Chapter 9 Greyson
Greyson
Baseball was my first passion.
~ Robert C. Merton
And Mia …
That’s what Tori said. I heard it loud and clear.
Ever since the Army, I notice everything—footsteps, breath shifts, the way someone hesitates before finishing a sentence. My mom used to call me “an observer.” I’ve found if you stay quiet long enough, you catch things most people miss because they’re too busy filling the silence.
Tori did say Mia’s name. And Hallie cut Tori off before she could finish her sentence. Why?
I stare straight ahead, eyes fixed on the street as we navigate our way back to the station from the elementary school. Hallie sits next to me in the officer’s seat. She glances over at me occasionally, but when I turn to meet her gaze, she pretends she wasn’t looking.
I’m not talking. That’s not unusual. But this time my silence is by design. I have to figure out why Tori mentioned Mia and why Hallie cut her off.
Mia.
Mia is the new girl on my little league team. She just moved here. Hallie just moved here.
Coincidence? No. The pieces slide together with a quiet, irreversible click.
Mia’s grandma has brought her to practice, with the exception of that first day when Avery was with them. I remember thinking that Avery’s body language didn’t come across as motherly. The idea felt odd at the time. Now, my instinctual observations seem to be adding up.
Will manages the sign-ups, even though I help collect forms. He would know if Mia’s last name is Collins. I usually learn the last names over the first few weeks of practice.
Hallie Collins. Is she married? My gut says no, but I have no reason to think she isn’t. Then again, she might have a child—a seven-year-old daughter—and she’s harboring that secret for some reason.
I steal another look at her while she stares out the windshield. Not that I have to. She looks so similar to the young woman I met all those years ago in Germany.
It’s so obvious now. Mia is Hallie’s mini-me. Full, dark wavy hair. Brown eyes. Even the pert nose and the heart shape of her face. How did I miss it?
Mia is Hallie’s daughter—without a doubt.
Everything snaps into focus. Sunlight through the windshield feels sharper. The engine hums too loud. My grip on the steering wheel tightens.
Hallie has a daughter. And I’m her daughter’s coach.
I haven’t answered Hallie’s question: Do you have any pets?
I don’t jump to answer her either, which probably makes me seem aloof—even rude.
Being alone with Hallie today has overwhelmed me, and I’m not a man who is easily overwhelmed.
Hallie’s different, though. The idea of her became so significant to me in Afghanistan.
Other men in my company had women stateside—wives and girlfriends they left behind.
I had the memories of the few unexpected, magical hours we shared together in Munich.
The idea of her served as a beacon, a harbor, a reminder that life could someday resume.
In my private moments, I’d remember her laughter, her soft smiles, her dreams of possibilities.
My whole world seemed to consist of desert, soldiers and Black Hawk helicopters.
Hallie’s invisible presence was the snorkel that let me breathe, even when I was submerged in an arid landscape of loss and uncertainty.
And here she is, riding along with me, less than three feet away, oblivious to her impact on my life—unaware of who I am.
I’ll have to tell her at some point. I just don’t know when, or how.
Every time I imagine bringing it up, I ask myself what good it will do.
None. She might not even remember that night.
I tell myself that, but as soon as I think it, I know I’m wrong.
Either way, I’m not ready to find out I’ve been the only one carrying that night with me all these years.
“No,” I finally answer her. It’s been so many minutes since she asked her question, her initial expression is one of confusion. “No pets,” I clarify.
“Oh.”
I realize I might have come across as gruff, so I add, “Too much hassle with our schedule,” which also probably sounds gruff.
Silence fills the cab again. Usually I appreciate it when someone doesn’t force me to talk. Right now my skin feels too tight.
“You?” I finally ask her.
She’s all smiles at my simple question. Just like she was in the assembly.
I was focusing on equipping the students with skills and tools that could save their lives.
I could tell Hallie was taking the task seriously, but she did not inform her face.
I caught her on the verge of private laughter on a few occasions.
She looks practically the same as she did that night in Munich—warm, cheerful, curious. She’s an older version of that young woman.
I’m more like Bruce Banner when he turned into the Hulk. Not that I’m aggressive, but I’m not the young man I was—barely a shadow of him remains.
“Um …” Hallie says hesitantly. “It’s complicated.”
I glance over at her. “I take that as a yes.”
“Not my animal, but I have a dog living with me for now. Other people care for him when I’m not home.”
I nod. Other people. I’m guessing that’s her mom and Avery. Maybe Mia too. Why won’t she tell me about them? Then again, why won’t I tell her I was Ace? I guess we’re all entitled to our secrets.
“What are you going to do on your days off?” Hallie asks.
We’ve got four days off in a row coming up—thanks to our Kelly schedule—starting tomorrow.
On some of those, I’ll be coaching Hallie’s daughter.
I could tell her that, but then she’d discover that I know about Mia.
And I feel an inexplicable urge to help her guard her own privacy, even though I don’t understand why she needs to keep her daughter a secret.
Being on a fire crew usually means knowing practically everything about the other guys you work with.
At least, I know about them because they’re all always sharing details of their lives during the moments we’re sitting around at the station waiting for the next call.
I’ll admit they don’t know as much about me. I’m a private person. I keep to myself.
Hallie glances over at me and then quickly looks away as if I make her nervous. Do I? She follows her question with an apology of sorts. “Sorry. Is asking about your days off too personal?”
“No. Not too personal,” I say.
