The Spring Tournament
Thunderous clouds shifted above as Abby dug in at shortstop and T.K. wound up in the pitcher’s circle. When the ball left her hand, a cellphone rang, the sound so penetrating that Abby stood straight up and missed the grounder whizzing past.
Her teammates, Coach Whitley, and the crowd screamed and booed, as the runner rounded first and flew to second.
The ball sat in the outfield, but Abby didn’t move.
The ringing continued. It squealed from the sound system like jet engines.
Abby asked Kate if she heard it, but she yelled at her too as more runners scored.
Abby sprinted off the field to answer the call.
She frantically searched the dugout. Ripped down bat bags, tore them open, chucked gloves and helmets as she rifled for the phone.
Abby shuddered when she finally found it, the game roaring behind her.
She flipped it open, said hello, and her mother answered.
Abby lurched awake. A ding filled her ears, and the seatbelt sign flashed red.
“Flight attendants, take your jump seats,” the pilot said overhead.
Next to her, in the middle seat, Kate seized both armrests, the color draining from her face. They’d taken off from Portland that morning for the spring showcase in Phoenix.
“How much longer?” she asked.
Kate shook her head, whimpering when the plane dipped.
“Are you okay?” Abby quickly dismissed her nightmare, far more concerned by Kate’s trembling. “It’s just turbulence.”
“Do you think we’re going to crash?”
Abby snickered. “I wish.”
Kate’s eyes flashed with such horror that Abby regretted her sarcasm. “That’s not funny.”
“Sorry,” Abby said as the plane briefly dropped again. Kate yelped and clutched Abby’s hand. Abby’s stomach flipped, but she stayed steady as the plane leveled out. She didn’t want to frighten Kate. More than that, she didn’t want that hand to leave hers. “It’s okay. Let’s just talk.”
“I think I hate flying,” Kate said through the thickness of bottled-up tears.
“I think you do too.” Abby tightened her grip as she laced their fingers together.
Letting go never occurred to her. Not just because of how their connected hands alleviated the pull in her chest—one that begged for such closeness—but because she’d never seen Kate like this.
Vulnerable. She was always stitched tightly together.
Even when disappointed, she simply dug in, worked harder.
But this unraveling made Abby determined to keep her from falling apart.
“Mick says you have, like, a hundred siblings.”
“I’m one of seven.” Kate sniffled. The plane rattled through another bump. “Dear God, please let us live.”
“Fuck, seven kids? For real?”
“Yes.”
“What number are you?”
“Three.”
“Lucky number three,” Abby said. The plane swooped again, and she leaned closer, their shoulders brushing.
Kate didn’t pull away. Her weight settled gently against Abby, and while the turbulence diminished, her stomach jolted so hard that she nearly lost her train of thought. “I, uh, what are your siblings’ names?”
“Rebecca, Hannah, R.J., Matt, Leah, and Gabriel.”
“How’d your parents keep track of all of you?” Abby asked.
“They didn’t.”
“They come to a lot of games?”
“No.” Kate’s lips drooped. “My dad is busy coaching, and my mom isn’t big on sports—or maybe just me playing them.”
Abby’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. They don’t say it, but they’re upset I didn’t go to their school.
They work at Eastern Washington Bible College.
” Kate didn’t stop even as the plane rattled, her stare fixed on Abby’s.
“But if I went there, I’d have to study theology or music.
I’d probably just get married off at twenty, like my older sisters. ”
“That’s pretty badass of you.” Abby grinned. She’d misjudged Kate from what little she knew of her, unaware that coming to Insley required taking a stand.
The corners of Kate’s mouth lifted. “I don’t think anyone has ever thought that of me.”
“They should.” Abby squeezed her hand and drifted her thumb across it in a slow circle. Kate still didn’t let go. “Are they supportive of law school?”
She shook her head, and additional empathy pitted Abby’s chest. “It’s so much time and too much money. They don’t understand what I’ll do after. They’re far more interested in when I’ll marry Blake and start having babies.”
Abby stopped tracing her hand. “Yeah, when’s that going to happen?”
“I don’t know. I have a lot I still want to do.
Who knows where he’ll be after the draft.
” Kate’s gaze didn’t leave Abby’s, but her frown resurfaced.
Abby frowned back. In the silence, they became aware the seatbelt light no longer glowed red.
Kate blushed as she pulled her hand away. “Sorry, I’m such a wimp.”
“You’re not,” Abby said, resisting the urge to find her fingers again. “So, do you have a top choice for law school?”
