5. five
five
Brooks
162.
That’s how many games we’ve already played in the regular season. That doesn’t include the spring training games we play from late February through the end of March, and the playoff games we could potentially play in the postseason if we perform well.
We’re two games deep into our postseason Wild Card series with the Utah Archers and have to take home the win tonight to advance to the American League Division Series. This is what the team has been working for all year. So much is riding on tonight, and I’m feeling the electric current of my nerves buzzing through my body.
I couldn’t even tell you how many games I’ve played since getting drafted by the Stormbreakers out of college, playing three years in the minors before moving up to the majors last year to play shortstop. But what I can tell you is how many games I’ve played in recent years when I knew Nora Foster was somewhere in the crowd.
Zero.
Until tonight.
“It’s Mr. Foster’s birthday. You don’t mind, do you?” Claire said coyly over the phone when she’d asked if the Foster family could join her in the friends-and-family section.
“Of course I mind,” I mutter, still confused about the fact that Nora had blown me off when I’d reached out. But Claire doesn’t need to know about that. Plus, I had never allowed myself to look at Nora during my high school games. It was too distracting. The last thing I need tonight is a distraction.
“You’re lying to yourself,” Claire said. “You’d like nothing better than to have a beautiful girl there, cheering you on. A beautiful, nice girl for once.”
“What are you trying to say? I don’t date nice girls?”
“Yep,” Claire said brightly. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to say. You always go for the ones with eyelash extensions.”
“And that correlates to their personality…how?”
“It just does, okay? But I plan to help you attract the right kind of women. The kind who don’t look like they’ve got spider legs for lashes. Starting now.”
Sisters.
Ultimately, I’d agreed, not wanting to disclose the real reason I didn’t want to see Nora again. I’m sure there’s a reason she wasn’t interested in reconnecting with me, but it still stung when I thought she’d given me the green light by writing her number on my to-go box. It’s been a month, and my ego is still bruised.
The pressure is on tonight, and I’m feeling it. The fact that Nora and her family will be here watching me play isn’t helping my stress levels, but I’ve played too many games in my career to let a woman get in my head before I step onto the field. I don’t plan on starting tonight.
We still have a few hours before game time, and I’m twitching with excess energy that’s got nothing to do with the Red Bull I downed before running some infield drills. I’m on my knees, catching fast ground balls from my trainer. I focus on the thwack of the ball as it lands in my well-worn glove, letting muscle memory take over.
I’ve always been known for my dynamics on the field, my speed and versatility as a player. So much of my performance during games depends on my preparation. The guys on the team call me superstitious for time-blocking my pregame routine down to the minute, but it’s what works for me. I do not deviate from my schedule. Strictness is the name of the game.
And that’s why, as much as I’d like to, I can’t afford to think about Nora tonight. If I do, I’ll lose focus, and my game will suffer. I’d had a bad streak of games after Nora had gotten married, and I can’t allow myself to slip again like I had then. Texting her last month had been a mistake. It had given me ideas. Ideas that she clearly doesn’t share.
I’m determined to forget about Nora all over again. Throwing myself into baseball has always seemed to do the trick in the past, so I let my game brain take over, trying to shove all thoughts of Nora out.
Nora
“It’s a boy!” Sydney says, flipping her phone and mine around so I can see both screens. “Would you look at that.”
I take my phone back with shaking hands, then blink at my sister fearfully.
“Oh, no,” I say in an almost whisper. “It really was him?” I slump back into my seat, stunned. The number Claire had sent over is identical to the one from the mystery text on my phone. Brooks had texted me for real .
And I had unintentionally ignored him.
“He hates me,” I say. “He hates me, and when he sees me tonight, he’s going to throw me out of the stadium.”
“Nobody’s getting thrown out of the stadium. Well, except maybe Trent if he decides to toss his popcorn into the crowd again.”
“I didn’t toss my popcorn,” Trent growls. “You knocked it out of my hand in a fit of rage when the umpire made a lousy call.”
“There’s an easy fix to this,” Sydney says, ignoring her husband’s point as she passes my phone back to me. “Send Brooks a text. Right now.”
“Saying what?”
“Just tell him the truth. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“Will he though? It’s been a month since he texted me!”
“It’ll be alright,” Sydney pats my leg and then turns to her husband. “Tell her, Trent. He won’t care that it looks like she purposefully ignored his advances and potentially bruised his ego.”
Trent says nothing.
“Tell her!” “If he really is interested,” Trent finally says, “then he won’t mind that he had to wait for you.”
“There!” Sydney beams. “See? Everything will be fine.”
