Chapter 1
Beck
Three months later
“Out!” the umpire calls.
I can’t decide what I like more, the sound of the ball hitting my glove paired with the “out,” or the fact that this was the last out of the game to land us in the postseason. One step closer to the World Series. It might just be the look on my team’s face as they realize what we just accomplished.
Our last season was a shit show…this one—this one has been incredible. Has to be one of the best seasons I’ve ever played in the major leagues and best team as a whole. We’re going in as the second seed in the postseason which is a complete fucking 180 from last year.
With the entire team riding an absolute high from the field to the dugout, and back to the clubhouse, I take in this moment. Dammit, I love this team, I swear it’s all I need in life.
Turning, I find Dex pinning me with a glare. “You just had to make that last out, didn’t you?”
As if he should be surprised—we made a bet that night playing poker, and there was no way this team was going to lose it. We get that trophy and Dex signs a new contract—I want this asshole to pitch again, we all do.
“Sure as shit did. Tell Lucie her favorite player’s about to come out of retirement.”
“You don’t have a trophy in hand yet. Best not to get too cocky.” He shakes his head but claps my shoulder as he walks past me toward our general manager.
“Hey, I like to think I’m the perfect amount of cocky,” I toss over my shoulder.
When I turn back around, Tripp’s making his way to my cubby. “Think you can be cocky enough to be my wingman this weekend to celebrate? I love Ems, but if I ask her again, I’m afraid she’ll paint my apartment pink in retaliation.”
I snort a laugh. “As she should.”
“You have got to stop roping Emma into being your wingwoman.” Will joins our conversation. “The poor girl is a chronic people pleaser who doesn’t know how to tell you no.”
Tripp brushes him off. “Hey, Emma tells me no. We’ve been friends for years, she’s told me no plenty of times.”
Will looks to me with raised eyebrows and mumbles a sarcastic, “Okay.”
Will’s got a point, over the past couple months I don’t think I’ve seen Emma tell anyone no. She’d bend over backward for her dad, hence her becoming our team assistant during the middle of the season, and with Tripp, it’s just as bad.
Tripp opens his mouth to argue, but I decide to cut him off. “Count me in for this weekend. We can all go out, maybe someone could be a wingman for Emma this time around?”
The look that comes to Tripp’s face lasts maybe two seconds, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. “I could do that.”
Will shakes his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Callie is an excellent wingwoman, in case you can’t. Count us in.”
Tripp humphs. “Good to know, maybe I’ll bring her next time. How do you feel about sharing?”
I chuckle when Will’s face falls at Tripp’s flirty tone. “Fuck off.”
“You first,” Tripp mocks.
“Both of you better fuck off, the girls practically run this team now—ain’t no way I’m getting on their bad side.”
Will tilts his head. “Fair point. Just text Callie where we’re going and we’ll be there.”
I know where we’re going if I get to pick, but just nod. Looking at Tripp next, I pin him with a stare. “Ask Emma if she wants to come, don’t tell her.”
Tripp sends me the middle finger while mumbling some additional curses under his breath as he walks off.
Digging out my phone from my bag, I send a text that will probably go unanswered.
Saw you in the stands tonight with Lucie. I must have missed your fan sign for me. Maybe next time.
After our postgame meeting and dinner in the clubhouse, I’m walking into my townhouse.
I toss my bag on the floor and fall back onto the couch.
I’m not typically one for silence—I’m all for some background noise or music, but after screaming coaches, teammates, and fans for several hours, I welcome it.
I take two deep breaths to reset then reach for my phone, knowing it’s about to ring. With the first feeling of it vibrating in my hand, I answer. “Hey, you catch the game?”
My dad’s gruff laugh comes through the line. “As if we ever miss one. Isn’t that right, Mils?”
“It was so good, there’s one player that I really like—oh, what’s he play? He stands on one of the sides…” My mom’s voice starts out chipper, but as she tries to remember, I know it can turn to frustration quick.
“I think it’s first base, honey. Beck plays first.” Dad’s voice is calm and reassuring. It kills me to know that without being there, my mother can’t place me. I know it’s not her fault, but the guilt of it threatens to eat me alive.
We’re coming up on year five of her early-onset Alzheimer’s diagnosis.
She was fifty-fucking-two when all this started, but by year one she had already moved into the middle stage of her prognosis.
They said that stage was supposed to be the longest, and I did everything in my power to slow the progression down, but it seemed to be nothing but fast. This past year we’ve officially moved into private end-of-life care that keeps her comfortable at home.
It guts me I’m not there with her, but Dad reminds me constantly that it’s because of what I do that she gets the best care imaginable. It never feels like enough.
“Right, he has red hair like you do. I like his name too—Beck. It reminds me of someone…Beck…I think my dad was named Beckham, is that right?”
I can’t seem to swallow the baseball-sized lump in my throat, so I let my dad continue to answer her.
“That’s right, he was. Do you know someone else with that name? He—”
“Dad,” I snap, finally finding my voice.
He knows I hate when he tries to make her remember.
She hasn’t remembered I’m her son for nearly two years.
