Chapter Eight
Reed
“I would have liked to have had that chance. Just once. To stare down a big-league pitcher. To stare him down, and just as he goes into his windup, wink.”
—Moonlight Graham, Field of Dreams
Had I known my walk home yesterday would end up in a full-on locking-horns rumble with the Princess of Fairfield followed by having to rescue her—again—I would’ve skipped it and driven.
At least it wasn’t a total waste of time. I had climbed up that railcar to learn more about this “new Eliza” and if she really had changed or if it was all an act.
Jury was still out.
She had the newest iPhone but chose an old Jeep over a new Beemer. She mapped out lighting cues for fun and preferred to sit on top of railcars instead of hanging out at her own house or in town.
Strange.
But one thing that really gave me pause was her tattoo: a small one on her wrist—a baseball in the shape of a heart with letters spelling out something in the stitching. Crowleys definitely didn’t have tattoos, and not knowing what it said had gnawed at me for the rest of the day.
Ex-boyfriend?
Current boyfriend?
Lucky stock numbers?
Why. Did. I. Care?
So what if she had a boyfriend or owned stock in Microsoft or Apple?
And then there was the way she looked at me after I pulled her from the edge of that railcar. That same look she gave kid Reed a long time ago when she pulled me out of that creek. Like she was really seeing me as Reed and not the enemy, Fulton.
I had forgotten that look. That feeling.
I stepped outside onto the back porch of the farmhouse and stretched. Nana’s wind chimes stayed quiet in the still air, and the sun already sat hazy in the sky despite it being early. It would be a hot one at Crowley Park later today for our game, but for now, I needed to pay a visit to the barn.
Next to a baseball field, there was nothing better than the smell of dry hay mixed with chainsaw dust and gasoline. Rusty metal blended with fresh-stained wood. I could see why Granddad loved it.
Just stepping over the threshold made me feel almost as calm as taking the mound. It had been ages since I walked in here, yet nothing had changed except the sheet over Dad’s unfinished rocking chair in the corner.
My fingers shook as I pulled off the thin fabric. A cloud of dust puffed into the humid air. The chair looked better than I remembered. The arm rails and spindles felt smooth and firm, and the runners appeared sturdy enough too.
“Need something to connect them across the chair and from the front to the back,” I said to no one. A stretcher? Is that what Dad had called those?
He had started this project on our last visit, Christmas two years ago. But we weren’t here for long before the arguing began between Dad and Granddad, like it always did.
Granddad had yelled his usual, something like, “I’m proud of you for fighting for our country, son, but I need someone else here to help me.”
Then Dad had given his typical response: “There are plenty of good workers in Fairfield looking for a job. Hire one of them.”
Granddad would never do that though. He didn’t trust 90 percent of the people in this town. Claimed they were too loyal to the Crowleys.
He may have had a point.
Dad had called it quits on that argument and stormed into the barn, where he worked on this chair until the next morning.
In the afternoon, we drove home and left the chair behind.
I figured we’d go back for it at some point, finish it, but a couple of months later, Dad got word he’d be in one of the special-ops divisions, and everything changed after that.
I sighed and rocked the chair back and forth. I didn’t want to finish this. Didn’t want the pressure of this season riding on every damn pitch I threw.
Dad should be here to do it. To help Granddad with this season. To help with the farm. With the money problems.
Between the bank statements and all the whispers about them, I didn’t have to be a psychic to know that Granddad and Nana were behind with payments. But what could I do to help?
Winning the tournament for them was one thing, but then I’d leave at the end of the summer. Who would help them after that?
Running a stadium and a farm would be next to impossible for them to do alone, but Granddad would do it, or try to. Because he was so damned stubborn.
Maybe I could put up some “Help Wanted” posters around town while I was here? The library did have a good color printer.
Ben leaned against the open doorway. His hair stood up in every direction, and his eyes had bags under them. What had kept him up all night?
Doubt it was a small wrist tattoo.
“What’s that?” He motioned toward the chair.
“My dad’s. He didn’t finish it before…”
“Before he was deployed?”
I nodded.
Ben rolled his shoulders and walked over to where I stood before he ran his hands over the smooth wood. “So let’s finish it.”
I scoffed. “I don’t know anything about finishing a rocking chair.”
He picked up a couple of small pieces of wood near our feet and held them near the runners. “How hard could it be?”
Ha. I grabbed the small pieces and placed them over the top of the chair where they belonged. “Harder than you think.”
