Chapter 10
TEN
SHANE
“Your favorite son is here,” I call out as I step into the entryway of my mom’s townhouse.
My voice echoes through the open space. My senses are instantly overloaded with the most delicious smells.
Fried chicken and something else savory—maybe roasted vegetables.
Oh, I hope she made the carrots with brown sugar and butter.
Muffled sounds come from the kitchen, and I can just make out my mom’s form bustling around the stove.
The townhouse entryway is slightly angled, so it’s not the easiest to see into the kitchen from here.
I toe off my shoes and walk past the stairs to the kitchen, dropping my bag next to them on the way.
I decided last minute I’d just spend the night and head to training in the morning from here.
It means an earlier wake-up, but after a day pretending I was okay, I didn’t have the energy to keep up pretenses with Paulie.
Once past the stairs, the space is completely open front-to-back.
You walk straight into the dining and kitchen area, where a small peninsula separates the space from the living room.
There is a set of French doors that lead to a private deck overlooking a small pond.
I bought this little Mediterranean-style townhouse with my signing bonus.
My mom tried to refuse, but I had none of it.
This was always the first thing I was going to do once I had enough money—get my mom out of our small mobile home.
We’d lived in that home since I was born, and there was a reason, even with two jobs, why we’d never upgraded.
Any extra money we had went to my baseball—gear, travel leagues, trainers, summer programs. Even with the aid we got, it all adds up fast.
No shade on our mobile home—it gave us a roof, a place to laugh, to dream.
People hear “trailer” and picture something run-down, but ours was anything but.
Mom kept it spotless, and every upgrade we made, we did together.
If my mother taught me anything, it was how to work hard and never stop fighting.
We laid down vinyl floors one summer, painted the cabinets a fresh white, swapped out the dated hardware for something a little more flashy, and I even built us a new bathroom vanity. It wasn’t fancy, but it was ours.
Unfortunately, the kids at school didn’t view it the same way.
No one ever wanted to hang out one-on-one with “trailer-trash Shane Michaels.” Their words, not mine.
I heard it more than once, sometimes from people I thought had my back.
There’s a huge bias toward people living in poverty.
We’re treated like we’re less-than, like we’re something to be wary of. Like there’s something to catch.
I’m not ashamed of where I come from, but I also can’t put into words the joy and pride it gave me to be able to give this to my mom. As much as she said it was too much, there’s nothing I will ever be able to do that will adequately express how much all her sacrifices mean to me.
I walk toward said woman, but she stills me with a raised palm. “Hot, hot, hot!” she warns as she flips the sizzling chicken thighs she’s cooking.
Her blond waves are piled atop her head, her cheeks rosy from the heat of the kitchen, and she’s got on the Baseball Mom apron I gave her when I was younger over her navy sweatsuit.
I’d saved up my allowance for months to get that.
I still can’t believe my mom even gave me an allowance.
We didn’t have money for that, but she insisted all kids should have an allowance.
She didn’t want me to feel like I was different from other kids.
Once the thighs are flipped, she grabs a dishtowel to wipe her hands and heads for me. I wrap her in a hug and instantly my day gets a little brighter. Her comforting orange and vanilla bean scent wraps around me like a double hug.
She pulls back, a wide smile stretching across her face and blue eyes sparkling. “I think you’ve gotten even more handsome since the last time I saw you.”
I roll my eyes. “You say that every time I see you. At some point I need to hit peak handsomeness, don’t I?”
Her eyes narrow, and she sweeps her gaze over me—the mother assessment. “How are you doing, Shaney? You’ve lost weight.” She hurries over to the fridge and pulls out a giant plastic Tupperware and shoves it into my arms. Then a spoon magically appears and is thrust in my face.
“Sit and eat.”
I choke on a laugh. “You going to try to make me gain all the weight back in mac salad?”
“You bet I am.” The oven beeps, and she’s back in action.
“What can I do to help?” I put the mac salad on the table.
She spins, one hand still on the handle of the oven, and jabs toward the table. “Sit. Eat.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She cracks the oven, and the smell of broiled sugar hits my nose. She pulls out a tray of carrots, and I cheer. “Yessss! I was hoping for your carrots.”
She wings a blond brow. “It’s like you think I don’t know you at all.”
No one knows me better. Which is why a little while later I have a tower of fried chicken thighs on my plate, my third helping of mac salad, and I lost count of how many carrots. Oh, and I didn’t miss the pile of Revel Bars sitting covered on the counter for dessert. All my favorite things.
