Chapter 1 #2
Reynolds runs like he’s being chased by a dog. A satisfying cloud of red dirt kicks up when Reynolds slides, telling me he’s safe even before the ump calls it.
“Yes!” I yell. “Good hustle, good hustle.” I pat his back as he returns to the dugout, and I watch with satisfaction as the rest of the team hugs him. I catch Jeremy laughing with a friend, the sound carrying over the rest of the cheers, and something in my chest loosens.
When our next batter steps up to the plate, I absentmindedly grab a baseball, rolling it against my palms, rubbing my thumbs over the seams.
Scottie says, “Your brother’s getting married next week, right? When do you leave for Rochester?”
“First thing tomorrow,” I say, my shoulders tensing.
I love Evan—I do. He was a hothead growing up, but after sustaining a TBI four years ago, he’s turned his life around. Now he’s a motivational speaker at Granddad’s baseball academy. A walking inspirational poster who’s forgiven everyone for everything.
But going home means ten days of his relentless positivity. Worse, it means ten days of Granddad’s lectures about my “wasted potential”—like I asked for a hundred-mile-per-hour fastball to shatter my wrist in my first Major League at-bat, like I’m the biggest disappointment he’s ever known.
“When do you leave for Philly?”
“Day after tomorrow, but we’re actually going to my brother’s place in Cleveland—his wife just had their first kid,” she says. “I don’t even care that I’ll be sleeping on the couch all Christmas break. Jake won’t be there, so I’ll be happy.”
Jake Rodgers is the bad boy of Major League Baseball.
He’s also best friends with Scottie’s older brothers.
I never played with him—I only had that one game in the Majors before my career-ending injury—but he plays for the Chicago Firebirds, the Major League team the Mudflaps are affiliated with. I’ve heard stories.
Who am I kidding? Everyone’s heard stories. The guy punched a teammate during the playoffs a couple months ago, and that’s not even the worst thing he’s done in his career.
Lucas’s pitcher throws a wild pitch, and it hits my batter in the thigh. “It’s okay, buddy. Walk it off,” I call.
“Jake sounds like a turd,” I tell Scottie, my eyes on the field.
“You have no idea,” she says. “You know what he said about me at my brother’s wedding last year? He was giving the best man’s toast, and when he mentioned me, he said, ‘I’ve never met someone who actually looked better with acne and braces.’ Got huge laughs. If he gets sent down, I’m quitting.”
“He hit forty-two home runs last year. He’s not getting sent down,” I say.
Scottie scoffs. “You haven’t heard? Keep this between us, but the Firebirds are absolutely talking about sending Jake down to the minors.”
“What? To us?”
She looks around before dropping her voice, not that any of the kids in the dugout are paying attention. “Nothing’s official yet, but they’ll have some story about how he’s rehabbing from a shoulder tear.”
“Is he?”
“No. He’s clubhouse poison, and he hit on the GM’s wife at a team party last weekend.”
I groan and rub the back of my neck. Players come in and out of minor league teams constantly, but I’ve spent this whole season trying to build a team culture that can take it. “This is the last thing I need.”
“I know. I can’t stand jerks,” Scottie says. Then she gestures to us. “But pushy and grumpy have a certain charm.”
“You think I’m grumpy?”
She laughs a little too hard. “Yes. Especially when you haven’t talked to Chat Girl for a few days.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Uh huh,” she says.
“I notice you’ve looked at Lucas a few times, though.”
She glares. “I’ve done nothing of the sort.”
“Uh huh.”
Our batter hits an infield fly ball, which Lucas’s shortstop catches, ending the inning. My team starts grabbing their gloves, and Lucas runs over to the dugout, a big grin on his face.
“Hey, Scottie. Did you come all the way down here to ask me to come home with you for Christmas and meet your family? I accept.”
She shakes her head, but a mischievous glint betrays her glare. “You wouldn’t last ten minutes with me, Fischer.”
“Ooh, sounds like a challenge.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Whatever you have to tell yourself.” Then she looks at me. “Travel safely, Fletch.”
“You too, Scottie,” I tell her.
“What about me?” Lucas calls, holding his hands out.
She waves a hand and keeps walking, and Lucas clutches his chest. “How am I gonna get her to go out with me?”
“Persist,” I say, because I’ve heard Scottie turn down plenty of guys. And Lucas isn’t one of them.
I clap my hands together twice—sharp, attention-getting—and the kids snap to focus. “All right, team, exactly like we practiced: crisp throws, two hands on the catch, and talk to each other out there. Let’s go!”
We win, 10–8.
After the game, I shake hands with parents—too many hands—accept hugs from kids—too many hugs—and even take a few pictures, because apparently that’s what kids want these days. I don’t like the fanfare. I despise the small talk. But they’re good kids, so I nod and endure it.
