Chapter 17
CHAPTER 17
Brooke
Bombing the first game is either the best or worst thing that could’ve happened to us. We are dominating the losers’ bracket.
Daddy and Mama came for a few games, then had to go home to work at the orchard. I’m finishing a run to the Dollar Store for more snacks and bug spray. Since I had the best parking spot, Nate let me borrow his truck. It’s a huge step up from what he drove in high school.
The one time I rode in it before, I was so worried about people seeing us together that I didn’t pay much attention. Now I don’t care who sees us—or me—in his truck.
This time I’m paying full attention.
I couldn’t be more immersed in Nate’s scent if I were a dog rolling in a dead skunk skin. The fact that it comforts me and has such a homey feel scares me a little.
I’m borrowing his truck to buy Doritos and OFF!, not a marriage license. Although I wouldn’t be totally opposed to the latter of those.
A few teams have left, clearing some spaces closer to the fields. I park the truck and suck in the Nate scent one last time. Good thing, since outside smells like sunscreen and dirt.
Armed with my loot, I cross the parking lot and find our little tailgate area. Morgan is under the center of the tent with half her arm immersed in a Yeti cooler. Nate examines her shoulder and rubs it. She rolls her eyes back in her head and relaxes.
“It’s a little tight, but you should be fine after icing it a bit.” He steps back and sees me. “I’ll take those.” He grabs the bags and starts dispersing supplies.
Morgan opens her eyes and shakes her head at me. “If you don’t take him, I will!”
“Shhh.”
She rolls her eyes. I think it’s fair to assume everyone can sense something going on between Nate and me. Possibly even Timothy, which complicates things further.
Easton comes up in his scrubs. Aniston stands from her chair and kisses his cheek.
“Hey.” He kisses her quickly on the lips. “Hey, Carter,” he says louder.
Carter jumps up from lying on his belly in the grass and fist bumps Easton.
“Aniston said y’all keep winning.”
“Yeah, ever since that first loss, we’ve done well,” Morgan says. She twists in her chair, then grabs her shoulder. “Oomph, moved too soon.”
“Rest for now,” Nate scolds.
She leans back and nods, then turns to me. “Brooke, you may have to pitch this next game.”
I choke on the water I’m drinking.
“Since this is a tournament, does it absolutely have to be one of you pitching?” Nate asks.
“The way it’s worded, you have to be a player’s parent,” Easton clarifies. “So I couldn’t pitch if I wanted to because I’m not yet their guardian.”
Nate sighs. “That sucks. You’re already helping raise them.”
He laughs. “Doesn’t matter as long as Bubba’s at the park. He holds that rule book like the Bible. That’s why I got a copy, to look for loopholes.”
My skin burns, and I want to ball up and hide. Nate would be the best pitcher by far, and he is a biological parent. I chug water, hoping the cold liquid will help me chill.
It doesn’t.
After a few minutes of silence, I speak out of guilt. “I can try and pitch if Morgan isn’t better.”
“I’ll try.” Carlton leans forward in his chair.
If you can call it a chair. It’s more like a hammock cocoon that rocks and spins.
Morgan and I exchange a look. She jerks her head back at Nate to get his reaction, then reaches for her arm and grimaces.
“That’s a good idea.” Nate nods at him.
Our eyes meet over Morgan’s head. I can read him well enough to see he doesn’t trust Carlton can throw a strike. But it’s coach-pitch. As long as these kids can hit something, we’ll be fine.
The game on the field is winding down, and it’s clear who we will face next. This is the last game in our bracket. Either way, we place.
Bradley lifts his mask and wipes sweat from his brow. The players line up and slap hands, spouting out a monotonous “good game.”
“Let’s get ready, boys.” I start gathering bats and helmets to move us into the dugout.
Morgan stands slowly and steps toward Carlton. “Are you serious about trying this?”
“Yeah.” He stands and folds his chair. “If I can swing a golf club, I can sling a baseball.
She wavers her head.
“Thanks, Carlton. I know you can throw better than me,” I assure him.
“It will be an honor to try.” He smiles and grabs a glove.
He’s already to the fence when Morgan moans.
“Your arm?” I ask.
She shakes her head, then points to Carlton. He struts to the pitcher’s circle, head held high.
“At least he’s confident,” Aniston says.
“He’s something.” Morgan sighs. “Someone help me bring this ice to the dugout. I’m gonna coach from the sidelines.”
We pile everything into the dugout and set her up near the opening. Carlton warms up with Bradley while Aniston and I check to make sure everyone’s shoes are tied.
She hops up from tying Angel’s cleat and digs around under the bleacher. “Just making sure there’s no Nicorette left over from last week.”
“Good call.” I give her a thumbs-up.
Bradley calls the kids to the field. Carlton comes and digs in Herrington’s golf bag. He pulls out a monogrammed towel and wipes his face. If he’s already winded, we’re in big trouble. Maybe it’s nerves.
Morgan yells out where she wants everyone to play in the field, and Aniston makes note of it in the scorebook.
