Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
HARLEY
Following Haven’s lead, we all stretch, counting loudly so that Coach doesn’t scream that she can’t hear us. And even though it’s felt good the past week to be back at practice, it feels … different.
Practice in the field house isn’t my favorite, but our team is lucky that NEU has such a nice one that it really does feel like we’re at an actual field.
But still, I’m ready to be outside. I like the sun on my face and the dirt beneath my cleats.
And even though I keep telling myself that’s got to be the reason why I’m not as happy at practice, the truth is, we’ve been practicing inside for two months now—long before my dad died.
And before two weeks ago, I had no issues with it.
Softball was something my dad and I played together. Whether it was at the batting cages, in the yard, hell, even in the hallway when I went through a stage at age thirteen of being scared of blocking the ball, he’d have me gear up at home, and he’d throw balls at me.
Not gently either.
He’s gone now, and the game just doesn’t feel the same. Maybe it’ll pass—God, I hope it does. The field? Inside or out, it has always been my sanctuary. I can’t imagine not having that anymore.
“All right, ladies,” Haven calls out loudly, “let’s have ourselves a good practice.”
She claps her hands together noisily before we all head to different stations, mine being bunting.
Walking to my bag, I pull out my batting gloves and put them on before I head back over. Gigi is ahead of me in line to hit.
“Oh, ladies!” Coach calls out from the fielding station. “I almost forgot to remind you about the baseball-softball breakfast at the cafeteria. Remember, we talked about it last week, and it isn’t optional!”
My stomach drops. So far, I’ve avoided Cane pretty well.
He’s texted me a few times, and I’ve responded, but barely.
Not because I don’t want to talk to him, but because I miss him.
I miss him so much more than I would have ever anticipated.
And even though I’ve been torturing myself, stalking his social media to see if he’s hanging out with other girls, I keep telling myself that eventually, if I give myself some time and put space between us, the feelings I’m having will go away.
And now I have to face him head-on at some stupid breakfast.
Once Coach is done talking, Gigi glances back at me. “Ugh, I forgot about that.”
“I didn’t even know about it,” I utter, tightening my gloves. “What is it?”
“It’s a breakfast gathering for the sponsors who helped with our locker rooms and dugouts,” she whispers. “A way to say thank you, I guess. From the baseball and softball players here at NEU. Apparently, the school is having it catered or something.”
“Great,” I practically groan, earning me a confused look from Gigi.
“I thought you and—” She snaps her mouth shut. “Never mind. Not my business.”
Gigi misses a lot of gossip because she doesn’t live at The Nest with many of us girls since she’s a freshman.
Not like I’ve gossiped about Cane and me, but Haven has basically pounded information out of me daily, making me finally snap and say that we’re just friends and telling her not to bring it up again.
“We’re friends,” I utter. “Sort of.”
“Noted.” She nods her head. “Well, good luck with your … friendship.”
It’s her turn to bunt next, and she walks up, killing it, like she does with everything.
I do think she loves the game, but I also think that her dad forces her to love it, and sometimes, that makes it less enjoyable.
She barely speaks about it, and yet I know she has immense pressure on her constantly.
My dad pushed me to be my best, but he always said I had to want it for myself. He couldn’t want it for me and didn’t want to unless it was my dream.
When it’s my turn, I take a few steps toward the assistant coach, and that’s when it happens—my monitor begins shrieking.
Everyone on the team is so used to it that they may glance my way, but they’re unalarmed, and they continue doing what they are doing.
It’s something that shouldn’t be a big deal to me—it happens sometimes during practice and even during games.
But in this moment, already being on edge … it is a big deal.
It’s the biggest deal. And that’s why, without thinking, I charge toward my bag of supplies, and when I reach it, I throw my bat against the wall. Something I have never ever done.
Within ten seconds, Coach is in front of me as I search through my bag for some sugar, pulling a fun size of the Wild Berry Skittles out, and as pathetic as it makes me, my heart hurts when I think about when Cane brought them to me.
“What the hell was that about, Meadows?” Coach hisses, standing over me, though I don’t look her in the eye. “We’re lucky enough to have this facility to use during the winter months, and you’re out here, throwing your bat against the damn wall.”
I look over at my bat as it sits on the turf and lift my eyes to the wall beside it.
“It didn’t hurt the wall. It’s fine,” I mutter, not wanting to have this conversation—not even really wanting to be here.
I pop a few Skittles into my mouth, forcing myself to chew and swallow, even though they’re the last thing I want right now.
“That’s not the point,” she growls in a tone she’s used on others, but never on me. Then again, I’ve never given her a reason to.
“I’m trying to be patient with you, kid. I know you’ve been through a lot,” she says sharply, losing her tolerance for my shit. “But you’re not making it easy. When you’re here, you give maybe fifty percent. And your attitude? Well, it’s not the Harley—”
“Maybe I’m not that Harley anymore!” I yell, shooting to my feet. “Maybe that Harley is gone!”
The vein in my forehead feels like it may blow, but I don’t know if it’s anger or sadness because I’ve never felt it bulge before. Normally, I keep my composure. Usually, I’m the one who’s reasonable. It’s something my dad always bragged about me.
I’m not being very reasonable right now, am I?
I’ve never talked back to a coach. Not in my entire softball career. And yet I just screamed at the best coach I have ever had.
