Chapter 1
ONE
HARLEY
TEN YEARS LATER
The ball flies from Gigi’s hand and hits my glove with the same satisfying sound I’ve heard thousands of times, and yet it’s still music to my ears. From my knees, I throw it back to her and grin under my helmet. We have our first scrimmage of the season this weekend, and I can’t wait.
Gigi is our starting pitcher. She’s just a freshman, but she’s incredible. She’s throwing in the low seventies, which is freaking fast. Not only that, but she’s also super accurate.
I crouch back down into my stance, giving Gigi the signal of what to throw.
For months, I haven’t been able to find peace.
But when I’m here? This is the only place I find it.
The second I leave, I know I’ll be brought back to the reality that I’ve been trying so hard to run from.
But cancer isn’t something I can escape.
Especially not when it’s my real-life hero who has it. My dad.
And now he’s on the other side of the country, withering away into someone I don’t recognize, while I’m here, living out my dream.
I catch the ball again, but this time, when I fire it back to her, the athletic trainer hollers my name from the dugout.
Standing up, I slide the helmet to the top of my head and look at her.
“You’re running a little low, Meadows,” she hollers to me, calling me by my last name while holding my phone out. “Come grab some sugar.”
I glance at Gigi to find she’s walking toward me.
“All good, Catch. I need some water anyway.”
I want to sigh because we were on a roll today, getting shit done and working out the way we need to before our upcoming scrimmage.
But my diabetes is something that’s made me stronger—even though it pisses me off a lot of the time.
There’s no point in getting aggravated, so instead of sulking, I head into the dugout and hold out my hand.
“This should do it,” Ingrid says, dumping some Skittles into my hand. Or that’s probably what it looks like to outsiders. I know she literally counted out how many to give me and recorded it somewhere.
Scarfing them down, I give her a cheesy thumbs-up. “Thanks, boss.”
“Lord, woman,” she utters. “Chew, would you? Gigi isn’t even back on the mound yet.”
This is my second year at New England University, and it’s also my second year of being blessed to have Ingrid as my athletic trainer. Having type 1 diabetes seems like a full-time job, and I’m so thankful she helps me manage it so that I can continue playing.
She looks at my phone, reading the data my Dexcom sent to the app. I wait anxiously until finally, she gives me a nod that tells me I’m good to return to the field. And either I time it right or Gigi is trying to make me think I do because the second I’m behind home plate, she jogs to the mound.
Life is funny sometimes. When I was ten, I couldn’t even make it to the All-Stars season because no one wanted me on their team.
But then my parents scraped up whatever money they could to get me into a training facility year-round.
I finally began working with a coach who saw my potential from day one, and when it came to All-Stars the following season, I was at the top of the list. Things were going great from there on out.
I was finally strong and not so scrawny.
I was considered a great catcher, but also a trusty utility player.
Everything I wanted for my future finally seemed within reach.
And then, when I was sixteen, I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes.
At the time, it felt like that was the world taking a shit on my dreams and making everything seem impossible …
yet again. I felt bad for myself for a few weeks.
Felt like my softball career would never make it past high school.
But eventually, I did what I had always done in the past. I got my gear on, went to the facility, and trained my ass off.
Only this time, I had to check my sugar level and pay close attention to what I was putting in my body.
Now, three and a half years later, I’m a type 1 diabetic, playing at a Division 1 college. A long time ago, my dad told me that the hard times would make me a better player. I didn’t believe him back then, but now I get it.
Almost the entire team, with very few exceptions, is just as hyper-focused as me. But I know how much blood, sweat, and tears it took to get here. It was grueling dedication at the highest level, but I’d do it all over again to be crouched down behind home plate at this field.
And that’s why I vowed years ago never to let distractions take my head out of the game. I don’t date, and I don’t party hard. I didn’t come this far just to throw it away. After college, I’m going to play professional ball in the Athletes Unlimited Softball League.
I give Gigi a sign for a rise ball and flash her my mitt before I put my glove in the dirt. Just like thousands of times before, I raise it when it’s time to catch the ball, once again loving the feeling and the sound it brings when it hits the leather.
The sun is going down, and practice is almost over. I’m tired, but I also don’t want it to end.
Man, I love this game.
CANE
“This is a stupid fucking idea,” I growl, standing by the fence as a few of my teammates spray-paint shit on our rival’s dugout. “Let’s go. I thought you were just going to take a picture of you pissing on their grass or some shit. This is too far.”
“Hey, they started it,” my teammate, Liam, yells, his voice slurring from the few drinks he had.
I grind my back teeth, turning away from them. “I’m out of here. Find your own ride home.”
As I stalk toward my truck, I don’t even have the driver’s door open before they are all barreling toward it. Liam climbs into the back while Huck throws an empty can of spray paint at the dugout and opens the passenger door.
“Roll out, Cap!” Huck yells, and I stomp on the gas, driving out of the dark parking lot.
“That’s not what the fuck I brought you here for!” I growl at them, smashing my hand against the steering wheel. “What happened to you wearing a stupid fucking mask and sending them a video of you pissing on their field?”
Both are quiet for a moment, but eventually, Liam sighs. “I got here, and I just got mad. I mean, they put their trash all through our dugout the other night. Fuck is that about?”
“It’s trash, dipshit! Not fucking spray paint!” I yell, getting angrier by the second because with shit like this, the truth always comes out. And I was here with them. How the hell is that going to look?
Maybe reality hits them that they took it too far because the ride home is quiet. And somehow, deep in my stomach, I know this is going to be bad for us.
Really fucking bad.