Chapter 24
24
[Cort]
V ale didn’t spend the night, and while I understand all the reasons why she can’t, it still felt wrong that she eventually snuck out of my place.
After cleaning her up, I’d left her lying on my bed and went through the house to lock up.
When I came back to my room, I curled up beside Vale, held her wrist, and stared at her for the longest time, wondering how we got here.
Her and me. My former best friend’s younger sister.
Her needing touch, me repelling it, until recently.
There is so much I should explain, so much I should ask; instead, I just relish the beautiful woman in my bed, having gotten her off so extremely and from my hand.
A few days later, a text arrives from an unrecognizable number, but I quickly identify the caller.
You don’t happen to know where my panties are, do you?
I chuckle knowing exactly where they are.
Seems only fair to keep them as you stole my hat and a shirt.
Although, there is something about knowing Vale has kept them both.
Plus, you stole from my bed.
While we didn’t discuss Vale spending the night, knowing all the reasons she couldn’t, I still want to make it clear I didn’t like her absence.
Which is ironic considering I don’t cuddle or spend nights with women.
You were sleeping.
I could tell her I was dreaming about her, but I keep things light instead.
Just concerned about you sneaking off so late.
Somehow that sounds even heavier.
You worried about me, Coach?
Yeah, you need a better nickname than that.
Makes me feel like a creepy old man, and I’m already older than you.
Could call you beekeeper.
wink emoji
You’re the beekeeper, not me.
You’re beekeeping age.
An attractive man in his forties.
Like a DILF. A beekeeper.
insert crying laughter emoji insert a bee emoji
I stare down at my phone, shaking my head, feeling like this conversation is proof that I’m older than her.
Maybe too old. I have no idea what she’s talking about.
Gotta take care of my bee.
I hit send before I realize I’ve called her mine.
Always available to be tended to.
Not only is she flirty, she’s fun, and turning me the fuck on when I have work to do.
Beehave. insert wink face emoji
Good one.
Then moments later.
I’ve got to buzz off.
Next client is here.
I snort, shake my head once more, ignoring the pang of concern that Vale might be attracted to another client of hers.
Another man who’s of beekeeping age.
Or maybe someone more her age without so much baggage.
“What’re you smiling about?” Clint’s voice startles me, and I stand from my desk in our shared office, tucking my phone into my back pocket.
“Nothing. Mind your own business,” I snap.
His expression is instantly stricken before he slowly smiles.
“ You gotta girl, big brother?” His lips roll into a huge grin, knowing I haven’t been with another woman in any serious manner since my divorce twelve years ago.
“Like I said, mind your own business.”
“Geez. Who put a bee in your bonnet?” Clint counters referring to my unnecessary irritation.
He sounds like a geezer with such an old-fashioned saying, and yet I don’t want him to have any idea that there is a bee buzzing around my head.
A beautiful queen filling my thoughts with hope.
“Okay, grandpa . Get to work.”
“Yes sir,” Clint salutes me and stands as well to go our separate ways for the day.
I set Vale’s number in my phone under Bonnet, hoping to keep her a secret for a while longer.
During the week, we have a Haven Hitters game.
Our pitchers are on a rotation, because their young arms can only handle so many pitches per game.
Hudson Sylver is in the middle of our mix.
The pressure to perform well at such a young age comes from multiple places, including the drive within a kid and pressure from a parent.
In the case of Atticus Stanton, his ambition is derived from his father.
Typically, I tune out the cheers or jeers from parents on the sideline.
I’m here for the boys, like my father was once there for me.
Like I hadn’t been enough for my own son.
But Henry Stanton takes pressure to a whole other level.
“Come on, ump. That was clearly a strike,” Henry hollers at the man behind home plate, making calls against Hudson’s pitching.
Which clearly was a strike .
“Maybe you need your bifocals checked,” Henry continues taunting the official.
“Jesus,” Clint mutters under his breath while shaking his head as the opposing team hits a single.
“Henry,” I snap, turning toward the stands and leveling him with a shut-the-fuck-up glare.
He’s one more shout from being kicked out of this game and I’d love nothing more.
Mr. Stanton clearly needs a reminder of our zero tolerance for negative taunts.
Banning him from our sidelines would give me great pleasure.
Instead, my focus returns to Hudson.
When he walks a kid after four thrown balls and then hits a kid in the ankle on an attempted curveball, also walking him, the bases are loaded.
The next hit is a grand slam, and our opponent scores four runs.
Sensing Hudson’s discouragement, Clint approaches the mound, giving him a pep talk and the option to sit out.
But somehow Clint always finds the right words to keep a kid in the game and Hudson buckles down.
When he eventually gets us out of the inning, his shoulders slump and his head is lowered as he nears the dugout.
“I suck,” he mutters, entering the fenced in area and tossing his mitt at the cage around the dugout before throwing himself onto the end of the bench.
“Hey,” I counter, hoping to catch Hudson’s attention.
I don’t like to see any kid down on himself.
Typically, Clint is good cop to my bad cop, so to speak.
He’s comfort and encouragement while I’m more about instruction and discipline.