The last thing I want is to cause more drama, especially when the Alden family is accommodating us tonight in honor of my dad’s birthday. I think Sydney’s right. I have to reach out to Brooks. Hopefully, I can temper the awkwardness that is bound to rise between us, should we end up speaking face-to-face tonight.
Not that I’m hoping for another encounter with Brooks. I’d like the complete opposite, actually. Someone grant me the power to become invisible tonight because I’m too mortified to be seen by Brooks or anyone in his family. Besides, baseball players are way too busy to say hi to anyone at any point before, during, or after a game, right? Especially in a qualifying game for the play-offs.
I bite the bullet and decide to take Sydney’s advice. I type out a text, revealing the truth about what happened, which Sydney tweaks and reads out loud to Trent for approval before I hit “send.”
Nora: Hey, Brooks! I thought I had responded to you, but apparently my reply never went through. I’m so sorry! I promise I didn’t ignore you on purpose! Anyways, good luck tonight. Thank you for helping make my Dad’s birthday so special. We’ll be there with your family cheering you on!
I pick at the hem of my shorts nervously as Trent and Sydney go back to bickering good-naturedly over who exactly it was that almost got them kicked out of the last Stormbreakers game they attended together.
Brooks
I’m tiptoeing around Jonah Bell, our starting catcher, who is dead asleep at 4:48 PM. Just like every game day, he’s there, smack dab in the middle of our clubhouse training room, fully dressed in his uniform on one of the physical therapist’s tables with his shoes untied.
“What would it be like?” I whisper to Miles Aguilar, our designated hitter. “To just be able to…” I gesture to Jonah’s open-mouthed drooling. “Fall asleep?”
“A luxury guys like us will never understand.” Miles sighs, throwing back the pre-workout drink he takes before every game. “He just shows up. Takes a nap. Does his thing.”
For guys like Jonah, baseball is put into the context of the broader picture of his life. He’s got a wife, two daughters, and other hobbies like reading and golf. He works hard, but he also seems to have a better grasp on how to genuinely enjoy the game. Me on the other hand? I eat, sleep, and breathe baseball. I’m generally laid-back off the field, but a perfectionist when it comes to my game. I take every minute of every game seriously, which usually pays off in my performance. I was raised by my dad to play a perfect game every single time, and I expect a lot of myself. So does everybody else.
“Maybe we should try it one of these days,” Miles says with a shrug. “Seems to work for the guy.”
I could never be relaxed enough to take a nap before a game. It’s just not in me. Though I was lucky to have a breakout rookie season and rode a lot of highs last year, the pressure to deliver consistently weighs heavy on me now that I’m nearing the end of my second year playing for the Stormbreakers. I work as hard as I can to play my best every time I step onto the field, but when I don’t nail everything exactly right, I get really frustrated. I am very intolerant of my own mistakes. My dad did a great job of pounding that into me as a kid.
Jonah gives a rousing snore and jolts awake, his eyes flying open in a panic.
“Turkey club with avocado,” he says hoarsely, sitting up like a zombie. “Are there any left?”
“I don’t know, man,” Miles teases.
“You’d better run over there and check before Beau eats them all,” I add.
Jonah flies off the table like he’s being chased, ramming into the door frame with an umph as he unsteadily stumbles to find food.
Two physical therapists arrive, ready to give Miles and me our pre-game massages. We settle onto our respective tables, and I close my eyes as the therapist works the kinks out of my shoulders and arms.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I have to wait until the massage is over to check the notification. I thank the therapist, then swing my legs over the table so I’m in a seated position before slipping my phone out of my pocket.
Within seconds of opening my texts, I swear my body regains all of the tension the therapist just worked so hard to release. I stare down at the unexpected text.
It’s from Nora.
“Did you just win MVP?” Miles reaches out and shoves my shoulder from his adjacent table. “You’re pale as a ghost!”
“It’s my mom,” I lie fluidly. “Asking if she can bring me dinner. My family is coming to the game tonight.”
“Ohoho!” Miles grins. “Brookie is too good for the clubhouse food now? Sheesh, man. All it takes is two years for your ego to take over. Get out of here.”
He keeps up his good-natured teasing, and I take it in stride. There’s a time and a place to talk to the guys about women, and pregame in the baseball clubhouse (where everyone is bound to add in their two cents) is not it.
I pile up a plate of the provided food for dinner at exactly 5:35 and eat while listening to Jonah grumble about his dry ham sandwich. I allow myself a minute while I’m chewing and nobody is talking to me to let my game-brain unlock. A single forbidden thought comes through.
Why would Nora go out of her way to give me her number at the diner, seemingly ignore me when I reach out, and then decide to respond a month later?
