Chapter 10
TEN
CANE
“Damn, Cap.” Liam grins, throwing the ball back to me. “That one had some heat.”
I swear he randomly says that, even when I’m throwing the same speed. But I’m thankful for it. It’s much better than him telling me I suck or something.
“What are you wearing to this auction thing?” I ask him, stretching my arm. “Still think it’s fucking weird to auction off athletes to random people.” I scowl. “Don’t you think so?”
Liam’s shoulders shrug. “I mean, dude, it’s for the One Wish Foundation. The money goes toward kids who can’t afford to play sports. They could tell me I had to auction off pictures of my feet, and I’d still be all for it.”
Staring at him for a beat, I frown. “Well, now you’ve made me feel like a dick right before our game starts.”
“Sorry.” He grins before suddenly looking down. “You okay, Cap? I mean, this game—”
“Is against Casco Bay, and they hate my guts,” I say, finishing his sentence and looking up at the hundreds of fans who have traveled from Maine just to be here so that they can yell taunts out to me. “Yes, I’m aware.” I inhale, setting my shoulders back. “I’m fine.”
His mouth opens, but before he can say anything, I cut him off.
“Let’s go. Game’s starting soon.” Jogging toward him, I knock my glove against his when he stands up. “Let’s do it, Lockhart.” I jerk my chin toward the stands. “Just tune it out, okay?”
“All right,” he utters.
I know he’s about to have an off game because of who we’re playing. I just hope he can pull it together enough for us to win.
With two outs in the top of the ninth inning and a runner on second, Casco Bay’s last at bat, and their best hitter, Hayden Murphy, walks out.
Mentally, this is one of the hardest games I’ve ever had to play in.
We’re winning by two runs, and if I can strike him out or get him out, we’ll walk away with the win.
But, fuck, just the way he’s looking at me, I can tell he hates my guts.
That’s okay because I hate his too. He was one of the dudes who trashed our dugout first.
I’d love more than anything to strike this dude out, but honestly, anything will do even if it’s picking his ass off at first base.
Lockhart isn’t having his best game. He’s struck out every time he’s been up to bat, and he’s had two passed balls, which literally never fucking happens to him. This may just be a scrimmage, but it still matters to every one of us.
Settling myself down a bit, I throw the first pitch, and it’s a strike.
Liam throws it back to me, and I inhale before letting the air out of my lungs.
I need to strike this guy out. We’re in a good position to win, but things could still fall apart quickly.
I’ve already let my team down enough this season; I can’t lose the game for us.
Hundreds of Casco Bay fans yell shit out to me, and even though some NEU students and fans cheer me on, it’s not nearly as many as usual. Almost like they don’t want to claim me.
Blurring it all out, I throw in the second pitch. He swings, makes contact, but fouls it off.
That’s two.
Liam gives me the sign for what pitch comes next, and I shake my head. The next sign he gives is a high fast ball, and I nod once. It isn’t enough for most people to see, but Liam gets it.
Taking one last breath, I step onto the mound, and seconds later, I fire a pitch at him, praying for no contact.
The ball hits Liam’s glove, and NEU luckily erupts into cheers—despite their disdain for me, it seems.
I know it’s Huck lifting me up, and soon, the entire team is rallying with me, but my eyes remain on the batter as he glares in my direction. His own way of sending me a secret message before he turns around and heads back to the dugout, I suppose.
When Huck sets me down, I break away from my team and rush toward the other team’s dugout.
When I stand in the doorway, Murphy looks at me first, stepping forward like he thinks we’re about to fight.
“I just … I wanted to apologize,” I say quickly before he or any of the other players has the chance to punch me in the face and then my coaches end up being more pissed off at me than they already are. “I took a prank to a stupid level, and I’m sorry for that.”
They all eye me over, but no one steps up to say a word, and after a moment or two of just being stared at, I excuse myself awkwardly and walk toward my own team.
“What the hell was that about?” Coach grumbles, looking past me at the opposing team. “What did you just do?”
“I apologized, sir,” I utter, looking down. “Figured I should.”
I don’t know what I expect Coach to do. Probably yell that I could have made things worse or just walk away. Instead, he stares at me for a few seconds before he lifts his hand and grips my shoulder, giving it a pat.
Then he walks away. And for the first time since the whole fucking dugout bullshit, I feel like maybe he doesn’t think I’m the biggest fuckup in the world.
And seeing as my dad, before he died, always stressed how important it was to be a good man, someone who people could look up to, I sigh in relief.
Because I really do care an awful lot about what Coach thinks of me.
HARLEY
With my headphones on, I walk along the sidewalk. My sugar has been a little funky, but I’ve continued checking it, and slowly, it seems to be improving.
I’ve gotten plenty of exercise today. But my mind is restless, and in between classes and homework, I figured I could squeeze in a light walk too. It’s probably not healthy to always feel the need to be on the go, but it’s how I cope with life. And so far, it’s worked for me.