I break off a piece of the crispy chicken skin and pop it into my mouth. My eyes slide shut as I groan. “I miss your cooking,” I whine.
Even living as close as I do, it’s hard to find the time to make it home with how grueling Spring Training is. Then I’m off to Portland for six months. It’s not like I don’t know how to cook. I’ve had to cook meals for myself for a long time, but my mom’s got a gift, I swear.
“I made double of everything so you can take some home. I’ll write up instructions on how to reheat it.”
I make heart hands. “Love you.”
Her lips press tight as she fights her smile while she chews—much too polite to smile with food in her mouth. People love to think poor means uneducated or uncivilized. Fuck the haters. My momma’s pure grace.
We catch up on day-to-day things. How her job is going—she’s an administrative assistant at a consulting company in Tampa.
I tell her about how I worked with Maddy to surprise Easton.
That one got a lot of oohs and aahs and my sweet boy.
We avoid baseball. She knows not to pry, that I’ll talk when I’m ready.
After we finish eating, it’s my turn to be firm. I make her park her bum on the couch while I clean up. She puts on The Sandlot because Momma always knows. Something familiar. Something that feels like home. Every baseball-loving kid grew up on that movie.
I flop down onto the couch facedown and groan. “I’m so tired I feel drunk,” I mumble.
Mom puts a pillow in her lap and pats it. I happily accept the invitation and scoot up so my head’s on the pillow. I tuck another to my chest and curl onto my side to watch the movie. Or pretend to. My mind won’t settle. I’m exhausted, but my mind is in overdrive.
Mom’s fingers drift through my curls. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I squeeze the pillow to my chest tighter. “It just really sucks,” I whisper.
“It does.” She fluffs my hair. “I know how much you wanted a spot on the Clippers.”
“Yeah. This is probably going to sound ridiculous—like I don’t have my priorities straight, but I think I’m more upset that I won’t be with Easton and Paulie. Like, it would have still sucked because I want my shot, but at least I’d have East with me in Double-A.”
“That’s not ridiculous at all. Easton and Paolo are the first friends you’ve gotten close with, baby.”
It’s always so weird hearing Mom say Paolo. Paulie is so not a Paolo. But Mom doesn’t buy into the nicknames.
“Missing them is only natural,” she continues.
“But do you know what’s nice about good friends?
They don’t fade just because there’s some distance.
I know I’m old, but there are these things called cellphones.
Supposedly, you can even use this little camera thing to make your face appear on someone else’s screen.
Poof! You can actually see each other while you talk. ”
I chuckle. The woman has a point.
“Also, tell Easton if he ever wants my fried chicken again, he better be the best long-distance friend in the world.”
A smile breaks free. “Bribing my friends?”
My head jostles slightly, and I’m pretty sure she shrugged. “Mama bear is a mama bear.”
“As long as you don’t try to bribe my coaches with fried chicken to get me a spot on Triple-A—actually, wait. That’s not the worst idea. Think we can find Victor Dominguez’s address and get some fried chicken sent to him?”
A laugh falls from her, and my head shakes some more. My chest lightens. We grow quiet, the movie playing in the background.
“What’s really bothering you?” she finally asks.
I deflate with a sigh. “I think I finally realized something today. Something that has been obvious for a while, I guess.”
She hums and waits for me to continue.
“There’s no room for me on the Jetties,” I whisper. “I’ve told you about Jed Stone Junior.”
The look he sent me after he’d finished up his turn at defensive drills a couple weeks back comes roaring to the front of my mind.
Flushed cheeks, chest heaving, dark eyes boring into me, black hair slicked with sweat.
It was a very I am man moment. My stomach flips over.
Kind of haven’t been able to get it out of my head since.
It was so much like the look he gave me after spiking the winning point during volleyball. I think I have a caveman kink.
I clear my throat and that thought away. Not thoughts you have while hanging out with your mother.
“Stone is the future Jetties’ shortstop, probably the future face of the Jetties if he can figure out how to lose his scowl.
All our infield players are relatively new.
Which means I’m going to need to hope I get traded if I want to move up.
It’s just a bummer because I like it here.
I like the coaches and staff and players. ”
She makes a crooning noise. “I’m sorry, love. You got it right earlier. It just really sucks.”
“Kind of feels like I’m in the right place at the wrong time.” The heaviness presses me down further into the couch.
“Just keep fighting, darling. Your right place, right time is coming. When it comes, you’ll be ready.”
I hope it doesn’t take too long.