I don’t get it.
Is she telling the truth? Maybe she really had made a mistake and thought she’d texted me back. Part of me wants to respond right now, tell her it’s all good and ask her if she wants to meet up after the game. But instead, I turn off my phone completely. There’s too much riding on this game for me to be distracted tonight.
Nora Foster is going to have to wait.
Nora
Brooks still hasn’t replied to my text when we arrive at the stadium a couple hours later. I can’t even be mad about it. I deserve a thorough waiting period after the one I put him through. Not to mention the man is about to play in a high-stakes showdown against the Utah Archers. He doesn’t have time to worry about little ol’ Nora from his hometown.
Although I wish he would just text me back and put me out of my misery.
Trent finds parking in a lot adjacent to Boeing Park, and then we track down my parents outside the stadium. They’d carpooled with our youngest sister, Bridget, and her new husband, Javier, to the game. After dating on and off for a couple of years, they decided to tie the knot this past spring.
“Who’s ready for a Seattle Dog?” Dad calls out as we approach. “Trent, you in?”
“I don’t know if I can do it tonight,” Trent says. “Our marriage almost didn’t survive the last game.”
“Not happening, Dad,” Sydney says, giving my dad a hug. “We had dragon breath for a week last time.”
“Happy birthday,” I say, embracing my dad. He always holds me a little longer than I think he will, like he’s worried I’m not getting enough hugs and he’s personally ensuring my quota is met.
“Thank you. Wish Ollie could have come, too.”
“I know, your best buddy would have loved to be here. But you should be thankful you didn’t waste money on a ticket for a child who wouldn’t have watched a single second of the game.”
“At least he would have eaten a hot dog with me.”
Javier greets me with a kiss on the cheek, and I get a gawking once-over from my youngest sister.
“Wow, Nor,” Bridget says, looking completely shocked at my appearance. “Bustin’ out the red lipstick, are we?”
“We both know the only reason I look like this is because I was pressured into it.”
Bridget, who is always impeccably dressed, laughs. “I’m glad Sydney was looking out for you. She did good work.”
“I heard there’s someone special you’re going to see tonight,” Javier says with one of his signature dimpled smiles.
“False,” I refute. “I am here to celebrate Dad’s birthday.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Javier says.
“You guys are in on this, too?” I ask. “The entire family is conspiring against me. This is mutiny.”
“More like strategy,” Dad says with a wink. “How else am I supposed to get discounted season tickets?”
Fragrant smoke from a grill inside the stadium fills the air, and the music is already pounding against my ears, even from outside. We file through the security entrance reserved for guests of the players and an employee scans our tickets. Dad is beaming and assures Sydney that this is the best birthday gift he’s ever received.
After entering the stadium, we’re immediately swallowed up in the flow of the crowd. An energy pulses under my skin. It’s the smell of popcorn, freshly cut grass, and sizzling hot dogs. The rumble of voices and the beat of the music blasting through the speakers. For a moment, the dread of encountering Brooks and his family again is suspended at the prospect of watching our favorite team play in person. We were Stormbreakers fans long before Brooks Alden joined their roster, and I’m reminded of how much I love being at the ballpark with my favorite people.
We’re forced to file into a line to stay together, and I watch as each partnership in my family pairs off. Dad loosely links his fingers through Mom’s. Javier locks one arm around Bridget’s waist. Sydney clings to Trent, and his whole body leans protectively into her. He drops a kiss to her hair, and I look away.
And then there’s me. Bringing up the rear. Flying solo. It hits me at random moments like this. The tips of my fingers twitch with the memory of what it was like to have someone’s hand fitted to mine. Someone I loved enough to marry and spent a few happy years with.
I may not be living that reality anymore, and it’s not like I don’t have someone to hold, because I do. The feel of Ollie’s little hand slipping into mine warms my heart and clogs my throat with emotion. But it’s been a minute since I’ve held a man’s hand, and I think I’d like the feel of it now even more than I did before.
We wander through the stadium tunnel, stopping to watch a few minutes of batting practice near the outfield.
“Is that him, do you think? It’s so hard to tell from way over here,” Bridget asks into my ear, craning her neck to get a look at who's up to bat.
“That’s the other team, B,” I say, trying to act like I’m not disappointed that I won’t get to see Brooks Alden swinging away before the game starts.
We then stop at a concession stand so Dad and Javier can order their foot-long hot dogs laden with cream cheese, jalapenos, bacon, and onions.
“Good luck with that,” Sydney says to Bridget. “Don’t plan on kissing him for a week.”