Kate flipped open her LSAT book and didn’t look up. “Berkeley.”
“Wow, from Bible school to Berkeley. You really are a badass, Hutch.” Abby smirked.
“Don’t call me that,” she said.
“A badass?”
“No, Hutch. I like that you call me Kate.” Her eyes met Abby’s in a shock of color.
“Okay, Kate,” she whispered.
Abby dreamed of her mother again before their first game.
She launched herself awake with a gasp. She wasn’t sure if she’d been shouting as she had in her dream, but when she glanced around the hotel room, her teammates slept soundly.
Mick and T.K. shared one bed; Kate and Jill were in the other.
Abby slept on a rollaway, the springs digging into her back.
She checked her phone. A quarter to five. Their game wasn’t until nine, but with her mother in her head, with her heart in a knot, tears building an army in her throat, she knew sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, she got out of bed, slipped on a hoodie, and left the room as quietly as possible.
The team stayed at a hotel on the edge of the city, closer to the tournament fields than downtown. Abby worked in from the outskirts, slinking under dark overpasses, avoiding used needles and people sleeping on the sidewalk. She stopped only to buy cigarettes.
Not an hour passed before Kate called. Abby ignored it but texted her to avoid alerting Coach Whitley.
I’m fine. Don’t worry.
Where are you?
I’ll be back in a little bit.
Abby smoked and roamed. The Arizona landscape, flat and desolate, suited her mood. She plopped on a bench near Sky Harbor as the sun rose and planes glided to the runway. With each puff and landing, she contemplated taking the field.
She’d spent months practicing for this moment, but it never occurred to her that it wouldn’t be the same. But of course it wasn’t. She’d been going through the motions. She hadn’t really felt the game since that terrible night almost a year ago. Since she lost sight of it in grief.
Abby returned to the field anyway, like a lapsed Catholic dragged themselves to Easter Sunday—it was simply what you did, no matter how much you’d changed.
Even when you weren’t certain you believed.
In that way, the game had been her religion.
The one thing she understood, not just physically, but in her soul.
The last true and safe place. Now she wondered if simply playing could be enough.
If she could bear to come back to the game but not herself.
She returned to the hotel room twenty minutes before team breakfast.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Mick asked. “We’ve been freaking out.”
“I went for a walk,” Abby said as the door slammed behind her.
“Are you okay?” Kate asked.
Abby didn’t look at her. “I’m good.”
“We need to be downstairs in ten,” Mick said.
“I’ll be ready.”
While sleep-deprived and a touch anxious, she set her gears to autopilot.
Fortunately, softball was part of her default settings.
She didn’t speak at breakfast, not in the van, or when she warmed up with Kate, but her vision sharpened, her body loosened, and the ballpark fizzled into focus as Coach Whitley read the starting lineup in the dugout.
“Hutchins, Aalberg, Seaborn. Cruz, McMechan, Hightower. Shupe, Crosby, DeHaven. Let’s jump on them early. Hutchins, give us a good look.” Coach Whitley patted Kate’s shoulder before heading out to coach third.
The team clapped when the umpire shouted, “Play ball!” and Kate stepped into the box.
“Come on, Hutch! Get us started, Three!”
Kate roosted on the left side of the plate, nimbly perched, bat poised, shoulders so slackened that the three on her jersey stayed perfectly still.
Leadoff hitter suited her. They typically weren’t the biggest on the team, but the most consistent and fastest. The person you relied on to get on base so your power hitters could knock them in.
Kate didn’t swing at the first strike. She took two balls, faked a bunt, then fouled off another. 2–2. Abby had observed her during practice but underestimated this part of her game. Disciplined in working the count, squeezing extra pitches to wear down the pitcher.
“Let’s go, Kate!” Abby yelled.
She let another ball go, bringing the count full.
Abby chewed her lip. Kate fouled off the next outside pitch.
Not a good one, but close enough to fight off.
The final pitch peeled inside, and Kate hacked it just to the right of second base, skipping into center field, a stand-up single. Abby raised her eyebrows and clapped.
Trish Aalberg bunted next, moving Kate to second. One out.
Courtney Seaborn launched a shot directly to the left fielder. Two outs.
The PA announcer buzzed in the speakers. “Now up for the Eagles, number twelve, the shortstop, Abby Cruz.”
She chopped a practice swing. Coach Whitley feigned a few meaningless signs, the plan to hit away. Abby’s heart rumbled. Usually, the box didn’t faze her. The pitcher never scared her. But that was before. The game was different now.
“Strike one!”