With a quick glance toward the stands, I see Vale staring at the back of Hudson’s head, concern etched between her brows.
Sometimes we let the kids stew; other times we intervene.
It isn’t unheard of for a parent to step forward and speak to their child.
In this case, I feel the need to say something positive, and I take a step toward Hudson inside the dugout just as I see Stone round the short set of bleachers.
This is a public field, and most parents bring their own chairs or blankets to sit along the edge of the baselines and watch their kids, but a wooden set of three risers sits behind the first baseline.
I hadn’t noticed Stone standing next to it.
Our eyes catch a second before he quickly looks away, glancing down at his sulking nephew, and I’m caught in this weird quandary.
Do I step forward? Do I step back?
Stone freezes in position as well, before glancing up and giving me a short, sharp nod.
If anyone respects the dynamics of coach and player, it’s Stone.
He doesn’t step back but he also doesn’t move forward.
Instead, I move.
“Hey,” I mutter again quietly, crouching in front of Hudson, attempting to draw his gaze away from his lap where he’s aggressively twiddling his thumbs.
I’m not one to coddle kids.
Baseball is a game. The object is to hit a ball and outrun your opponent.
My competitive spirit enjoys the thrill.
But I also remember the pressure I’d put on myself when I was young.
The way I saw every bad situation as a personal failure.
A missed hit when I played baseball as a kid.
A missed catch or tackle when I played professional football.
“We’re still in our early games,” I remind him.
“We’re all a little rusty.” Despite skills practice and team scrimmages for weeks, we still haven’t figured out who fits best where and that’s the challenge of our level.
This is a time for kids to explore different field positions and their feelings about the game.
Our hope is these kids love baseball enough to continue to play in high school and pursue the sport in college.
As the recipient of a football scholarship, I appreciate the benefits of being a student athlete.
My parents were grateful as well.
“Dust off the rust. Steel underneath.” I tap the side of my fist on his knee, reminding him of our team’s motto.
A metaphor for scraping off the bad stuff and finding strength within yourself.
I’d like to take credit for the slogan but it’s all Clint.
Hudson weakly nods, signaling he hears me, even if he’s still struggling.
“I see you applying what we taught you about the four-seam fast ball. You had some good throws.”
“My curveball stunk.”
“So, we work on that in practice.”
Hudson purses his lips tight and moves them side to side before slowly nodding.
He’s a good kid, great team player, and a natural leader.
He’ll get where he needs to be, both physically in the game, and mentally.
“One minute,” I state, standing to give him time to regroup on his own.
The initiative is something Clint wanted to instill for mental health reasons, asking kids to count down from sixty to settle their emotions.
We had an incident two years ago with a kid who angered easily, throwing tantrums, and baseball bats, and having crying fits with every failure.
Clint feared for the kid’s mental stability in competitive sports and read up on ways high schools and colleges were practicing mental health checks among athletes.
I hiss as I stand, feeling a familiar ache in my knee as it cracks.
Immediately, I notice Stone has stepped back to his spot near the bleachers.
The ache in my knee is a reminder of all I had, and all he gave up.
The thought has my gaze seeking Vale, who is still watching Hudson.
With a tip of my chin, I convey that Hudson will be okay.
He’s strong, like his mom, and he’ll build the armor he needs to handle sports at this level.
Returning to my position beside Clint, he mutters, without looking in my direction.
“He okay?”
“He will be.”
Clint nods once, squinting in the direction of Kennedy Archer up at bat.
The girl has a nice swing.
Too bad she can’t stay in our league after she turns twelve, although we’ve recently learned a Women’s Baseball League is opening and the hope for a professional league will open avenues for younger girls.
“What’d you say to him?” A hint of fear laces Clint’s question, like he’s worried I’d tell the kid to buck up or something.
Soothing egos or skinned knees is not my forte.
“Pulled a Clint.” I chuckle, slapping my brother one time hard on his shoulder blade in an effort to brush off my own concerns for the kid.
Clint turns his head at the comment, watching me.
“Huh.”
“Huh?” That’s all he’s got to say?
But I don’t miss Clint’s glance over my shoulder before the corner of his mouth ticks upward, fighting a smile that suggests he’s onto me, when there’s nothing to be onto .
Hudson Sylver is a kid on our team.
I’m concerned for him like any other player.
And it has nothing to do with his hot-as-sin mother who makes me want things I shouldn’t want.
Like to take care of her and her son.
“Stone’s here,” Clint adds, as if I hadn’t already seen him.
“Yep.”
The discussion of reconciliation has been an on-again off-again topic for decades.
As we’ve all aged and matured, Clint and Trinity both think I should try to speak to Stone.
Maybe explain how I was young and foolish and made a grave mistake.
But that ship has sailed.
Stone and I won’t ever be friends again, although I’ve greatly missed his friendship, especially in the early years when I was drafted and married with a newborn baby.
However, those three things in combination are also a reminder of all Stone lost; all the things I’d stolen from him.
Of the three, the only one I regret is my marriage.
I can never ask Stone to forgive me for stealing his girl.
I can never forgive myself either.