Chapter 7
SEVEN
CANE
“You pitched good today,” my mom says, walking up to me as I pack up my shit in the dugout. “Your team is looking strong.”
“Thanks.”
Today, we scrimmaged against a New Hampshire team and won four to one. Seeing as I hadn’t been at practice for the majority of the week and just came back two days ago, I hadn’t really expected to play. But Coach likes to win too much, I guess.
My mom adjusts the strap to her camping chair and shifts on her feet.
“I heard a few girls talking behind me—they didn’t realize who I was, I guess.” She swallows. “They were saying your social media is under attack right now?”
“It’s fine.” I brush it off, putting my Bruce Bolt gloves in their case and sliding them into my bat bag. “It’ll blow over.”
“And if it doesn’t?” she asks softly. Even though she pauses, I know she’s not done talking by the way she’s looking at me.
“Are you going to be okay, Cane? Because, despite how you may try to come off, I know damn well you care what people think of you. And … I may have looked at your profile and read some comments after I heard those girls talking, and, well … it’s not good. ”
Zipping up my bag, I grab the handle and stand up straight. “Are we going to lunch or what?”
When she just simply stares at me, I raise my eyebrows. “I did this to myself, Mom. But, yeah, I’m fine. I haven’t even been going on my socials and don’t plan to until everything blows over.”
I’m lying. The truth is, I’ve read way more comments than I care to admit, and, yeah, it wasn’t that fucking fun having people I’d never met basically calling me a piece of shit.
What was worse were the ones I did know, the ones who had been following my journey for a while now, telling me they were disappointed.
“Okay,” she says, nodding toward the parking lot.
“Come on. Because even though I’m still pissed at you, I am legally supposed to care for you.
” She stops. “Well, I mean, you’re an adult now.
So, technically, I don’t have to.” Finally, she smiles at me for the first time since everything happened. “Let’s go.”
My mom would choose to eat lunch at the diner right off campus that’s currently swarming with the women’s softball team.
They’re loud, all decked out in their softball gear, and taking up about half of the small restaurant.
And of course, the redhead who’s been on my mind nonstop is sitting directly across the room, in plain sight.
I’ve been thinking about her a lot the past few days.
Ever since I saw her in the dugout and overheard her talking about her insurance and medications, I’ve wondered if she got it straightened out or not.
When you play at the level that we do, taking care of your body isn’t just important.
It’s everything. And with type 1 diabetes, I can’t even begin to imagine how much extra effort she has to put into taking care of hers.
“It’s not lost on me that you keep looking over in the corner,” my mom whispers, grinning slightly. “Some pretty-looking softball players over there, I see.”
I snap my attention back to my mother, realizing I’ve probably been staring like a creeper for way too long. Thankfully, they all slowly stand, making their way toward the exit.
Harley is one of the last to go by, and she surprises me when she stops at our table. “No dugouts to sweep out today?” Her eyes glance nervously at my mom, and she flashes her a smile, as if trying to tell my mom she isn’t being a jerk to me.
“Not today,” I say, relaxing in my seat. “I’m saving that for tonight.”
“Well, hopefully not too many sunflower seeds to sweep.” She almost giggles, I swear.
“Hope not,” I say, pausing before the next words fly from my mouth. “This is my mom, Freya. Mom, this is NEU’s very own star catcher, Harley Meadows.”
My mom holds her hand out, smiling warmly, just like she always does. “I caught a few of your team’s games last year. Your arm is a cannon.”
This flushes Harley’s cheeks as she shakes my mom’s hand before releasing it.
“Thank you. I hear this one’s is too.” She nods toward me before looking at the exit, where a few of her friends are waiting for her.
Her eyes snap back to mine. “Well, make sure you clean the softball dugout good. Coach Brawn is a stickler about that.” She winks.
Fucking winks. Because that’s how confident this girl is.
Looking at my mom, she holds a hand up. “It was nice to meet you, Freya.”
“Likewise,” my mom says softly, and I can’t help but watch as Harley walks—almost skips—away.
She appears happy today, so maybe that means she figured out her insurance shit. Or she’s got one hell of a poker face.
“She seems nice,” my mom says, a knowing grin on her lips. “And pretty. Very, very pretty.”
