Chapter 6
Liam
"Yo, Holloway, let's go."
Jace, the Gators' newest rookie and my future replacement, finishes drawing on his eye-black and looks at me sideways. "Really, Two-Three? Can't we save the lessons for after the game?"
"Nope," I say, grabbing my glove. "I got a kid to get home to, remember? And you need reps. Let's go, Rook."
He exhales a quick breath but grabs his stuff and chases me out of the dugout. He might not want the extra practice—hell, I might not either. But if Jace is going to move from second basemen to my spot at shortstop next season, I need to be able to trust he'll do it justice.
"Still can't find a sitter?" he asks, coming up behind me.
I sigh. "The problem is that I need more than a sitter—I can't even call them a nanny. You know our schedule."
Jace, whom I can barely take seriously with the blue sleeves he wears that stand out like a sore thumb, glances over. "Keep an eye on the kid, food, laundry—Ruthie has school too, right?"
I nod and draw in a long, steady breath. "And soccer and art therapy and an ever-growing social life. I'd do everything myself if I could, but when you're gone six days a week…"
He hesitates a second, dropping his gaze to the dirt. "Yeah, it's hard when you're not around much."
"The season's just so much different from the rest of the year."
As we reach the infield, we both come to a stop.
Jace turns toward me, his lips pressed into a flat line, his eyes wandering awkwardly, waiting for my next move.
I take the ball from my glove and spin it in my hand.
"I'll figure it out," I say, smirking. "I always do.
Now, stop trying to distract me from getting this done. "
Jace huffs out a laugh and grins. "You're sure in a hurry to train your replacement, huh?"
I lick my lips and stare at him blankly. "I'm anxious to make sure you don't ruin what I've built."
"Montgomery, I've got this. You act like because I'm on two that I don't know anything about short."
Scoffing, I adjust my hat, lifting it and settling it back down on the top of my head. "Yeah, sure. That's like saying being a man means you understand women."
He reaches into my glove and takes the ball sitting in it. "Oh… I understand women."
I grab it back. "Would they agree with that?"
Holloway bites his bottom lip, smothering a smile.
"Don't give me shit, old man." I ignore the running joke he's had going lately—we both know this old man can give any one of these guys a run for their money.
"In all the time I've known you—shit, in all the time I've followed your career even—I don't think I've ever heard mention of a chick in your life. "
I scoff. Chick.
Walking backward, I look to the sky as I put space between us. "I've got one girl who means everything to me, and that's more than enough."
He catches the ball I lob at him. "Your daughter doesn't count," he argues, tossing it back.
I catch it and nod toward Mack, our infield coach and one of my closest friends. "You're more wrong about that than the pivot I saw earlier."
"What?" he asks, squaring up. "What was wrong with my pivot?"
"You're too tight. You gotta dance with the ball, not fight with it."
Jace tips his chin down at me and raises a brow. "You tango, Two-Three?"
"Only in your dreams, Rook."
Mack reaches us, laughing behind the fungo bat. "He's right, kid," he says. "You look like a robot out here."
"Oh, come on," Jace groans. "I do not."
A short laugh escapes my lips. "You definitely do."
Mack draws both of our attention when he jerks his elbows up and puts his arms in L shapes. He moves them in short, rigid movements. "I'm. Hollow. Way," he says in his best robot voice. "I'm. A. Stud. But. Can't. Move. My. Feet."
Jace runs his hand over his freshly shaped cut and bites his cheek. "You guys think you're funny."
"And you think you're perfect," Mack says, stepping closer. "Which isn't the worst thing in this spot—confidence helps." He tips his hat toward me.
"Right, but this has to be as natural as breathing."
Mack smirks. "Or scratching your balls in the morning."
I look at him side-eyed as a silence falls between all of us. "You're a poet, Mack."
He winks, and I turn back to Jace. "You just need more reps."
"Alright," he says, still smiling at our coach's comment. "I guess it's time to show off my dance moves."
Mack raises a brow in my direction, then jogs backward. I stand to the side as he chops a grounder between us. Jace charges, fields it off the bounce, then rips it to first, more smoothly than he did earlier.