Though, I don’t usually talk about my days off with the other guys on the crew. We just go our separate ways unless they wrangle me into something they’re doing in town.
“Nothing worth mentioning,” I tell her. “How about you?”
“Same.”
I almost smile. We’re both sitting on secrets so big they feel like live volcanos, and yet we’re acting entirely nonchalant.
We ride the rest of the way in a silence that feels complicit—like we’ve agreed on this unspoken pact not to dig too deeply into one another’s lives.
She’s relaxed back into her seat, her eyes taking in our town.
I want to ask her how she likes it here, and then ask her the hundred other questions I’ve pondered since she first walked through the bays into Cody’s office.
Why Waterford?
What happened to her dream of being a surgeon?
Is she married? I’m guessing not.
Does she think of that night in Germany?
Has she ever thought of it over the years—thought of me?
We pull into the bay and exit the truck at the same time. I grab the bag of props we brought for the assembly, returning the items to storage. Hallie walks into the main room without another word or glance in my direction.
The rest of our shift is uneventful. We’re called out on a few minor accidents and one false alarm. We almost get a full night’s sleep without any interruptions.
We’re finishing shift change when Patrick leans over and asks me, “Do you have any plans today?”
“Nothing firm,” I hedge. I’ve got baseball practice this afternoon, but no plans until then.
“Good. I’ll see you at Moss and Maple in an hour.”
“What if I’m busy in an hour?”
He smiles at me. “You are. You’re helping me move some bookcases for Daisy.”
I shake my head, but we both know I’ll show up.
The time at Moss and Maple passes quickly. Patrick and I make light work of stacking books and lifting shelving to move it to other spots in the old craftsman home they’ve converted into our most popular local bookshop.
By the time we finish reshelving the books, I’ve got enough time to grab lunch and make my way to the ball field.
Practice is always an oasis for me. The kids are at that age where many of them are eager to learn the game, but none of them take it too seriously yet.
Mia’s different. She introduced herself to me as if I was in the presence of baseball royalty.
And then she pulled up the queen of women’s baseball, Lizzie Murphy, and asked me to use her nickname.
Mia’s a character, and today I’m putting all my effort into not focusing on her to the exclusion of the other girls on the team.
“We have a new team name,” I announce to all the girls and the few parents seated on the bleachers.
I glance at Will. He’s suppressing a laugh. I did my best. They wanted a new name. We put it to a vote. I’m just the messenger here.
“So, by popular vote, we are now …” I pause, working to maintain my composure. “The …” I clear my throat, scanning the eager eyes on the bleachers. Not one blinks. I square my shoulders. “... the Sparkly Llamacorns.”
Will turns so his back is facing the bleachers. He makes a show of coughing into his fist.
Cheers erupt from the bleachers. Peyton hoists a posterboard in the air with the name in bubble letters coated in glitter.
“New uniforms will be in before this weekend’s game,” I say, keeping my face straight by imagining a drill sergeant standing over me.
Llamacorns. Leave it to the seven-year-olds.
Luna shouts out, “What’s a llamacorn?”
Will coughs profusely.
Arianna answers enthusiastically, “It’s like a llama with a horn! A spitting unicorn with fur!”
Charlotte raises her hand.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Do we get to spit?”
Will’s shoulders shake.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a breath. “No spitting.”
I lift my whistle, but I don’t blow it. “Okay, Llamacorns, we’re going to have a mock game today, which means we’re splitting you into two teams. When Will calls your name, go to the side of the field where he points.”
The girls divide and don bibs in either red or blue.
“Red team, take the field!” I shout. “Blue, you’re at bat.”
Will helps the girls take their positions at the bases and in the outfield. I line the girls up near the pile of helmets by the dugout.
While I refresh the girls on a proper way to grip the bat, I overhear Will telling the girls, “If the runner is between bases, tag them out. Got it?” The girls in the field all shout, “Yes, Coach!”
I pull on a catcher's mask and take my place behind the first batter, Whitney. She sticks the tip of her tongue out of the side of her mouth and squints at Will. He winds up and pitches the ball to her. She hits it with a solid thwack and takes off for first base. The ball rolls toward the outfield. All three outfielders run to pick it up. Kinsley gets to it first. But Whitney’s already decided to try for second base.
Kinsley reaches Whitney between the two bases and tags her with her gloved hand. “Tag!” she shouts. “You’re it!”
Kinsley turns and starts running toward the outfield. Whitney stands stock-still and then she takes off after Kinsley.
“Run to the base!” Will shouts. “To the base!”
Whitney ignores him. She almost passes Victoria, but then she turns, tags Victoria and says, “Tag! You’re it!”
Victoria sets off to tag another player and now all the players are leaving bases running away from Victoria in a series of zigzags around the outfield.
I reach into my shirt and blow my whistle. The girls stop in place.
“Everyone back to your positions!” I shout.
Mia’s staring straight at me. She gives a full eye roll. I smile warmly. I can’t seem to help myself. She has her mother’s fire. Besides, she’s not wrong.
“Okay,” Will says. “What does it mean when I say, tag the runner?”
We demonstrate. I run between the bases and Will tags me. Then Will runs and I tag him. We get the girls back into position. They play two innings and then we end practice with a huddle.
“On three,” I say as usual. “One … two … three …” and this time we all shout, “Go Sparkly Llamacorns!”
I look across the huddle at Mia and wonder how long Hallie and I have before our volcanoes erupt.