“Go,” she says, keeping her composure. “Gather your things and leave. And when you return to practice tomorrow, know that you’re on thin ice.”
I look up at her, and even though I don’t recognize myself, I can’t seem to get it together.
“Whatever,” I utter sharply.
Shoving my stuff in my bag, I only half zip it before ripping off my turf shoes to trade for my Birkenstocks, and then I do another thing I’ve never done.
I leave practice.
I feel like I have no control over anything anymore.
Not over my temper.
Not over my diabetes.
Not over my feelings.
And not over my dad dying.
Every single thing feels like it’s falling apart, and all I can do is be angry, even though I don’t want to be. And now I’ve pissed my coach off and let my teammates down. If I don’t have them, what the hell else do I have?
Nothing.
For a while, I contemplate driving around, getting a coffee or something to try to feel normal. But I never put my car in drive. Instead, I just sit in the field house parking lot, not knowing what the hell to do. So, I sit. And I wait. I drove Haven here, and I’m not going to leave her.
I’m so angry right now, more so than I’ve ever been.
I’ve always been able to look on the bright side of things.
And when something doesn’t go my way, I usually just accept the challenge and move on with my life.
Right now, I can’t do that. I can’t do it because everything in my body hurts, though I’m not injured.
I feel lost, even though I’m at NEU, going about my day.
Nothing feels normal, but everything is ordinary.
Besides the fact that my father is dead and I can’t call him to tell him anything.
I can’t pick up my phone and dial his number and get off my chest how bad I feel for how I just treated my coach.
And I can’t explain to him the horror in my teammates’ eyes as they watched me turn into a monster or wait for him to scold me and tell me I was raised better than that.
And I was raised better than that. I know I was.
Exhaling slowly, I open my console and take out the letter my mom gave me when I was home. Even now, over two weeks later, I still can’t bring myself to read it. I don’t know why. Most people would be thrilled to read one last thing from their dad if he died, but maybe that’s the point …
It’s one last thing. And after this, there will be nothing left from him.
My fingers trace around the edges, and I swallow back my tears.
I thought about asking Cane to come over last night, just to be with me while I read it, but I decided not to.
Not only is it not fair for me to lead him on, but it’s also ridiculous that I need to depend on someone else that way. I’m not that girl.
I’m not this girl.
My phone vibrates, and I look to where it sits inside my cupholder to see a text from my mom. Lifting it up, I open it, letting the words sink in.
Mom: Our insurance is all straightened out. I know you have another week or so before you refill your prescriptions, but when you do, it’ll be all set.
Mom: I love you, and I hope you’re having an all right day.
My mom doesn’t say good day because she knows that there’s no way I could be having a good one just yet. So, that’s become our thing. Instead of saying hope your day is good, we say all right. Because at this point, all right is all we can hope for.
Me: Thanks, Mom. Love you.
I set my phone down and throw my head back against the headrest.
With Cane’s social media back to normal and my insurance figured out, I guess we really won’t have any reason to communicate anymore.
And that should be what I want … right?
So, why do I feel sick?
CANE
“Looking good, Hale,” Huck says as he spots me. “Almost done.”
I push the weight bar up again before bringing it back down. My arms are shaking, and sweat pours from my face, but I know my limits. I also know what it takes for me to stay in the shape I need to be in.
Finishing my last one, with the help of Huck, I set the weight back in place and slide from underneath it. I grab my water, pouring it into my mouth as I try to catch my breath.
“That may have been a PR,” Huck says just as Liam walks over to us.
Bradley, our third baseman, steps off the treadmill, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Fuck, I feel so out of shape, and we’ve been training for months now.”
“You’re also old as fuck,” Liam teases him. “You’re like the grandpa of the team.”
“Shut up,” Bradley utters, rolling his eyes. “You’re just jealous because I’m a super senior and I’ll have a big degree soon.”
Wyatt, our shortstop and designated team clown, looks Bradley up and down with a questioning face.
“So, I have a question for you,” he says, serious as can be.
“Are your balls wrinkly yet? And if so, is that a deal-breaker for the women? See, I only have one year to go until I’m the grandpa of the team like you, and I want to prepare myself. ”
Bradley gives Wyatt a shove but grins, shaking his head.
Basically, this is what guys do. We make fun of each other and almost always, someone does end up getting a little pissy.
Lucky for us, Bradley doesn’t give a fuck.
Probably because he knows that a lot of these guys are banking on their future being in the MLB, even though there’s only a small chance of that actually happening.
Bradley’s going to have a flashy degree and a good job to step into.
He knows exactly what he wants to do, and meanwhile, I don’t have a fucking clue.
“All right, I’ve listened to you morons for long enough,” I say, trying to grin even though it hasn’t been easy lately.
But I have to keep up my morale for my team.
I’m the team captain, for fuck’s sake. And after my fuckup at the beginning of the school year, I’m lucky that they didn’t name someone else.
“Same,” Huck mutters, following me as I head toward the exit.
“Don’t forget about that breakfast tomorrow, Cap,” Juan, our right fielder, calls to me.
“I hope they have some good shit there,” Liam adds in.
Holding my hand up, I don’t turn to look back at them as I leave the gym. “See ya later, fellas,” I say before pulling the door open, Huck staying close behind.
The hardest part of being back at campus and not being able to check in with Harland? Wondering how she is and if she’s all right. I worry about her all the fucking time, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.