Chapter 56
Chapter Fifty-Six
ECHO
T his feels weird. Almost surreal. My dad and I back in the last backyard we ever practiced in. The yard where I finally perfected my pitch. I haven’t even attempted to do what he’s asking in over thirteen years. I left my sport behind when I had to leave the other thing I loved behind.
“Dad, I haven’t done this in years,” I say, causing his face to drop momentarily. The fact that I gave up that dream that he instilled into me as a young girl makes him sad. Hell, it made me sad knowing that I had to give up the colleges that wanted to give me full rides. But I’d never regret the reason why I did. It’s not like they would have accepted a pregnant player.
“Just one pitch, please.” His eyes light up. “You were such a natural. You only think you’ve lost it because you haven’t wanted to do it.” He walks up to me with a smile, and I smile back.
Him and my mom were only supposed to swing by on their way out of town to grab Dylan for a few days. But now I feel it was just a plow to get me to play catch. I know he's trying to rekindle the main thing we use to bond over. But then he holds out a glove in one hand and a softball in the other. I gasp as I grab the glove. I trail my finger along the discolored bottom part of my old glove. I pull the opening back and see where my name is still barely visible. After all these years, he held onto it. I thought he surely trashed all my belongings—especially the ones we bonded over.
“Thank you,” I say as a tear slides down my cheek. I quickly wipe it away.
I hold my empty hand out for the softball he’s still holding. “Got your glove?” I ask with a smirk, sliding my hand into the old, worn leather. It’s just as soft as I remember and still fits perfectly.
He starts walking backward, reaching behind with one hand. “Right here,” he says with a wink, holding up his glove he had tucked in the back of his pants.
I roll the ball in my hand, getting reacquainted with the seams and finding that perfect placement of where I want my fingers to grip. I drag my foot into the dirt, lining out my pitcher’s mound. I place the toes of my right foot on the line, and with my gloved hand, I cup my right hand with the ball, swing my arms forward, drop them, lean into my right leg, and rotate my right arm almost full circle behind me as I do. Once my arm is pointing toward the sky, I push off with my right foot, swinging my arm around as my left leg shoots out in front of me. My right foot begins sliding up from behind as soon as my left one connects with the ground. All while my pitching arm rotates full circle once before my hand releases midway near my hip during the second rotation.
I hear the sound of the ball smacking into my dad’s leather glove and satisfaction washes over me. I can’t even control the huge grin breaking out across my face. That felt so good. Yeah, I’ve played catch with my son here and there when he was younger, or before he was “too cool” for me. But I always kept myself from seeing if I still had it when I’d question myself. I didn’t want to chance the memories it’d drag out. I wanted to keep all things relating to Dustin, and even my father, buried. It kept the guilt at bay—temporarily.
Dylan was a daily reminder that I would never be able to hide away. Not that I’d ever want to. I’d choke down the pain and memories for that boy of mine. Out of all the things I’ve done in life, right or wrong, he’s been the one thing I’d never change, no matter the consequences.
“Whew.” My dad stands from his crouching position and shakes his gloved hand. “You sure you haven’t been practicing that?”
“I swear.” I laugh, amazed that I do, in fact, still have it. I hold my gloved hand up, signaling him to toss me back the ball. I want to do it again.
He tosses it back. “This time don’t go easy on me.”
“Okay, old man,” I tease, rolling the ball in my hand. I dig my toes into my makeshift mound and push in a little deeper, drawing my line out even more. He crouches back down and I take my stance. I do everything the same again.
Just faster.
I push into the ground even harder with my right foot, giving me more height as my left foot flies in front of me. Left foot lands. Arm swings around once. Right foot slides up from behind. Arm swings around halfway. Hand releases ball. Ball instantly slams into Dad’s glove, knocking him on his ass.
“Holy shit, Mom,” I hear from behind. “You are badass.”
“Dylan,” I say with a laugh.
“Sorry. I’m just referencing what Dad said.” Dylan shrugs like that gets him off the hook.
And sadly, it does.
I look back at Dustin, who walks up to our son and places his hand on his shoulder from behind.
“Sorry.” He shrugs, just like his son had. “But you are badass, Striker.”
I just shake my head. I’m so in trouble with these two. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I get lost in staring at the boys in my life. Dylan is a replica of his father—in every way. It amazes me how alike they are when they spent over a decade apart.
Apparently, genetics go beyond looks.
And these handsome, stubborn, goofy, blond-haired, blue-eyed babes are all mine.
“Dustin,” my dad says, walking up to my boys. He extends his hand out. Dustin has his arms draped over Dylan, and sticks his right hand out, shaking my dad’s.
“By chance you were a pitcher as well when you played ball?” my dad asks sincerely, wanting to know. Baseball has always been his thing. That’s why I was pushed into it at such a young age. I knew that he and Dustin could bond over the love they shared for the sport back when we were in high school, but that was only if my dad could get over his stubbornness.
But it took that long for me as well.
Guess it’s one of those genetic things.
“No, sir. Third base.”
“Ahh. Just like good ole Chipper Jones.”
“Yes, sir. He was my idol.” Dustin smiled, gripping Dylan’s shoulder with his hand. I love how close the two of them are already. It’s like this long-lost, instant connection.
“I happen to have tickets for the game next week. I’d love for us all to go. But understand if?—”
Dustin stops him. “Sir,” he says as he playfully wraps his arm around Dylan’s neck in a chokehold and rubs his forearm across the top of his head, messing his hair all up. “I believe you had us at ‘tickets.’”
I laugh and walk over to my boys, standing next to them with my arm around Dustin.
“There’s only one condition,” my dad says, tossing the ball up in the air. Dylan breaks free of his father’s hold to catch it. “No more calling me sir.”
Dustin grins then. “I’ll try, but no guarantees.”
Dylan yells, “Hey, Dad! Watch this!” And Dustin stops and does just that, giving our son his full attention. “I bet you can’t do this,” he says as he begins juggling the softball and what looks to be a tennis ball.
“You got me there, son.” Dustin laughs, holding up his handless arm. I giggle at the lightheartedness. Dustin has come a long way in such a short time. I know it’s because I was right. He might be missing his hand, but that wasn’t the problem. It was his wounded heart that was the issue. It just needed to be mended.
All of ours did.
Dustin continues watching our son with such pride and adoration. I know he would have been the most amazing dad from the beginning. I hate that we were robbed of that. I plan to give him that experience one day. It’s one I know he’d truly cherish.
My dad holds out his hand, and Dustin places his in it. As they shake hands, my dad puts his other one on top, fully enclosing Dustin’s. “Thank you for serving our country. You truly are a hero in and out of the uniform. We are blessed to have you as part of our family.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dustin replies stoically. He usually waves off being called a hero. I’m so proud that he didn’t this time. My father cocks a brow at Dustin’s use of sir again, and I giggle to myself. “Mr. Price.”
“Just call me Eric,” my dad clarifies.
“Well, Eric. It’s been really good catching up with you,” Dustin says. “But as you know, I have some business to tend to.” He winks.
My dad pats Dustin’s shoulder as he heads for the gate. I watch as he retreats, and Dylan continues juggling the balls. Luckily, the porch light gives him enough illumination to catch the balls with his hands and not his face. I glance upward, watching as the stars begin to blink down on us.
“Hey, babe,” Dustin says, and I swirl around in his direction. “Catch.” He tosses a yellow softball. I look down, read the black letters written on it, and gasp.
D+E 4-EVER
BE MY WIFE