Sometimes she brushes off the idea of a son, but other times she gets so upset and frustrated.
I get what he’s trying to do, but I’ll take being a player she likes to watch on TV over forcing her to remember.
“Right. Sorry, son.”
“Son? You have a son?” Mom’s words cut me deep.
There’s a pause, I can tell he’s struggling to not remind her it’s also her son on the phone, but she rarely remembers Dad too. He lets out a small breath. “I do, he’s really great. I think you would love him.”
“Dad,” I state my warning calmly, but he ignores it.
“We can talk about him more when I get back if you want. Or if you’re ready for bed, I’ll let Nurse Jamie know.”
I hold my breath as I wait for her to answer.
“Oh, I’m ready to sleep,” she says. “Just watching those boys run round and round made me tired.”
I let out a pained laugh as I imagine the look on her face. She would say that to me after every game all the way from little league to now. These are the moments I need. It’s more than enough to hold on to.
“Alright, I’ll have Jamie come in to help.
I’ll be back in just a few.” I wait in silence as I imagine the kiss to the back of my mom’s hand and the smile she’ll give my dad in return, like they would do every single time they parted ways.
Didn’t matter if Dad was simply grabbing something from the fridge…
every single time. I know that’s not actually happening now, but the memory of it helps.
My romantic side comes from watching them growing up. It’s the reason why I hope to see every single one of my friends happy and in love. The love my parents have now is the reason I don’t want to find it for myself.
The kicker with early-onset is that it’s familial.
Especially with my grandfather passing away with it, we had to have the genetics conversation.
It was enough to have my head spinning, but I clung to the words that even though my chances of having it weren’t definite, and there were things I could do to help encourage my brain function, the bottom line was… there was no guarantee I wouldn’t.
I hear a sliding door open then close. “Alright, I’m outside, you can lecture me now.”
“You know I don’t want you forcing her to remember me.”
“I did no such thing, but you know the doctors have encouraged us to help keep her memory up—it doesn’t hurt to gently remind her about the son she loves very much. We both took those classes on how to talk to her during these later stages…we ought to put that to use, don’t ya think?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I know what the doctors and all the nurses say, I have all their personal numbers and much to their dismay, I use them quite frequently. I know you know, it’s just…I’m not there. It’s a lot easier—”
“Ah, so it’s that bullshit again. You’re just as stubborn as your mother,” Dad cuts me off, his tone becoming a lot less calm than it was a minute ago.
“Get this through your head, Beckham—you are providing round-the-clock care along with the best doctors and medications. We no longer have to go out for appointments that leave both of us disappointed. She’s comfortable, and had a good day today so some memory-jogging is encouraged.
You are the first person we always start with, end of discussion. ”
I let out a deep sigh. “I’m coming down a few days after the postseason ends. If we don’t make it to the final game, maybe I can come sooner.”
“That’s fine, son. You know we always want to see you, but we also couldn’t be more proud of you. You know good and well that your mom would lose it if she saw how much weight you carry in this.”
Silence hangs as I let his words run through my brain.
Before I can respond, he clears his throat and asks, “So, any chance you’ll bring someone special with you this time?”
I muffle a laugh. “Not this time.” Or any time. “I’m perfectly happy being on my own.”
He mumbles another curse. “No, you’re not. You were practically Velcro growing up, even as a teenager. You hate being alone.”
Correction, I used to hate being alone. I have my team, my friends—that’s all I need. Not that I can tell my dad that, I can’t even begin to think of how to explain to him why I don’t want a relationship anymore, but at the end of the day it’s my choice.
“If I stop feeling guilty about not being home, will you stop bringing up me finding someone?”
Another beat of silence passes. “I’ll give you the, what, two weeks you’ll be here—no questions unless you start acting guilty.”
I barely form a chuckle. “I’ll take it.”
The silence hangs heavy on the line for a moment. “We just want you to be happy, you know that?”
“For fuck—” My hand grips my phone tight. “What about our deal?”
“I said during the two weeks,” Dad snaps. “Actually, screw that deal. I need to know you’re happy. Show me that, I don’t care how it looks. Alone. With someone. I don’t care if you become your own version of a cat lady, just show me that you’re happy when you’re here, and I’ll never ask again.”
“Fine, I can do that.” I think.
“I’m serious, Beckham. There’s not much I can threaten you with anymore. All I’ve got is parental guilt.”
My laugh comes without a thought. “I think you could still kick my ass if you really wanted to, old man.”
He lets out a humph. “Kick your ass in pool, maybe, you might have gotten better since we played last.”
There’s a small ache in my chest. “We’ll see about that when I get there.”
“Sounds good. Get some sleep, you deserve it after that game.”
“Will do, Dad. Call when you can.”
“Of course. We love you.”
“Yeah, I love you guys too.”
Ending the call, I let out a string of curses. Each phone call has me looking up red-eye flights out to them. With my phone in hand, I can’t say I won’t do it this time, but then I see a text.
Jenni-cakes
Didn’t think Olsson would appreciate “Beck Daines is a stalker” on a giant poster board. Next time.