"Again," I say before he can open his mouth.
Our coach rolls another his way, and Jace moves with it, scooping it and sending it quickly—cleaner, crisper.
He turns back to me, one eyebrow cocked.
I look at Mack, who tilts his head, impressed. "Better," I say.
"Yeah?" Jace tosses me his usual cocky grin.
I shake my head, resisting the pull at the corners of my mouth. "I said better, not good."
"From you these past few weeks? I'll take that."
I suck my teeth, feeling every bit of the sting he didn't mean to send, knowing full well that he's right. Once it settles, I nod toward Mack to run the drill again. We repeat the motions, and Jace nails it each time. After a few more, I call it, holding my glove up for him to toss me the next one.
Mack moves back toward the dugout, and Jace uses the time to drop his glove and stretch out his neck and shoulders. "So, what's your plan for next year?" he asks as I roll the ball between my fingers.
The weight that I just got rid of—the one I can normally avoid when I'm on the field—settles again.
Fourteen years I've spent dragging my cleats across this dirt.
Baseball is what I know—hell… it's almost all I know.
I've been with the Gators since I finished school.
Besides my brother—these coaches, my team, the fans—they're the longest relationships I've ever had.
Thinking about life without baseball seems unimaginable.
Not because I didn't think it'd ever happen—we all know the game doesn't last forever—but because I feel incapable of picturing who I am besides a dad and shortstop.
It's as if half of me will fade away at the end of this season, and no matter how amazing my other role is, the hole it leaves behind seems impossible to fill.
"Not sure yet," I admit. "Just looking forward to having time again." It's not a lie—I would kill for days spent with Ruthie without my crazy schedule.
But it's fucking terrifying all the same.
I stare at the red thread running around the ball in my hand as if it might lead me to answers—tell me my future. When it doesn't, my gaze lifts to Jace again. "And not putting up with little shitheads like you."
We both smirk as he pulls his throwing arm once more across his chest before dropping it again. "You know, you should probably make a plan," he says, reaching for his glove.
The advice hits me right in the gut. "Oh, should I?" I throw the ball his way before he's ready, a little harder than necessary.
He snaps back up, catching it barehanded, his eyes connecting with mine like he knows he struck a nerve. He whips it back at me, and it hits my glove with a crack. "Yeah, I saw this TikTok about Joe Manson. You know, that retired pitcher from—"
"I know who Manson is."
His jaw clenches as his cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink.
"Right," he says. "Well, apparently, he retired thinking his fame would carry him through the rest of his life—brand deals and guest appearances, shit like that.
" He holds his glove up, asking for the ball, but I keep it, waiting for him to finish.
"Next thing you know, he's living out of his car and begging for dip at a gas station. "
"Stop, that's not true." I toss one to him, admittedly wide.
"It is," he argues, stretching for it. "I saw the video."
I roll my eyes, but I can't help but notice the faint unease in my stomach. "I think I'll be just fine."
He shrugs as the ball snaps into my glove. "I'm just saying—having a plan might not be a bad start."
I press my lips together and nod toward him. "Thanks for caring, Rook. But how about you work on your plan to fix that back foot and let me worry about my future."
Jace groans, his gaze dropping to his cleat. His head snaps back to me, and he blows out a breath and nods. "Yes, sir."
"So, where's Ruthie?"
I tear the white athletic tape with my teeth and peer up at Brooke as I secure the end to my wrist. "She's up there with my brother," I answer, nodding toward their usual seats in the stands.
"Uh huh," she says, seeming completely uninterested. "And what was wrong with Tess?"
I squeeze the roll of tape in my hand at the sound of her name, then sigh. "Brooke, can we not do this right now?"
"What are you guys talking about?" Mack chimes in. He turns to Brooke and taps her arm. "You got another question?"
I look between the two of them, confused, yet grateful he somehow managed to change the subject that quickly.
"When you were over there finishing up with Holloway, Brooke here asked the coaching staff a question for her little social medias. If we were a can on a shelf, what kind would we be?"
I make direct eye contact with Mack. "And you said a dented one, right?" I deadpan.
He slaps me upside my head, exactly like my father would have.
