Chapter 12
Liam
"Mine! Mine!"
Jace calls the ball almost immediately after the batter pops one high—too early considering the wind we've been playing against all night.
I back off, hesitantly at first, knowing if that breeze catches it even slightly, he'll be off.
It's the bottom of the ninth, and we're only up by one—if there was ever a time to test his judgement, this is it.
The ball descends, dipping at the last second, and Jace adjusts—too late.
He slaps his glove closed, leather smacking leather just before the ball hits the ground in a dull, ugly thud.
The collective groan coming from the crowd only makes the duet of sounds worse as Holloway curses under his breath.
He scoops it, sending it to Ivan Ruiz just as the runner passes over the plate.
"Not yours," I deadpan, waiting to see how he'll react to the error.
We've played plenty of games together so far this season, but each one seems to come with a different version of him.
A different attitude toward the game depending on the stakes—all part of the learning curve.
And a different test I'm willing to give in order to figure out what he still needs to work on.
"It should have been," he says, dropping his hands to his hips.
I prepare my next comeback—sure looked like it to me or tell that to Ruiz. But Jace's jaw ticks, and I decide against either. "Listen, it happens."
"Yeah, I know that," he snaps. My eyebrows shoot up as I look at him blankly. He glances over, reading my expression. "Sorry."
I slouch my shoulders, walking a few steps toward him as the stadium speakers blast the next batter's song. "Hey, it’s fine. We’re still up. Maybe just stop trying to impress the stands all of a sudden."
"I’m not—"
"Rook, that ball was still in the clouds when you called it… loud enough that they heard it in concessions."
He shoots me a glare before I see in his eyes that something clicks. His face falls softly. "Next one's mine then," he says, his lips turning upward.
"Yeah." I chuckle. "Just make sure the ball agrees this time. We're dancing, remember?"
Jace shakes his head as Clay Mitchell makes his way back to the mound. The sound fades, the crowd around us dimming with it. I inhale deeply, dropping lower on the exhale.
This is all second-nature—muscle-memory.
A rhythm ingrained in me like my own DNA.
I sweep the field already knowing there's one runner on base, then look at the batter.
I study him, reading his hands and the way his weight's shifted.
Predicting where the ball will go, I adjust my feet, pointing my body in the same direction.
Next is the pitcher. Mitchell's rhythm is simple, at least for me.
I've studied it—memorized it. His planted foot, a heavy breath that I always catch myself making with him.
It's like taking Ruthie to the doctor and breathing when they tell her to—there's no stethoscope on my back, but I mimic her all the same.
Then, there's his slow, deliberate stretch and stride.
The one that pauses time—where there's nothing but silence and the steady boom boom of my anticipation.
Finally, comes the quick, you'd-miss-it-if-you-weren't-looking-for-it micro-hesitation that turns the world back on.
That signals the drop that comes next—smooth, balanced.
Go time.
Mitchell sends a fastball toward home, and the batter thinks about it, but lets it pass. Diego Garcia, our catcher, smacks his glove shut, the crisp snap resetting us all and signaling the restarting of the whole routine.
It never gets old—running through the motions—because in reality, they're never the same.
Each batter is different, every pitcher.
One man on, two, bases loaded—they're all unique.
I think that's something I'll miss the most after this.
There's not much about this job that's predictable.
Monotonous. Boring. And I don't know what comes next, but I can't imagine it causes my heart to race in the way this game does.
That it keeps me sharp and young like I need to be on the field.
That it knows me like only this dirt—every misread, missed play, muffed catch. Every single mistake.
And still loves me anyway.
Mitchell throws another pitch, and this time the batter swings. He hits the ball high over our heads and into the outfield. Vasquez claims it, holding his open glove to the sky. "I got it!"
I jog toward him a few steps, mostly just to keep moving, and so does Jace. The ball drops, sinking right into his glove, and I whistle toward him. The crowd cheers as he throws the ball to Holloway. He sends it back to Mitchell, and I hold two fingers up to my outfield—one more out to go.
I glance over at Jace, chomping at the bit. He's eager—to make a play and make up for his last mistake—and that's a good thing. He should always be ready. But not at the expense of the game. Not to be the hero.
"You got a man comin'," I remind him, looking at our hungry opponent on first.
He nods.
"And I know Simpson. It's coming right toward you."
Jace shifts his feet, smacking his hand into his glove.
"Rook," I warn.
His eyes dart to mine. "I know, Two-Three," is all he says.
I suck my teeth, turning my attention back to the mound.
I have to trust him.
He has to learn to trust himself.
Don't be stupid, Holloway.
Mitchell looks at the batter, then glances back toward me.
Received.
I tip my chin up to him, already positioned closer to second, and he plants his back foot, my vision tunneling as he lifts his left leg.
He fires the pitch, a two-steamer right down the middle—Simpson's favorite pitch. The one he swings at every time. The one that always sends the ball to the exact same place.
"Me," I say sternly, not waiting for Jace to make a call—not needing him to.
Simpson connects with the ball, chopping it straight to the hole. I take off, taking each long stride like it's my last, spotting Holloway make his way toward the plate from the corner of my eye.
One.
Two.
Three steps, and I'm almost there.
The ball is close enough not to waste time on another one, but dips low enough that I need that space to slow my momentum and stay on my feet.
Instead of choosing, I split the difference, sliding to it and dragging my back foot behind me.
