Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ROYCE
The office is quiet when I arrive Monday morning, the post-holiday lull still hanging over the building. Most of the staff won't be back until later in the week, but Kenneth and I agreed to meet today to go over the schedule for the upcoming games and finalize some vendor contracts.
I'm early—deliberately so—because I have an item in my bag that's been sitting in my closet since I bought it, and I need to work up the nerve to actually give it to him.
It's stupid, really.
It's just a gift.
A small token I picked up while shopping with Carmen. But every time I've thought about handing it over, I've chickened out, worried it's too much or too sentimental or too forward.
I set my bag on my desk and pull out the wrapped package. Simple brown paper with a thin red ribbon that Carmen insisted on adding taunts me.
"It's a gift, Royce. Make it look like one," she'd said, rolling her eyes at my idea to throw it in a gift bag.
The stuffed baseball mitt sits heavy in my hands.
It's well-made, with detailed stitching that mimics a real glove, and a small plush baseball tucked into the pocket.
The moment I saw it in the store, I thought of Kenneth.
Of his injury, his lost dreams, the career that ended before it really began.
Maybe this is a terrible idea.
Maybe it'll just remind him of everything he lost.
I'm about to shove it back in my bag when I hear footsteps in the hallway.
"Morning," Kenneth says, appearing in my doorway with two coffee cups. He's wearing dark slacks and a blue button-down that makes his eyes look impossibly bright. "Brought you a coffee. Figured we could both use the caffeine after the holiday break."
"You're a lifesaver." I take the cup gratefully, then realize I'm still holding the wrapped package. There's no subtle way to hide it now.
Kenneth's eyes immediately go to the gift in my other hand. "What's that?"
"Nothing. Just—" I clear my throat, suddenly feeling ridiculous. "It's for you, actually. I picked it up while shopping with my sister and I haven’t had the chance yet to give it to you."
That's a lie.
I could have gotten it to him just like he got the soup to me.
I was too nervous.
"For me?" He sets his coffee down and steps closer, curiosity evident on his face. "Can I open it?"
"It's not a big deal," I say quickly, thrusting it toward him. "Just a small thing I thought you might like. You don't have to keep it or anything if you don't—"
"Royce." He takes the package, his fingers brushing mine. "Stop spiraling. I'm sure I'll like whatever it is."
I watch nervously as he rips at the ribbon and peels back the paper. The moment he sees what's inside, he goes completely still.
"Royce." My name comes out as barely a whisper this time. He pulls the stuffed mitt out, turning it over in his hands, examining every detail. "This is…"
"If you hate it, I can return it," I rush out. "I know it might be weird, given your injury and everything, and I didn't mean to—"
I don't get to finish because suddenly Kenneth's arms are around me, pulling me into a tight hug. The mitt is pressed between us, and I can feel him shaking slightly.
"Thank you," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "God, Royce, thank you."
I hug him back, confused but relieved. "So you don't hate it?"
He pulls back enough to look at me, and I'm stunned to see his eyes are wet. "Hate it? Are you kidding? This is perfect. I love it."
"It's only a stuffed toy," I say, though warmth is blooming in my chest at his reaction.
"It's not just a stuffed toy." He looks down at the mitt again, running his thumb over the stitching.
"It's... no one's ever given me anything baseball-related since my injury.
My parents act like that part of my life never existed.
My friends don't bring it up because they think it'll upset me.
But you—" He looks up, meeting my eyes. "You saw this and thought of me.
Of what I loved. What's still part of who I am, even if I can't play anymore. "
"Of course I did." I reach up, wiping away a tear that's escaped down his cheek. It’s like my hands have a mind of their own. "Kenneth, your time playing baseball wasn't a waste or a time to forget. It shaped you. It's part of your story."
"I know, but most people don't see it that way." He clutches the mitt to his chest. "They see it as a failure. As the thing I couldn't do."
"That's their problem, not yours. You were an incredible pitcher, if my memory is correct. You loved the game. And just because your career ended doesn't mean that part of you died. You're still that person who fell in love with baseball. You just express it differently now."
"I'm keeping this forever," he declares, holding up the mitt. "It's going on my bedside table so I see it first thing every morning."
"You don't have to do that."
"I want to. I need to." He examines it again, his smile growing. "It even has a little baseball in the pocket. That's so cool."
"I thought so too." I'm trying to be casual, but seeing him this happy over a gift I picked out makes my chest feel too tight. "Carmen helped me wrap it. I wanted to give it to you in time for the holiday, but the timing was off and then I got sick."
"The timing is perfect." He sets the mitt carefully on my desk. "You're perfect. This is perfect. Thank you, Royce. Really."
"You're welcome.”
“This is already the best gift anyone's given me in years."
We stand there for a moment longer before Kenneth finally steps back. He immediately picks up the mitt again, like he can't bear to not be holding it.
"Should we look at those vendor contracts?" I ask, trying to get us back on track even though I'm smiling at how he keeps touching my gift, running his fingers over the stitching.
"Right. Yes. Work stuff." But he's still staring at the mitt, his expression soft. "Can I just say one more time how much I love this?"
"You can say it as many times as you want. It’s a bit odd to see you being a sap about a toy though."
"It's a treasure and I'm going to protect it with my life."
I laugh, shaking my head as I drop into my chair. "Dramatic."
We do eventually get to work, spreading contracts across the desk and going through the details for next month's promotional events. But Kenneth keeps the mitt next to his laptop, occasionally reaching out to touch it like he's making sure it's real.
"You know," he says during a lull in the contract discussion, "when I was a kid, I had this ratty old mitt my grandfather gave me. I used it until it literally fell apart. My parents wanted to throw it away, but I kept it in my closet for years."
"What happened to it?"
"My mother tossed it when I went to college.
Said I was too old for childhood mementos.
" He picks up the stuffed mitt, his expression thoughtful.
"I grieved that stupid glove for months.
It felt like losing a piece of my grandfather, losing a piece of that kid who just loved playing catch in the backyard. "
"I'm sorry you lost it."
"Me too. But—" He looks up, meeting my eyes with such warmth it makes my breath catch. "This feels like getting a piece of that back. Not the same piece, but a new one that honors what was lost."
"That's very poetic for a Monday morning."
"You bring it out of me." He sets the mitt down carefully, then reaches across the desk to take my hand. "Seriously, Royce. This means more to me than you probably realize."
"I think I'm starting to understand." I squeeze his hand. "And for what it's worth, I'm glad you like it.”
He glances at the clock on my wall. "We should probably actually finish these contracts before lunch."
"Probably."
But neither of us moves to let go of the other's hand, and when we do finally get back to work, there's a new lightness in the air. A sense of understanding deepened, of knowing each other just a little bit better.
And when Kenneth leaves hours later, the stuffed mitt is tucked carefully under his arm, treated as if it were precious and irreplaceable.
To him, I realize, that's exactly what it is.