Chapter 6 #2
Colby shrugs at my apology with a sharp laugh, immediately pulling her sunglasses from the back pocket of her pants.
She slips them on, taking away any chance I might have at peaking behind the curtain to see how she really feels.
Now is probably the worst possible time to tell her she looks good in baseball pants.
I want to, though. I wouldn’t have complimented my old hitting coach.
Edgar looked like a clown. There’s nothing funny about Colby’s thighs being hugged by pinstripes.
Those thoughts aren’t fair. She’s your coach. See her as your coach.
“I didn’t mean because you’re a woman. When I said I have a hard time listening to you, I mean,” I say, then keep explaining, even as the guys come rushing back to the cage and sort themselves into a hitting order. “I have a hard time because of our history. Because of how we—”
“I got it,” she says, turning to face me so I’m hit with my own reflection in her sunglasses.
After a full second, I nod.
“I’m sorry, is all. About how it came out.” I turn my focus to the young hitters, stacking my fists atop my glove and resting my chin on top.
“That’s all you’re sorry about, huh? How the words came out?” she utters after a few minutes.
I take in her words for a beat, deconstructing them. It feels a little like she’s picking a fight, and I have enough history with Colby to know that I don’t want any part of one of those. At least not on top of the ones I’m already deeply embroiled in.
“That’s not all,” I say. Something in my gut tells me that’s the best answer I can give. An entire round of pitches passes without a word from her. I know more are coming, though.
“You want to know what else you’re sorry about?” she finally asks, and I exhale as if I’ve been holding my breath, waiting for permission to breathe.
“God, yes,” I sigh out.
She chuckles softly, and pulls her glasses down her nose just enough to peer at me over the bright orange rims. Her lips pucker into a knowing smirk, but all I see is the deep amber flecks amidst her brown irises.
She huffs. “My God, some things never change, do they?”
“I’m pretty certain the right answer is no, they don’t.”
My nervous laugh seems to break down some of her brick wall, and she pushes her glasses back into place and leans back while holding onto the crossbar, stretching out her arms. She’s fit like I remember her last, solid bicep muscles that could easily gun down a runner trying to steal second. She was one hell of a catcher.
“You should be sorry for not listening, no matter who I am. I’m your coach, regardless of gender, regardless of our history, regardless of . . .” She swirls a finger in the air, and my lips twist in response to the motion.
“What is . . .” I swirl my finger in the same way.
Colby rolls her neck until we’re facing one another again, and she shrugs a shoulder.
“Our bullshit. That’s what this means.” She circles the space between us one more time.
“Right. Your point is noted, Coach. But for the record, that’s the only thing I’m struggling with in this relationship. Our bullshit. I respect the fuck out of your expertise. Always have.”
For a beat, I hold what I think is her gaze through her glasses, then turn my eyes back to the plate, where a new hitter is trying to impress the coaching staff by taking long hacks at curveballs.
Jake joins us for a few rounds of hitters, and the three of us pick apart the rookies’ swings.
It’s nice, just talking technique with two other pros.
I like Jake seeing this side of Colby, too.
I like the ease of our conversation. And when Colby steps into the cage to work with one of the hitters, Jake fills me in on why Brooks didn’t travel with the team for this series.
Apparently, he has a kid. One he didn’t know about until the mom showed up out of the blue.
Suddenly, my and Colby’s bullshit doesn’t feel so serious.
Jake excuses himself to go warm up our starter for today, just as Colby steps back around the cage.
“You hear about Brooks?” I mutter.
She nods, avoiding eye contact. She’s never been one to gossip.
Neither of us has, really. Her father never tolerated gossip, or what he called “unproductive conversation” on his field.
We were both basically reared by him . .
. and afraid of being told to run poles until the end of practice for pissing him off.
“I miss him. Brooks,” I say instead of picking at his situation.
“Hmm, yeah,” she sighs out in agreement.
As quiet as Brooks is, over the last week of our hitting lessons, he’s sort of become this steady glue for Jake and me and to some extent, Colby and me.
He’s a safe zone. His quiet makes it okay to be quiet.
And staying quiet has kept me from saying shit I probably shouldn’t.
“Sunday . . . ride back next to me.” Shit like that.
“It’s a bad look,” she says.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight and nod.
“You’re probably right.” I bite my tongue, trying to hold in my follow-up, but I have waited so long to have a moment like this—one real goddamn moment to just talk to her.
“Do it anyway?”
I rest my forehead against one of the support bars at the back of the backstop and roll it slightly, just enough to give her a sideways glance.
She holds my gaze for a second, then flickers her attention to the hitting practice happening a few feet away.
Her lips part, and I hang on her breath, waiting for one small word—yes or okay. I’d take fine.
“I can’t,” she says, sticking to her guns.
My eyes drift shut, and I swallow.
“I get it.”
I do. But also, I don’t. We always talked growing up. We had a special connection. She has to miss that at the very least. If that’s all we can have, a friendship, then that’s enough. Nobody would fault us for having that kind of history. For being close, like friends.
“I’m not riding back with the team,” she adds after a few quiet seconds.
I open my mouth to ask why, but then realize the significance of everything. The weekend. Where we are. Mother’s Day. Close to home.
“How are you getting to Katy?”
“Dad’s coming to Sunday’s game.”
I nod. Of course he is. My heart races, and a sour taste coats my tongue. I miss her dad. I haven’t seen him since I left for college. Since he told me not to ruin his daughter’s life, and I took the request to heart.
“I fly back on a red eye. I already booked it.” She keeps her attention fixed on the field as she speaks. This subject isn’t one we can dance in for long. Neither of us wants to be in it. Her less than me, and justifiably.
“I’ll make sure I find your dad before y’all take off, then. To say hi, and . . .” And to say sorry. Or to ask him why? I’m not my father. I’m not Adriel either. I’m a better man. Aren’t I?
“He’d love to see you.”
She reaches over, resting her hand on my bicep before she turns and heads toward the dugout.
Her fingertips drag for the slightest second along my forearm, and despite the softness of her touch, it leaves invisible cuts behind that do very little to distract from the ache anchoring my heart in the depths of my chest cavity.