I snag the ball, my body bouncing off one leg as I toss it blindly backhand to Jace at second.
I know from the way the crowd erupts that he catches it, but I'm able to pivot in time to see him tag the base and snap it to first.
Double play.
Third out.
Game over.
We all move toward the dugout, nodding toward each other and slapping backs.
"I thought you said we shouldn't call it too early," Holloway says, jogging beside me.
I shake my head. "I said you shouldn't."
He chuffs, slowing as we get to home plate. "What's the difference?"
I pause at the dugout steps, fist bumping Mack who's standing there with his hand out toward me and a grin on his face, eavesdropping as he always does. "Yeah, Liam, what's the difference?"
I smile, smothering my laugh. Looking back at Holloway, I shrug. "About fifteen years."
"Dad, that behind the back toss to Jace was sick."
Laughing, I prop my phone up on the shelf of my locker. "You like that? See, your dad's still got it."
Ruthie rolls her eyes, her hands in something I can't see. There's the squeak of thin plastic, then she shoves something in her mouth. "What is tha—"
"Excuse me."
Tess's voice streams through the speaker and my fingers involuntarily freeze around the top button of my jersey.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Ruthie's eyes double in size and dart above the camera. She pauses mid-chew like she's been caught red-handed. "I, uh…"
"Seriously? I mean, come on…" Tess says from nearby, her voice sterner than I've heard it before. I still can't see her, but I can't quite make out Ruthie's expression either as she turns her head, presumably following Tess's movement.
My guard instantly shoots up, the plastic between my thumb and forefinger now clenched as tightly as I can manage considering its size. I step closer to the phone, ready to go to war for my little girl over whatever it is she seems to have done. Then, Tessa speaks again, her voice closer this time.
"If you're going to eat your dad's dessert, at least split it with me."
Ruthie snorts out a laugh, looking at the camera with a guilty expression.
I part my lips to ask her what the hell is going on, when Tess comes into the frame.
Well, she doesn't—at least not all of her.
But her body from the shoulders down comes into view as she hip-bumps Ruthie, the end of her braid swinging behind her.
"What? I thought you were full," Ruthie mumbles through her chewing.
"You're the only one full around here—full of bologna if you think I'm not stealing a bite of that thing now that it's opened."
Ruthie giggles as Tessa reaches in front of her, but I stop caring about what they're joking over, my eyes managing to find the sliver of skin between Tessa's jeans and her shirt as she turns to walk away.
"Still so good," she moans, her voice somewhat… seductive?
It continues to surprise me—when I actually notice a woman.
But I'm getting pretty used to noticing her.
Of course, I know a pretty face when I see one.
A nice body or straight white smile is hard to miss.
But I've never had much trouble quickly moving past it—a young daughter will help with that in more ways than one.
She's my priority, and even tempting myself with attraction would only lead to time taken away from her.
But she's also my heart—and my baby—and imagining anyone looking at her like that kills me.
Still, Tessa's been hard to shake since the first moment I saw her.
"Dad, I haven't been to a game all week," Ruthie complains, bringing me back to the moment. She licks her finger of whatever they were fake-fighting over, and I go back to unbuttoning my jersey.
"You had soccer," I say curtly.
"Just that one night."
"Yeah, well…" I undo one button, my mind racing back to the one I saw on Tess's jeans. "Other days you had school, and today you had art therapy with Nellie."
She stares at me blankly. "Like I do every week."
I focus on the task at hand, finally opening my jersey, buying myself time to find my next excuse. "I just wanted Tessa to get settled," I eventually say, allowing the sleeves to fall down my arms. "And for you guys to get into a good routine before she started bringing you to games."
Ruthie plops onto the stool she's been standing next to at the island and takes the phone into her hand. "Okay, well, we're good now. Right, Tess?"
She flips the phone around as I step out of my uniform pants, the camera wonky and tilted, a blur of kitchen taking up the picture. I find myself searching for whatever—whoever—she may be pointing the camera at, when Tess comes into view, her arms outstretched as she grabs the device.
She settles the phone, her eyes raking over what must be my image on the screen. Suddenly, I'm very aware of my sweaty, dark green Gators compression shirt and shorts. They cling to my every peak and valley, and judging by how hard she swallows—her eyes traveling from top to bottom—Tessa is too.
"Yeah, we're good."
"Great," I say simply, frozen in place.
She forces a smile and lifts one shoulder. "Great," she repeats.
The next thing I know, the phone is flying back toward Ruthie, who must have pulled it from Tess's hand. "Great." She raises her brows and looks at me expectantly. "So, does that mean I can travel with you this weekend?"
I picture what that'd look like—either Ruthie bouncing around from person to person who should technically be working or…
Tessa coming with us. My shirt suddenly feels even tighter as I question why the first would happen if I have the second option and why that choice scares the hell out of me.
Nellie came with us on a dozen different trips, and I never blinked an eye about that.
"Come on, Dad. I miss the guys and Uncle Mack. And Tessa wouldn't mind, would you, Tess?"
The silence on the other end of the phone is deafening as I wait, half of me wanting her to say yes because it's her job—plus it's what Ruthie wants—and the other half needing her to say no.
"Of course not," I hear, and all of a sudden, that back-handed toss feels simpler than finishing this conversation.
"We'll see," I say quickly. "Roo, I'll see you at home."
"But Dad—"
"I love you," I sing cheerfully.
She exhales as I hold my breath. "Yeah, yeah," she groans. "Love you too."