5. Grady
CHAPTER 5
GRADY
The sun is shining over the baseball diamond, and there’s a very disruptive group of seven-year-old boys tittering away with each other in the dugout in anticipation of the game starting, but I can’t stop thinking about my night with Spencer Sinclair. In fact, it’s all I’ve thought about since it happened, and now I’m trying to beat my thoughts into submission to focus on this Little League game I agreed to coach.
I signed up for the year when a couple of dads in town approached me about it. The guy who used to do it moved to the city with his family for work, and none of the other parents know the difference between a foul ball and a strike, so I agreed. I may have missed my own opportunity to play for the major leagues, but these kids need someone who genuinely loves the game. And I do. I used to eat, sleep, and breathe it in high school.
I feel a gentle tug on my T-shirt, causing me to glance down to my right where I find Miles, looking down to where he’s scuffing his feet in the dirt. He’s timid and quiet, and when his Uncle Finn took guardianship of him he clammed up even more. I suggested that Finn enroll him in baseball, and here he is, looking out of his element and, frankly, terrified.
“What’s going on, buddy?” I stoop a bit so I’m closer to eye level with him, but it takes a bit more encouragement to get him to speak. When he finally does, it comes out so soft I can barely hear it over the other kids whooping and hollering to start the game already.
“Why do I have to bat first?” Miles says, not wanting to look up at me.
“Because you can’t face your fears unless you get out there and do it,” I explain, crouching down low so he’s forced to look at me. “You’ll do great, Miles.”
“You don’t know that,” he says, wringing his hands. “Did you see the first guy up to pitch? He’s like twice my size. We’re going to lose because of me.”
“Listen, if we lose, so what?” I place a comforting hand on his shoulder, and I feel it relax slightly. “You want to know a trick from when I used to play?” I ask him and it earns me a curious look, so I continue. “Right when the pitcher gets up on the mound and is ready to throw, right when he winds up and his foot lifts off the ground …” I bring my hand back to demonstrate the exact moment I’m describing. “Make a real loud fart noise with your mouth.”
Miles’s cheeks go red and he bursts out in a laugh, covering his mouth with his palm.
“You didn’t really do that,” he chides.
“No, you’re right, I never had to use it,” I admit. “But only because I practiced batting until I was so good, no pitcher intimidated me. I won’t tell anyone if you want to, though.”
I stand up from where I’m crouched and Miles smiles up at me now. If anything, the joke helped to ease some of his tension, so I’ve done my job. I give him a nudge to get out there, and he leaves the dugout, grabbing his bat along the way.
I watch the beginning of the game unfold, arms crossed over my chest, when the rattling of the chain link fence behind me catches my attention. A parent I recognize from pick-up and drop-off at practice is leaning against it, looking at me. He clicks his tongue once, twice.
“You want to say something, Mark?” I ask him, a bit of an edge to my voice.
“No,” he says. But he does, and he keeps talking. “Just an interesting coaching tactic is all.”
I don’t turn to face him, I just talk sideways over my shoulder, eyes fixed on the game. Miles manages to hit the ball which goes rolling along the ground out into the field.
“You think you can do a better job? Have at it,” I answer with a shrug.
“I’m just saying.” Mark throws his hands up in the air, feigning innocence. “If that’s your coaching style, then my son doesn’t have a shot in hell at the MLB.”
My gaze instantly finds the son he’s talking about, standing in line to bat. The kid is leaning down with his forehead on the end of his bat, spinning around it. By the time he gets out there, he’ll be so dizzy he’ll think the pitcher threw four balls.
“I think that ship has sailed, Mark.” I nod over to where his boy just about stumbles over into the dirt. It earns me a disdainful scoff. I’ve made him mad. “I think he’s more of an inside kid.”
“Only because he has a clown for a coach,” he just about spits out. “Couldn’t make anything out of his own baseball career so now he’s going to let the kids ruin theirs too.”
