“I understand. I’m just grateful you’re willing to talk to me at all.”

There’s a pause, and I can tell she’s trying to figure out how to say something else. When she speaks again, her voice is tentative.

“Thanksgiving is coming up. It’s probably far too soon for this, but I wanted to extend an invitation for you to visit if you’re up for it.”

Mom’s words hang in the air, and my heart pounds in my chest. Thanksgiving in Machias. The last time I was there for Thanksgiving, Dad threw me out of the house.

But then my eyes flick up to James. He’s still watching me, his expression soft, encouraging. Without thinking it through, the words slip out before I can stop them. “I’ll consider it,” I say, surprising myself. “That isn’t a yes, but I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you. That means so much to me.”

I hesitate, and I think back to what James told me a few months ago.

If you ever go back there to give them a piece of your mind, take me with you.

Silence pours through the phone, and I glance at James again, then back down at the desk. Biting my tongue, I contemplate telling her about me and James. To be safe, I could leave his name out of it for now, but I could gauge her reaction to see if she’s actually genuine about her opinions.

“Also, Mom? There’s something you should know. I’m seeing someone.”

There’s a brief silence on the other end, and then she speaks again, her voice warm “That’s so great! I’m very happy for you.”

I wasn’t sure how she’d react to me dating a guy, but hearing her say that is almost healing, in a twisted kind of way. It’s been years since I sought approval from my parents, but it’s still satisfying.

“If you decide to come to Machias for Thanksgiving,” she continues, “your partner is more than welcome. I’d love to meet him.”

“Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

We exchange a few more words before I hang up, plunging the room into silence.

James doesn’t say anything at first, but then he stands up to walk over to the desk.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah. I think I am.”

James gives me a small smile and reaches out to give my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You handled that well. That must have been really hard.”

I let out a long breath, my hands still gripping the desk chair. The conversation with my mom left me drained, but as I sit here, the fog in my head gets lighter.

“So,” James says, breaking the silence. “What do you think? About Thanksgiving, I mean.”

Rubbing my hands over my face, I groan. “I don’t know, I mean, the last time I was there, you know what happened.”

“Right,” he says. “But it doesn’t have to be like that this time. If your mom is serious about making things right, maybe it could be a fresh start?”

“What about you? I know you said before that you’d go with me if I ever went back to Machias, but I’m not gonna drag you there and make you skip Thanksgiving with your family.”

James laughs. “Ethan, I’m Canadian, remember? Thanksgiving already happened for me.”

Of course. Canadian Thanksgiving isn’t at the same time. I’m an idiot.

He grins, enjoying my moment of cluelessness. “So, unless you want me to spend Thanksgiving alone watching Toronto’s hockey team get their asses handed to them, take me with you.”

“You actually want to come with me to Machias?” I ask, still not quite believing him.

“Yeah, I told you. If you ever go back there, I’m coming with you. You’re not doing this alone.”

“Alright. Let’s do this. I’ll drive.”

James opens his mouth to protest, but I raise a hand to stop him.

“It’s a five-hour drive and there’s moose. I can handle this.”

“Again, Ethan. I’m from Canada , so I know a thing or two about moose.”

I stifle a laugh. “Okay, you can drive for part of the way if you insist.” I pause, getting the sense that I’m forgetting something, but I can’t figure out exactly what it is.

Then it hits me.

“Oh, also, we’re getting a hotel. I’ll book it, not that we have much of a choice between the two that exist.”

James laughs. “Two entire hotels? How will you choose?”

“Whichever one is closer to the town,” I mumble. “And American Thanksgiving is in a month. How are we gonna pass the time now that we don’t have baseball?”

“I have a few ideas. One, we can catch up on all the housework we neglected during the season.”

“That sounds boring as hell,” I reply. “What else do you have?”

James fixes me with a sly grin. “Two, we can have a ton of sex.”

Laughing, I wrap James in a hug. “Now that’s an idea I can get behind.”