A text from my mom comes through, asking if it’s an okay time for her to call. Disconnecting the headphones and sliding them onto my neck, I don’t even reply before I call her instead. My dad is sick enough that I understand each phone call could be bad news, as much as I hate to think about it.
“Guess it’s a good time,” she says sweetly. “Hopefully I didn’t scare you.”
“I’m just out on a walk,” I answer. “Everything okay?”
I expect—or I hope—she’ll instantly say that everything is fine. But that doesn’t happen. Instead, there’s a short pause, followed by a sniffle. My stomach drops, and I know right away that something isn’t right.
“Your dad is in the hospital,” she whispers, her voice squeaking as she tries to fight back the emotion in her tone. “His oxygen level is low, and now they’re doing some scans and tests to figure out if his cancer has responded to the treatments he’s had so far.”
With the way her words come to an instant stop, I know there’s more. Worse, likely. And even though I wish I could live in a bubble, where everything is great and dandy, that isn’t reality. I can’t avoid the truth. The truth always finds a way.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I say, putting a hand on the top of my head and stopping on the sidewalk. “Tell me what else is going on.”
My mom sighs heavily and sadly enough for me to hear it through the phone, and the sound of more sniffles hits my ears. She’s a tough woman. She only breaks when things get really, really hard. Which means those sniffles mean a lot.
“It’s just not looking good, baby.” Her voice croaks. “He’s having a really hard time breathing. And there has been talk about intubating, but you know—”
“Dad doesn’t want that,” I say, finishing her sentence as tears fill my eyes.
My father has always been a proud man. He’s never wanted to be taken care of by anyone else, so I’m sure it’s been so hard for him to let my mom care for him. Even me seeing him sick, I know, hasn’t been easy on him, just like it hasn’t been for me either.
“No, he doesn’t,” she whispers sadly. “He’s always been very vocal about that.”
When my dad got his diagnosis, we all sat down and talked about it, and even though he wanted to go through with chemo and radiation, he made us promise that if things got too bad, he didn’t want to be kept alive by a ventilator.
I’m silent, and a few seconds later, my mom talks again.
“I don’t want you to worry, baby. Okay? I’ll keep you in the loop, and as soon as I know more, I’ll call you.” She’s trying so hard to be strong for me—and for Dad—but it’s clear as day that it’s weighing on her.
“I should come home,” I say, wiping my eyes. “I … I need to come home.”
“No, baby. You have classes and practice. And that charity auction the team has to take part in that you’re so excited about.” She attempts to lighten the mood. “If I feel like—” Her voice cracks, and she pauses. “When I think it’s time for you to come home, I’ll tell you. I promise.”
My mind feels fuzzy, and I know my level is spiking. I’ve come to find that stressful situations always seem to screw with my sugar level. Hence why I try to be the calm one who doesn’t get worked up.
But my dad is dying. And there’s no amount of willpower that can keep me from being upset over that.
“Do you promise to call me as soon as you know something?” I force out, despite the fact that it feels like my throat is closing.
“I promise,” she says instantly. “Love you, Harland. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“I love you too.” I sniffle just before she hangs up.
Sliding my phone into the pocket of my leggings, I plop myself down on a bench and stare at the ground.
Not only is my dad dying, but now I need to figure out a way to buy insulin and supplies to get through the next month.
Go ahead, world. Keep on taking a shit on me. Because one day, you know I’ll have to give up.
After I chug the water I brought with me in my pack, my brain begins feeling a bit better as I continue to sit on this bench, leaning forward with my forearms on my thighs. But while my level is stabling, the pain that I may be losing my dad is very real.
My parents are soulmates. They have been together since they were kids.
They’ve been through so much shit. Infertility, which meant that, to them, I was a blessing because they had tried for so many years and done multiple rounds of fertility treatments before getting pregnant with me.
They’ve been through career changes and losing family members together.
And now my dad is sick. He’s my mom’s best friend, and I don’t know if she’ll ever be okay if he dies.
I sit up straighter, inhaling sharply.
“Get it together, Harland,” I whisper to myself. “You need to be strong right now.”
Wiping my eyes, I swallow back any more tears, and I decide right then that I’m going to be as supportive as I can for my mom, even if inside, it’s killing me that my dad has cancer.
But in doing so, that’s going to mean I can’t harass her about my meds. No, I need to take care of this myself because she has enough on her plate.
Taking my phone out, I bring up my mom’s contact and type a message.
Me: I love you. Please tell Dad that I love him and I wish I could be there.
Me: Also, for a little bit of good news, I found out about a program that helps students with the costs of their prescriptions and medical supplies. So, that’s one thing off our plate for now. Love you. Call me when you get an update on Dad.
Maybe I did lie to my mom a bit in that message, but I can’t exactly tell her a random guy is going to buy my shit in return for me being his friend.
The last thing I want to do is be Cane Hale’s fake friend.
And what I like even less? Being looked at like charity.
I hate—no, loathe—asking for help from anyone.
But as I push myself from the bench and start heading toward home, I know I’m going to make a stop at the place a few houses down.
Because unfortunately, I need to go see NEU’s baseball star and accept his deal.