Chapter 43
FORTY-THREE
JED
I move on autopilot as I jog up the stairs of the dugout and into the wash of blinding lights. My cleats slam into the earth, each jarring impact rolling through my calves and quads. Sound is swallowed by the roar of the green and purple swarm in the stands.
This is it.
My moment.
I’ve come down a bit from my spiral. I don’t remember getting to Connecticut. Everything blurred past like I was barely conscious, an old wound torn open and bleeding while I got rushed along on a gurney.
I’m not sure I would have made it here without the guys. They took me back to my apartment, packed up as much shit as they could, piled it in my Range Rover, then first thing in the morning, Maddox drove me down here.
I met Araujo here—he got the call-up too. Seeing that familiar face, going through the motions in the clubhouse, warming up on the field, zeroing in on pitches during BP, brought me back from the edge.
Tonight will be the hardest night. But each game, it’ll get easier. That’s my mantra.
My father’s death is a wound that’s been reopened too many times to count in the last seven years, but this was the deepest fracture.
That’s what loss is. You heal, only for all those poorly done stitches to be torn out.
The claws of grief rip you open rib by rib and make sure you’re fully aware you will never be whole again.
Because the organ that’s supposed to sit there, strong and thriving, has had pieces gouged out. Every beat is a monumental effort.
But lately, each beat has felt a little less like a battle. For the first time, I think I’m truly healing and not just coping. Even with all the pain fresh again.
There’s been too much sunshine in my life lately to allow for the darkness.
I’ve had some cloudy days, days where the sun was lost to me. I slow to a stop just outside the dirt, still facing the outfield stands. I glance down at the bronze sun on my wrist. Cloudy days, storms…they always pass. I felt the sun again yesterday.
And the thing about the sun. It gives you strength.
Revitalizes.
I glance up at the sky, midnight black dusted with the faintest glimmers of stars.
The roar in my ears softens. Everything calms. Noise. Heartbeat. Breath.
And I know he’s here with me.
Just me and Dad.
My eyes slide shut as I sink to a knee. I bow my head, fingers digging into the grass and earth.
It’s still our moment.
I refuse to believe otherwise.
I lift two fingers to my lips, then raise them to the sky, my gaze locked on the heavens.
On Dad.
The silence registers, and I glance around until my attention snaps to the jumbo screen.
Me.
It pans out.
My teammates. Caps off and over their hearts.
To the crowd.
Saluting the heavens in a mirror of me.
My eyes burn, and I blink hard against the threatening tears.
Somehow there’s beauty lurking in the sorrow. I stand and lift my hand to the crowd, turn slowly to acknowledge the stadium. I don’t think these fans will ever understand what this moment means to me.
It might not be how I always envisioned my dream coming true.
But I couldn’t be happier to be standing here and calling myself a Jetty.
It’s time.
All right, Dad. Stay with me.
Let’s play ball.
“What a game,” Araujo says as we lean against the elevator in the hotel on our way up to our floor. We’re both staying at a hotel by the stadium until we get housing sorted out.
“Was that only one game?” We won, but it was one of those games where every inning felt like it was an hour long.
He chuckles.
We went through six pitchers because it was walks and foul-tips all night.
I think there was one at-bat that took twelve pitches.
The Jetties’ pitching has really been struggling.
The only times we’ve brought in a win are when our bats are on fire.
Which I think is a big reason they called me up and relegated Sanders to the bench.
I had a two-run home run in the third. Sent that one to the heavens for Dad to catch.
“Tomorrow will be a whole different story with you on the mound.”
“I sure fucking hope so.”
Araujo’s got a unique delivery, and it really throws batters off. Hopefully, that’ll bode well for the Jetties.
The elevator doors open. We step into the hall—
And there’s Shane.
He’s sitting on the floor outside my hotel room, bent over himself awkwardly. He’s fast asleep, duffle bag at his side.
I halt in my tracks. Araujo bumps into my back.
“Sorry, man—Is that…is that Michaels?”
“Yeah.” I try desperately to keep my voice level, but it still comes out rough.
Araujo studies me, brown eyes soft. He gives my shoulder a squeeze, the corner of his lips tilting up in what I think is understanding. “See you tomorrow, man.” He turns and heads the other way down the hall to his room.
I make my way over to Shane. I crouch in front of him, glance down the hall quickly, but Araujo is already disappearing into his room. I gently cup Shane’s face and lift it from where it’s dangling on his knees.
“Sunshine,” I whisper.
His eyes twitch.
“Shane. Wake up, babe.”
Golden lashes flutter, and then I’m blessed with blue. So much blue. They’re hazy, but as the sleep fades, a soft light fills them. Recognition.
“Storm Cloud.” It comes out with a happy little sigh. “Great game.”
My heart leaps. “Come on. Let’s get inside.”
He trudges into my room, all drowsy and adorable.
“What are you doing here, Shane?”
“I left as soon as I could after my game.” He sits on the edge of my bed and reaches for me.
I go to him instantly, stepping between the invitation of his parted thighs. His hands fall on my hips. The gentle scent of orange lingers in the air around him. My heart stutters.
“I didn’t want you to be alone tonight,” he whispers.
I brush back those temperamental golden curls that are always falling forward and swallow hard. “I appreciate that.” More than he knows.
Because I do need him. I didn’t think that was a possibility tonight. He had an early night game, another tomorrow. But even with that, he’s made the two-hour drive down here.
“What do you need?”
“Just you, Sunshine.”
“Let’s get ready for bed, then. You’ve got me.”
And with those three words, life breathes back into me.