“You were great out there,” I hear Jeremy’s dad tell him. I get the feeling he’s saying it loud enough for me to hear, but I don’t mind. Because Jeremy is looking at his dad like he can’t believe his ears.
“Really?” he asks, wide-eyed. “I struck out every time I was at bat.”
“Yeah, but you have a great swing, and you’re still new. You’ll get it. And you had a great play throwing that runner out at third.”
“You saw that?” Jeremy asks, the emotion in his voice making my nose itch.
“Course I did,” his dad says. “I loved watching you play.”
Jeremy throws his arms around his dad, and his dad hugs him back, and I have to look away.
At least until I feel arms around my waist. I look down and see Jeremy hugging me. I pat his back, ruffle his hair, and chuckle. “You did good, kid.”
“Thanks, Coach,” he says, before running out with his dad.
The man gives me a tight, grateful smile before walking out with his son.
And all I know is I’m glad Scottie’s not here to bust my chops.
But I wouldn’t mind if I could share a moment like this with someone.
Lucas is corralling the last of his kids toward the parking lot, and the stadium is finally quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the overhead lights clicking on as dusk settles in. I grab my duffel bag from the dugout and pull out my phone.
Four notifications, but none of them are from Beyond Justice.
I kick at the dirt and pull up the app, anyway, navigating to my messages with Grace. The welcome screen appears first:
Welcome to the Beyond Justice private forum!
Beyond Justice is a weekly true-crime podcast that dives into what happens after the verdict. This private forum is limited to verified listeners. No trolls. No catfish.
I tap past it to our conversation, catching up on how we ended things two days ago.
GracieLou
You know what I like best about Christmas? The hope. It adds a spark of magic to the air.
GreenArrow11
That’s frostbite.
GracieLou
Well, it feels delicious.
GreenArrow11
You’ve clearly never had frostbite.
But you’re one of those “when life hands you lemons, make lemonade” kind of people, so I’ll look past your mental lapse.
GracieLou
Ew, no way. I hate lemonade.
Lemon pie, on the other hand…
GreenArrow11
How can you like lemon pie but hate lemonade? It tastes like summer.
GracieLou
And summer’s your favorite season because it means baseball, even though you give off super winter vibes. Got it.
GreenArrow11
I don’t do “vibes.”
But yes, summer is the best. I grew up in cold weather. I never want to scrape a windshield again.
GracieLou
You’re a study in contradictions.
GreenArrow11
Says the girl who likes lemon pie but hates lemonade.
GracieLou
What can I say? I’m a woman of many layers.
Which I need, because I love winter.
GreenArrow11
Crazy woman.
GracieLou
But hey, it’s okay if Christmas is hard for you, as long as it’s not “Jingle Bells Strangler” hard.
GreenArrow11
Don’t count me out yet, champ.
I thought that was funny, but she didn’t respond that day or even the next. So this morning, I sent another message, because part of me worries she thinks I’m a serial killer, and now she’s gone radio silent because she’s afraid for her life.
GreenArrow11
I’m kidding. You know that, right?
That was my last message, sent eight hours ago.
I should be worried about her—and I am—but I’m mostly worried I scared her off. I’m not the easiest guy to be around, virtually or in real life.
I stow my phone and shoulder my duffel when I feel a buzz.
I rip my phone from my pocket so fast, it fumbles, crashing to the ground. I snatch it up from the dugout floor and don’t even bother wiping the dirt off the screen.
My pulse kicks up—pathetic, maybe, but true.
Grace has finally responded.
GracieLou
“I’m kidding. You know that, right?” Isn’t that what a real serial killer would say?
I lean against the cool chain-link, unable to keep from smiling.
GreenArrow11
I’m not a serial killer.
GracieLou
Said every serial killer ever.
GreenArrow11
Are you speaking from experience?
GracieLou
HAHA. Well played, sir.
I’m still smiling when Lucas jogs back over, his necklaces jingling. “Hey, Coach, you good? Need help locking up?”
“Nah, I got it,” I say, covering my phone. “Good work this week, Fischer.”
He grins. “Same to you, man. And hey, that thing with Jeremy’s dad? That was solid.”
I shrug, uncomfortable with the praise. “Just doing my job.”
“Right. Well, Merry Christmas and all that. Tell your brother congrats on the wedding.”
“Will do. Merry Christmas, Lucas.”
He gives me a two-finger salute then heads out, leaving me alone in the stadium. The second he’s gone, I read Grace’s last message again.
The tightness in my chest from earlier—from Jeremy’s dad, from thinking about Granddad, from dreading going home—has eased.
Maybe I can handle ten days in Rochester after all.
At least I’ll have Grace to talk to.