Ben took out his phone and started typing and swiping. Less than a minute later, he had a YouTube video pulled up with instructions. “Easy.”
Easy. Right.
Ben’s solution to almost every problem was to YouTube it. I didn’t want YouTube to fix this, but before I could say no, Ben had already grabbed one of Granddad’s chisels.
“Okay,” I mumbled.
He smiled and started separating the pieces on the floor.
I knew Ben was doing what he always did when I got sad about Dad’s deployments—distracting me. But maybe this time, I didn’t want Ben to be the one to help me fix this.
I wanted my dad. And yeah, maybe a small—hell, foolish—part of me hoped that if I left it incomplete, maybe it would bring Dad home sooner, faster.
Nana walked into the opened doors with pruning shears tucked under her arm and a big, floppy straw hat on her head. “Mornin’.” She placed a couple of protein bars and two bottles of water on one of the tractor seats. “Big game today, eh, boys?”
“We’re ready.” Ben opened one of the bars and took a big bite. “Thanks.”
“Your daddy would be so happy to see you working on that, Reed.” She grabbed a pair of gardening gloves off the shelf. “Be sure you hydrate. Gonna be a scorcher today.”
“We will.” I crossed the space and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You sure it’s okay that we finish this?”
“Absolutely.” She ruffled my hair. “I’d like to think there are a few things we can finish this summer. The chair is one. The feud is another. Get a win today, boys.”
Ben pointed his water bottle before downing half of it. “Don’t worry, we will. We got the ace on our side. He’s ready.”
I hope so.
Later that afternoon, I warmed up in one of my least favorite places: the enemy bullpen on a game day.
Although I loved the pressure, the dare of it, this wasn’t just any enemy bullpen.
Plus, I had my coach from Fayetteville, Coach Roeper—a dude more ripped than the Rock—staring down every single one of my pitches.
I threw a slider. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.
Translation: I’m not sure.
I switched to a curveball. He spat twice to his right.
Translation: Eh. Maybe.
If he spat to the left, though, I might as well put on an extra pair of pants to keep my ass from getting splinters.
They’d bench me for at least three-quarters of the game.
The local paper may have titled me the Ace, but Roeper didn’t give two shits about that article.
He only read the paper for Calvin and Hobbes.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to show him my changeup. Remembering Ben’s advice, I fixed my footing before the throw. Perfect release with a beautiful slowdown right before it smacked Ben’s glove directly over our make-believe plate.
Hell yes.
Coach cleared his throat, pulled a toothpick from his pocket, and put it in his mouth.
Damn. I got the throat and a toothpick?
“You gonna throw another one of those, Fulton?” Coach asked. “Or just stand there like a toothy moron?”
A laugh drifted from above. Eliza peered down, her blue eyes shadowed by her Crowley Cardinals hat. Lauryn stood next to her, dressed as a cardinal and holding her costumed head in her hands. My ears burned.
’Course they heard that.
“Fulton?” Coach Roeper yelled. “You ready now, or should I come back later?”
I snapped my head back and tried to only worry about the ball in my hand and not the ones that Coach just kicked the shit out of.
Ben signaled his pointer finger down and away.
Slider. Got it.
I took my stance and pressed the glove to the bridge of my nose before winding back and releasing.
Low and true.
Coach gave a quick nod before moving over to watch Cameron Carter, a lefty from my hometown.
Eliza let out a low whistle. “Not bad, Fulton.”
Ben stood. “Don’t you have something better to do, Crowley? Sitting above the press box or posing for pictures?”
“I did.” She leaned over the railing. “But I had to help pick up all the Mardi Gras beads and toilet paper someone put on the cardinal statues. You wouldn’t know anything about that, though, would you, boys?”
Ben and I gave each other a look before shaking our heads.
Eliza rolled her eyes as Lauryn tugged on the cardinal head, and then the two of them walked away.
Coach walked over to the phone in the bullpen. “Fulton, good arm. Keep it up.” He picked up the phone and turned around.
“Can you believe that?” Ben kicked the ground.
“I know. Coach actually gave me a compliment.” Maybe the heat was getting to me already?
“No, I meant the princess paying us a visit.” He scoffed. “God, she’s so much like Erin. Snooping around and flaunting her—”
“Hey.” I hit his arm. “She who will not be named, remember?” After what Erin did to Ben, we agreed not to speak her name out loud.
Ever.