“Carlton, you can be on first base today, and I’ll take third,” I tell him.
“Thanks.” He adjusts his sunglasses and jogs to the base.
I’m not comfortable coaching third base, but Morgan is close enough to yell at them from the dugout.
Timothy stands at first base, ready to play. I shade my eyes and get a good look at the opposing team. Only half of them have on jerseys and one kid doesn’t have a cap. I try to never judge a book by its cover, but we may have a real shot at this.
Their coach starts pitching. The first batter stands frozen for every ball. He’s out. The second batter hits a little dribble that Andrew quickly throws to Timothy. He’s out.
The third batter could easily pass for a twelve-year-old. His pants are at least two sizes too small, and unless the sun is playing tricks on my sight, I detect a hint of upper lip hair.
No wonder Morgan said we needed birth certificates.
He watches the first pitch, then nails the second one. All our players watch it like a plane flying overhead. Nobody even tries for the ball.
“Get the ball!” Morgan yells.
Half of the kids scramble. Tami’s girls are both picking flowers, and pushing-puberty kid is running the bases. He’s not fast, but he’s rounding second. His coach yells, “Run home!”
The kid stops and stares at the coach, then reverses his steps. He picks up the pace, huffing and puffing. He runs off the field and toward the parking lot.
The coach tosses his cap in the dirt and fumes. “Somebody go get him!” he yells to the dugout.
A man in head-to-toe camo with the same stature as the kid jogs toward the exit. Bradley calls time and walks to the coach. “He need to pee or something?”
The coach pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s never hit the ball and ran bases until now. I think he ran home.”
Bradley stares over his head to the parking lot. Then he lowers his chin and opens his mouth in realization that home meant the kid’s house.
“Well, they say kids are literal.” He pats the coach’s arm. “Sorry, big dog, but that’s gotta be an out.”
He steps back and calls the third out. Our crowd claps, and the kids who are paying attention cheer. Morgan screams at the sisters to stop picking weeds and come to the dugout. The kids hustle back, with Reece picking up the rear.
He’s one of the fastest when he wants to be, but right now he’s doing that Harry Potter trot.
“Look, we’ve got them at zero. Let’s get some hits and start leading off. We can win this thing. Y’all have been doing good today.” Morgan sticks her hand out and little hands stack on top of it. “Gray ’Dillos on three.”
She counts down from three, and everyone joins in the chant, including Aniston and me. I hear Nate’s voice behind me.
When Morgan is done with her pep talk, I twist my head to him smiling at me from the front bleachers. I smile back.
I wish he could be even more involved—with both the games and our lives. Hopefully one day. Right now, I don’t want to put everything on the line and have him leave town.
I face the field and help Aniston keep the kids in batting order. Bad as I hate it, Nate will remain Bruno a little longer.
* * *
We won.
I can barely believe it. Of course, it helps when you’re in the lowest bracket available and the other team is Bad News Bears on steroids. Still, our kids won a tournament!
Nate claps slowly as Bradley lines both teams up on the field. He stops after a minute of clapping alone. Morgan whistles, and most of our parents pull out a phone for photos.
“Y’all can come down for pictures,” Bradley announces.
Most parents hurry down the bleachers. Reece’s parents, Agatha and Jim, don’t move. I stop by them to check if anything is wrong.
“It’s okay for us to go on the field now and get better photos.”
“Oh, we don’t have cameras,” Jim says.
“Or cell phones,” Agatha adds.
I blink in shock. No wonder they never gave me a contact number. I assumed they hated GroupMe like most parents. What’s most impressive is how Reece is always on time for everything.
“I can take some photos of Reece for you.”
“That would be lovely.” Agatha’s lips curve slightly.
When she said the only electronics he’s been exposed to are online schooling and old DVDs, I thought she was being sarcastic. Guess not.
I join the rest of the crew on the outskirts of the infield. Bradley has each team lined up across from one another. He stands in the center, still wearing catching gear except for the mask. That is now replaced by his cowboy hat.
“Both teams fought long and hard today. We played a lot of ball, and you guys are the last two teams standing in this division.”
Something brushes against my shoulders. I notice Nate from the corner of my eye. He settles right beside me so that our arms are touching.
He could stand anywhere on this field or in the stands, but he snuggles close enough to touch me. That’s got to mean he likes me, right?
Ugh. I sound so high school right now.
“I’ll start with our runners-up, the Bama Bananas.” Bradley calls the coaches forward and hands the one who pitched a bag.
Their coaches are about as mismatched as the kids, with one wearing a work uniform for the local coal mines and another dressed like he came from a tree stand. The one with the bag pulls out a fistful of medals. Each kid steps forward and gets one when his or her name is called. They have a girl on their team as well.
“We should’ve called people out before the game so I could identify them better,” Aniston whispers loudly.
I laugh. She had a time with the book this game. Since a lot of them didn’t wear jerseys and they had to sub once the boy ran home and another refused to leave the dugout, she scrambled to figure out who was who.