The smell of fresh kettle corn at the next kiosk draws everyone in, and though I’m not a big fan of popcorn, I buy a big bag for Trent.
“Compensation for the popcorn you lost last time,” I say, and he laughs.
I hover just outside the circle of my family as they debate about where we’re supposed to go, peering down the lower level of seats as the announcer welcomes the Stormbreakers to the field. My stomach swoops as my ex-boyfriend’s number (twenty-eight) and name is blasted through the stadium and he runs out onto the field. He’s third in the hitting lineup and even from a distance, he looks strong and athletic.
I suddenly feel the sting of our breakup all over again. Brooks Alden had been my dream, and when he’d left me to pursue all of this , it had broken my heart. But seeing him here all these years later makes me wonder if he would have missed out on this exact moment if it weren’t for his decision to leave me behind. Maybe this is precisely where he was always meant to end up.
“Look!” Sydney gasps as we pass a little cart selling cookies. “Brooks even got his own treat! A brookie? That is adorable.”
My eye is drawn, naturally, to the muscly image of Brooks in his uniform plastered onto the cart. He’s smiling with his arms crossed over his broad chest, and I think he might even look more delicious than the brookie does.
“We have to try it,” Mom says, crowding me in on the other side. Before I know it, I’ve got a warm brookie in my hand, a half-brownie, half chocolate chip cookie creation wrapped in a paper bag with Brooks’ face on it.
Twist my arm.
Someone (not me) should keep the wrapper. He looks too good to throw away.
We somehow end up in the official Stormbreakers merch store, and while I’m entirely focused on not transferring the melted chocolate on my fingers to any of the over-priced t-shirts inside, my sisters are arguing over which hat we should all collectively purchase and wear for the evening.
“What do you think, Nor?”
I nearly choke on my brookie as I catch a glimpse of the price tag dangling off the hat on Bridget’s head.
Wildly out of my itty-bitty diner manager budget.
“The white?” Sydney asks. “Or the blue?”
“You know,” I say, busying myself with a shelf of Brooks Alden bobble heads. “I’m good. I’ve already got a couple Stormbreakers hats at home.” Including one that Brooks brought back for me when we were dating. It’s a little worn and faded, but still one of my favorites. I’d loved it too much to get rid of it, even after we broke up.
“But do you have a white one?” Bridget asks, placing the hat on my head. It’s perfect. I love it. I think I have to have it.
A twinge of guilt hits me as I swipe my card, knowing that this unplanned purchase means groceries will be tight for me and Ollie next week. But at the same time, I rarely buy things for myself. If I’d made a fuss, one of my sisters would have bought it for me, and I don’t want to be even more of a freeloader than I already am tonight. I didn’t have to pay for my ticket, gas, or parking. I rationalize that it’s okay to treat myself to a new hat so I can match my sisters.
“Should I call Claire?” Sydney asks me on our way out of the store, her mouth full of brookie. “She’ll help us find our seats, right?”
Even though Claire has always been nothing but kind to me, I’m dreading seeing her. She was there at the diner that day. Had she seen Roman give Brooks my number? Does she think I completely ignored her brother? Oh, dear. My brookie is suddenly not sitting pretty in my stomach.
A few minutes later, we spot Claire Alden climbing up the stadium stairs towards us, smiling broadly.
“Hi!” she squeals, as Sydney practically bowls her into the surrounding crowd with a hug. “So glad you guys are here!”
“Nora,” she says, jaw agape. “Is that you?”
Okay, really? You would think I am an actual toad based on the reactions everyone is giving me for putting on a little bit of makeup. I’m just not a high-maintenance girl, alright? I prefer to be comfortable when I’m chasing my child around and not at constant risk of indecent exposure every time I bend down to pick him up.
“I know, I know,” I say, returning her hug. “It’s a lot.”
“Not at all! You’re stunning!” she drops her voice low in my ear. “You might just throw Brooks off his game tonight looking as good as you do.”
I laugh as she lets me go, delayed and a little too loudly, feeling my face warm. Obviously, she doesn’t know I’d left Brooks hanging. Claire is a spitfire. I have no doubt she wouldn’t have said that had she known.
Claire strikes up a conversation with my parents, leaving me flushed and anxious as she leads us down to our seats.
I loved the thrill of watching Brooks play when we were dating. I remember the pride I felt at being his girl, cheering him on and celebrating his wins. I knew firsthand the depth of his dedication and the pure joy he gained from playing his favorite sport. I can still taste the sweet Bubblicious kisses he’d give me and smell the sweat rising off his skin after a game. I have a feeling watching him play in person tonight is going to make my heart race and my palms sweat. But this time, I’m just another fan in the stands.