“I guess,” I utter, looking away from her and taking a sip from my Coke.
“Yeah, I bet you do,” she singsongs. “Been a while since I’ve seen that look in your eye, boy.” She fights a laugh.
“What look?” I play dumb, acting like the few times I’ve been around Harley Meadows, I haven’t almost made a fool of myself.
“Like … you have a crush on someone.” She sighs, still smiling. “Seems natural, you know. That your crush is on a star softball player and all.”
“I don’t have a crush on her,” I say instantly and probably a little too defensively. “I barely know her. I’ve talked to her a few times briefly. That’s it.”
My mom’s eyes sweep my face questionably, yet there’s zero judgment in them.
“Could have fooled me.” She shrugs, eating one of her French fries.
I debate asking her advice on if I should check in with Harley that everything is okay or if she needs help buying her medication. It seems so insane to even think about telling my mom the situation right now because I don’t even know Harley. And yet my mouth opens, and I can’t stop myself.
“It’s just … the other night, I was at the field, cleaning the dugouts, and I accidentally overheard her talking to someone about her insurance and medication.
Like, she isn’t able to afford it or something.
” I cringe, thinking back to how upset she sounded.
“Whoever she was talking to, it sounded like they were in trouble too. I think it was her mom or dad.”
The grin is now gone from my mom’s lips, and a wrinkle forms between her brows as she examines my face with her gaze.
“I’ve read an article about her. She’s a type 1 diabetic athlete.”
It’s not a question, but I nod my head faintly.
“Well, her medication … it’s extremely important that she gets it.” She speaks so softly, like she doesn’t want anyone to overhear, even though this place is almost empty now. “What did you say to her about it?”
My eyes fly up. “N-nothing,” I say quickly. “I waited till she was off the phone, and then I pretended like I hadn’t heard any of it. I didn’t know what to do or say. I barely know the girl, Mom. What was I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “That’s tough.”
On the table, my phone continues to buzz.
It’s just notifications from Instagram, and I don’t have to look to know that none of them are good.
Everyone hates me because a few of the baseball players at Casco Bay have made it their mission not to let the fire go out.
Fuck no, they keep stoking it and making me sound way worse than just some kid who spray-painted a fucking dugout.
When I don’t say anything back, my mom gives me a knowing look.
“You’ve always been my protective one. The one who worries about everyone else.
” She breathes out the smallest laugh. “Even when I wished you wouldn’t, you would.
You’ve been this way since you were a kid.
When we lost your dad, you worried about me being okay.
And when Avy had a tough time in school, you wanted to protect her every second she was there.
With Cash, you wanted him to play hockey and to have every opportunity with that. ”
She reaches across the table, patting my hand. “I don’t know this Harley girl, and like you said, you don’t either.” She shrugs. “But if you feel like you need to extend a hand to a fellow athlete, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that, Cane.”
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “She seems very independent. I don’t know if she’d accept help from someone she hardly knows.” I grimace. “Not to mention that the entire softball team probably hates me right now for the whole … dugout thing.”
The last few words come from my mouth quietly because I hate to even bring it up. It’s taken over so many parts of my life, and I wish I could turn back time and just erase it.
“True,” she whispers, stirring the straw slowly in her drink before her eyes lift. “But you know what? Maybe you could offer help anyway. Sometimes, people are too proud to ask, even when they need it most.” She snorts. “Look at me and Tripp, for example. That was all him.”
Oddly enough, when Tripp and my mom met, she was a widow with three kids and a daughter in desperate need of brain surgery, and Tripp—who was in love with my mom instantly, I swear—was an NHL player with good health benefits and offered to marry her so that his insurance would cover Avy’s surgery.
Obviously, this isn’t knowledge outside of our household, but I still like to bring it up because my mom—a law-abiding rule follower—did something so illegal, and I love it.
Now, all this time later, they are still so happy together. And I love that because after my dad died, I didn’t think my mom would ever be happy again. And thanks to Tripp, she is.
Eating one last fry, she slides from the booth and stands. “Come on then. I think you’ve got a catcher to talk to.”
Slowly, I slide from my seat and follow her toward the exit because she’s right. I’m sure this is a time-sensitive thing, but fuck … I’m nervous to go talk to her.