"No, dipshit. I said, green beans. They're reliable. Delicious. Pair well with just about everything."
He winks, and a shiver runs down my spine. "Please don't ever say anything like that ever again."
Brooke shrugs. "I thought it was spot on." She wiggles her brows and throws us a smile. "Catch you guys later."
Right when I think I've escaped the conversation, she looks over her shoulder. "Seriously, Liam. Call her."
Mack glances down at me with curiosity etched into his brow. "What was that about? Is she trying to set you up?"
"Yeah," I say. His eyes double in size before I finish my sentence. "With a nanny."
His face falls flatter as he reads the situation. "But you didn't like her?"
I exhale heavily, taking a vested interest in the roll of tape still in my hand.
"Or you did like her?" he asks, unsure.
"She was late," I say bluntly.
"Did she have a reason?"
I roll my lips in and peer up at him.
"Okay, so yes. Probably a good one too. Next problem."
"She got fired from her last job."
He tilts his head side-to-side. "Why?"
I clear my throat, tossing the tape back into the med-kit. "The family was moving."
Mack scoffs and props his foot up on the bench. "Anything else?"
"Yeah," I say with more aggression than I mean to. He waits patiently while I come up with some excuse for why I feel the way I do. When he sticks his neck out at me, waiting for a response, I pull one out of my ass. "She didn't take her shoes off at the door."
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Liam."
"What? It's common courtesy!"
"It's foofy is what it is. Just like that excuse."
My jaw tightens as I attempt to think of a retort.
"Did she seem capable?" he asks before I come up with anything.
My continued silence speaks volumes. That girl is more than capable.
"Then, enough with the bullshit. You're too old."
My eyebrows shoot up. "Real rich coming from you."
He drops his foot and plops down next to me. "You're throwing a damn tantrum because the last few haven't worked out. Don't punish a good one for their mistakes." I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off. "Or yourself. Or Ruthie, for that matter."
I lean my forearms on my thighs and let my head fall between my shoulders. "This shit's taking a toll on me, Mack."
He drops a hand on my back. "I can tell. We all can." I turn my head to meet his eyes. "You've been a little more storm cloud than sunshine lately, bud."
I groan loudly, sitting up and letting my head fall backward.
"Eh, don't be so hard on yourself. We know you well enough to know this isn't you. Just a tough few weeks."
I shake my head. "No… that's not it." That's definitely it. "It means Levi was right."
I look at him side-eyed, and we both chuckle. As our laughter fades, so does the brief reprieve that my lie just allowed.
"Cut yourself some slack," Mack says, reading my mind like he can. "It's a big year for you. And we all know that Ruthie comes first. But that's why you can't give up on trying to find someone you trust to help you guys out. You won't really be here if home isn't taken care of."
My mind immediately paints a picture of Tess, and there's an undeniable relief that floods my system at just the thought that she exists. "I know," I admit. "I will."
"Good," he says with a tip of his chin. "Do it now."
I turn my body toward him sharply. "Now?"
He stands, presses his lips together, and nods. "Now. Because if we lose to the Yellow Jackets because you're in a mood, I'm gonna put my sneaks somewhere a lot more unpleasant than your shoe mat."
"I—" My face contorts as I shake my head. "I don't even want to know."
He winks, and walks away, and once his comment settles, I'm left with an anxiousness I never feel before games. I realize it's because he's right. There's this lingering thing I need to do—a call I need to make—and until it's done, my focus won't be fully on the field.
Reluctantly doing as he says, I find my phone in my bag and pull up the last contact added to it. I roll my head before making the call, and my gaze lands on Jace as I look out toward the field. He's casually settled between second and third, and it's as if I can hear the countdown clock in my ear.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
With that in mind, I press all of my hope into the little white call button, dialing the number of the one person I think may actually be what we need.
For Ruthie's sake.
And my own.
After a few crawling seconds, the voice on the other end of the phone washes over me. "Hello?"
I hesitate for just a beat before turning away from the field. "Tess?" I ask, my eyes sinking shut. There's another moment of silence, and just when I think maybe she didn't hear me, she answers.
"Liam?"