I try to shrug off the comment, but I can feel myself clenching my jaw, grinding my molars. It stings. To everyone else it looked like I quit baseball, gave up, didn’t have what it took to go pro. But I know the truth, and there was more to the story than what most people assume.
When I don’t respond to his snide remarks, Mark storms back to the bleachers across the field where he sits down next to his wife. He’s fuming. I can see his beet-red face from here. I’m sure he’s telling her all about our terse interaction, really highlighting what a chump he thinks I am. I’m turning my attention back to the game when my gaze catches on a shock of red hair in the stands.
Spencer. She’s sitting beside Ally, coffee in hand. I briefly question why she’s decided to come and watch a Little League game on a Saturday morning, but then I remember that this is Heartwood, and there’s never a whole lot else going on.
My breath catches watching her as she throws her head back, laughing at something Ally said. I find myself itching to know what it was that Ally said to get that reaction. Whatever it was, I want to stash it away so I can make her laugh like that too.
A cheer from the crowd erupts as Miles runs across home base, and right over to me. He’s beaming, and I give him a big high-five as he comes back into the dugout.
“I did it Coach Grady!” he exclaims, a bright smile lighting up his face.
“I knew you could, bud.” I muss his hair as he passes by and takes a seat on the bench, the smile never leaving his face.
I wish I could say the rest of the game is as exciting, but once our inning is over, the other team is up to bat and they crush us. Four runs, although I’m not supposed to be keeping score. I know the parents do too, especially Mark. I meant what I said to Miles about it not mattering whether we win or lose. I’ve never approached the game that way. Even at my peak in high school, I just went out there to have fun. My only competition was myself, and I think that’s why I excelled. Because I did it for the love of the game. No expectations.
The boys exchange disappointed groans as the game ends, and the other team runs off the field to where their proud parents are waiting.
“I am so proud of you boys,” I say, but their eyes are downcast. “You guys played your hearts out and gave it your all. You should be so proud of that too.”
Crickets.
“Hey, chins up. Look at me.” Most of them do. “We are not sore losers. We celebrate the little wins, keep our spirits high. Miles got a run today, so I want you all to give him three cheers.” I say the first hip hip and only get a measly hooray in response. But by the third cheer, most of them have perked up and joined in. “We’ll try again next time, okay? Go say good game.” The boys disperse, and form a line in the middle of the baseball diamond and shake hands which each of the boys from the other team. It used to be a tradition in any sport I played growing up, but it kind of fell by the wayside. I think it’s important for the boys to learn good sportsmanship.
I shield my eyes from the sun with a hand across my forehead and search the bleachers for Spencer, hoping to see her one last time. As the crowd departs, I can’t find her stand-out red hair. Something in my chest sags. I shouldn’t be disappointed that she left already. I’ve been trying to respect her wishes and keep my distance anyways. Even though it’s the last thing I want to do. Even though I’ve been fighting every instinct to call her or find a convenient reason to bump into her in town.
The bleachers are empty now, the field quiet, and I’m wandering around picking up the wooden bats that have been left on the ground. That’s when I notice movement behind the stands. Two people are talking, just visible through the gaps in the steps. I squint my eyes and make out Mayor Jodi Price. Her son plays on my team, but I get the distinct impression that she wasn’t paying attention to the game. She’s been otherwise occupied, in a heated discussion with a man who has his back turned to me. They share an embrace, an intimate one, and when they both slink out from beneath the seats, it’s not Jodi’s husband following her.
It’s Carter Bouchard.
Dread creeps up my back as I mull over the implications of this turn of events. The new challenge this poses for my campaign to stop Carter from taking over the town with his chain of restaurants. I refuse to resort to blackmail, although I certainly could. I don’t think Heartwood would take too kindly to a mayor who is fooling around with business owners, so to speak. This means Jodi and Carter are even more entangled in each other’s affairs than I assumed.