Chapter 6
Chapter Six
DUSTIN
T he thing I typically love most about the school year is how busy I am. Between school itself, working at the local hardware store, baseball season, and conditioning (which seems to be basically year-round) I’m practically never home. I love my mom, but I’m far from a momma’s boy. The woman wears me out, but I’m thankful for her dedication to me playing ball. She’s never missed a game and still makes sure to bring snacks for all of us guys after every single game. They love their Mother Teresa, as they call her. You can always count on her to be sitting in her chair next to the dugout, full of school pride and screaming for her boy. Correction, boys—she considers the entire team her boys since we’ve grown up playing together.
I bounce down the stairs with my glove in my hand, rounding the way as I land on the tile.
“Dustin? Is that you?” my mom hollers from her sewing area in the dining room. The stitching noise comes to a halt when I reach the entryway. “Oh good. Look at the shirt I made for this season.” She holds up the orange shirt with black lettering.
“Nice shirt, ma,” I say, doing a quick glance, not paying much attention. She’s made these types of shirts since I played T-ball.
“It’s just”—she sniffles—“it’s your last year.” A sob erupts as she pulls the shirt to her, hugging it. Mother Teresa has never been one to be overemotional. Overbearing, yes.
“Oh, Ma.” I walk over and lean down to hug her. “I’ll be playing ball next year. Your shirt making days aren’t over,” I tease, trying to cheer her up.
“I know, but you’ll be in college. You won’t be here.” Her voice cracks with realization.
“But I won’t be far. And you’ll still have Dax.” I remind her.
“Not the same,” she replies, gaining her composure.
“I know.” I give her one more squeeze before pulling away. “He’ll never be me, but second place will have to work.” I grab a black sharpie off her sewing desk and slide it into the pocket of my mesh shorts.
“Hey, I heard that,” Dax whines from the kitchen.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less, radar ears.” I swear he hears everything.
My mom neatly folds the shirt and wipes under her eyes with the back of her hand, removing the proof of her sadness. Standing, she looks at me, eyeing my glove in my hand. “Where are you going?”
“I’m heading to the school field to catch for Echo while she practices pitching. Then work.” I lift my baseball hat off my head, flipping it around backward before sliding it back on.
My mom’s face shifts to a disapproving stare—one that I’m all too familiar with. “Is that the preacher’s daughter?” she snidely asks, placing a hand on her hip.
I roll my eyes and turn away, heading for the front door. I don’t have time for her antics. I plan on making Echo mine today, and she’s not going to interfere like she has in the past.
Hot on my trail, she places her hand on the door before I can open it. Annoyed, I avoid looking at her, waiting for her to be done with this dramatic burst. “Dustin.” Her voice is low, almost a whisper.
I shift my gaze to her, seeing a look of desperation. The tension in my body eases without my approval.
“Don’t forget about your future.” She pleads with a softness I’ve never seen.
I want to tell her to calm down, that I’m just going to play catch, but I don’t want to prolong this moment any longer than necessary.
“Okay, Ma.” I nod, holding her gaze. She slowly pulls her hand away from the door and I quickly turn the knob before she tries to trap me again. “Bye, love ya,” I say, getting the hell outta Dodge.
I don’t look back as I jog down the concrete stairs of our porch, landing on the cracked sidewalk. I look over at my Blazer parked on the street and curse, realizing I left my keys on my dresser. My shoes begin slapping the pavement as I take off jogging toward the school. I’d much rather take the six-block journey by foot instead of going back inside and chance seeing my mom.
“COULD YA USE a catcher?” I ask, patting my glove as I take the crouching catcher’s position behind home plate.
“It’d be highly appreciated,” Echo replies somewhat breathlessly, making her way back to the pitcher’s mound from gathering up her practice balls.
Her face fills with determination, shutting everything else out. She whips her arm around and slides her foot together in unison. The ball slaps into my glove with a loud thud, tingling my hand.
“Damn,” I mutter, shaking my hand as I throw the ball back. I expect her to pop off a joke, but she quickly resumes her position, staying in the zone. We continue this back and forth for about thirty minutes.
“You’re pretty badass,” I admit as she makes her way toward me.
“Thanks,” she replies, looking down, a light blush forming on her cheekbones.
“Ahem.”
I hear the clearing of a throat. I turn around to see Echo’s dad. A bubble of worry seeps in as I try reading his stoic features. He doesn’t seem happy to see me, and I start to pray I didn’t just get her in trouble.
“Hello, Mr. Price,” I say with a wave. I want to walk up to him and properly greet him, maybe even indulge in some small talk, but the stern look across his face tells me I should think otherwise.
“Thanks for your help, Dustin.” Echo smiles, trying to play cool.
“Anytime.” I grin. “Oh, hey. You forgot one.” I toss her the softball I had set aside when I first got here. She catches it with ease. I watch as she follows her dad, finally looking down at the ball in her hands. She glances back my way, and with a huge smile on her beautiful face, she gives me a nod.
Lord have mercy… I’m a goner.