She gave them nicknames like Mullet and Inappropriate T-shirt. The kid who ran home changed from Too Old? to Homeboy. She was so proud of that, until he never came back.
Once everyone is wearing a medal, they line up with the coaches for more photos. Everyone claps, including Bradley.
I can feel Nate’s bicep flex against my arm as he claps. Part of me thinks he’s making it do that on purpose, and the other part hopes he is. I savor the moment until Bradley calls us forward.
Morgan snatches my arm and drags me away from the comfort of Nate. I slog behind her as she grabs Carlton and motions for Aniston to join us too. Carlton grins at the honor. He deserves it. The man may pitch like a golfer, but he somehow got the job done.
“And now for the winners of today’s 8U lower bottom bracket, the Gray Armadillos.”
Everyone cheers, and even the opposing team gives us a nod of approval. I ignore the words “bottom bracket” and focus on “winners.” A positive outlook on life has kept me sane so far, so why abandon it now?
Bradley hands Morgan the bag, and she digs out a ring. It’s pink. She frowns, then shrugs. “Andrew.”
He hurries up, still wearing catching gear. The rest of the team follows until everyone is wearing a ring. Tami’s girls appreciate the pink, but I’m not sure anyone else does.
We clap and snap a ton of photos. I get several of Reece and make a mental note to print some for his parents, since I assume they don’t do email either. He poses with the ring up high, then runs to his parents. “Dad, Mom, I got Marvolo Gaunt’s ring!”
I haven’t a clue what that means, but they all seem excited about it.
The rest of the kids scatter and play around until Aniston makes them help her pick up the dugout.
Morgan gets Bradley’s attention before he leaves the field. “What’s up with the Barbie pink rings?”
“Oh, this bracket was added last minute after they had more teams sign up.”
Morgan narrows her eyes as if needing more explanation.
Bradley sighs and leans closer to us, where the kids can’t hear. “They’re leftover from a breast cancer awareness softball tournament last fall.”
“And we couldn’t do any better?” she asks.
“Hey, you’re on the park board, not me.” He lifts his palms. “I’m just your friendly neighborhood sheriff trying to make an extra buck while keeping the park safe.”
Morgan nods. “We appreciate your work.”
“Thanks.” He gathers his gear and heads toward the fence.
One of Tami’s girls comes to her crying. A stone fell out of her ring. She tries to fix it.
Jeffrey walks by, picking up trash. Tami screams his name, and he straightens.
“Why did you give our kids these cheap rings?”
He slings the bag of trash over his shoulder and marches our way like a mad, sports-enthused Santa.
“Those are quality softball rings.”
“ Softball . We’re playing baseball.”
“Yeah, well your kids are girls!”
She snaps her head like a scene in Mean Girls .
“If they’d played softball where they belong, they would get these all the time.”
“I told you the sign-ups were full.” She grits her teeth.
I stand beside Nate and Morgan in awe, watching the equally matched Tami and Jeffrey go at it with nothing but a chain-link fence between them.
“You should be on time.”
“Why don’t you get back to work and finish taking out the trash.” She pops her hands on her hips and does the head thing again.
“You mean like the time I took you to Double Drive?”
Despite wearing a short, tight skirt, Tami scales the fence in a matter of seconds. I could’ve used those skills on the cattle gate.
Morgan slides her phone in front of us and laughs.
“Are you videoing this?” Nate asks.
She nods. “I have a whole collection of blackmail footage just in case. Most of it from the Pig.”
Nate looks at me with concern. I shrug.
Tami leaps on top of Jeffrey and starts slapping at his chest and face. He drops the garbage bag and holds her at arm’s length. Cans and nacho trays roll down the hill in slow motion.
We all watch in shock for a minute. Then Nate shakes his head and rushes toward them. He pulls Tami off Jeffrey and holds an arm out to keep him back.
“Y’all need to stop. We have kids here. And what are all these other teams going to think about our park?”
Jeffrey snorts. “Y’all just don’t get it. I made up this bracket to give you losers a chance to win something. If this were travel ball, y’all would’ve went home hours ago.”
My stomach drops as I watch our kids’ faces fall. Aniston consoles them, then marches from the dugout.
“Jeffrey, you need to stop. We still won this bracket and earned these crappy American Girl Doll rings.” She snarls her nose at a ring on the kid beside her. “And give it a rest with the travel ball. Nobody here cares.”
“Fine.” Jeffrey huffs, then snatches the bag and stomps away. He stops after a few steps and calls back, “But you’ll be the one laughing when my kids get full college rides for playing ball.” He turns his back and trudges toward the trash can.
Aniston calls loudly after him, “Whatever you say, but errbody knows those kids aren’t going to college!”
Easton puts his arm around her. “Let it go, babe.”
She sighs and looks past him to Morgan and me. “This is not what I signed up for.”
Morgan snickers, but I sympathize. Who knew kids’ baseball would turn into a Jerry Springer episode?