6. Chapter 6
Ihadn’t even finished unlocking my locker when a high-pitched voice joined my thoughts. “Jake and I are going to hit, and you haven’t been at the house all week. You’re coming over.”
I pulled open the door without looking at Gavin, shoving my books in, knowing I had no homework at the end of the first week of school. “Do I even have a choice?”
“Nope,” a second voice said next to me. I looked over at Jake and sighed. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to hit; the problem was that the house had been a bit too empty all summer, and the start of school hadn’t helped like I’d hoped.
Zach had a football game to get ready for, so the three of us walked back to the Quinns’, the crisp air bouncing around us as if it couldn’t decide whether it was summer or fall.
I pulled Zach’s old hoodie tighter against me—one of the ones he’d outgrown, as his arms kept getting bigger than his sleeves. Hand-me-downs were better than nothing.
“So, Easton,” Jake said when we were a block away, “do you have a girlfriend?”
I stared straight ahead, my face burning. I could sense Gavin’s eyes on me to my right. “Not now, I don’t,” I said, my legs getting stiffer with each step.
“Why not? You’re a cool dude. I always see girls talking to you and stuff; they must think you’re hot for some reason.”
“Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“Please shut up.”
“I was only curious, man,” he said, “but anyway. Do you think if we genetically engineered my dog to be the size of a horse, it’d let me ride it?”
“That’d be so much fun!” Gavin said. “Randy the horse!”
I sighed, no longer trying to process the conversations these two had. They rambled longer, and I was thankful I didn’t have to join in.
They finally stopped the chatter when we got to the Quinns’ backyard and pulled out the bucket of balls, the two of them deferring to me once we got into baseball mode.
“Let’s start with short screen for now,” I said. “Your bat was a little slow in the fall games, Gav.”
“Yeah, I could tell,” he said as he started to stretch. We moved in silence. When I tried to rotate my shoulders to get them loose, my right one pinched, the metal between my shoulder and bicep grinding white-hot. I scrunched my face but moved quickly to cover it up.
“Are you okay?” Gavin said. Maybe I hadn’t covered up fast enough.
“I’m good.”
“You keep saying that.”
I waved him off and stepped into the cage, rolling my shoulders a bit. The dull ache was back—low and thudding—but manageable if I didn’t think too hard. So, I didn’t. We were taking a couple of months off from pitching, so the pain was somewhat tolerable.
Gavin tossed a ball to me as I widened my stance and swung.
Pain shot from the back of my shoulder down my arm for the second time. I hissed, biting down before the air skating through my teeth could turn into a more audible sound, and gripped the bat tighter to keep myself from letting go.
Gavin had seen enough. “Stop,” he said from behind the net.
“I just got started.”
“Stop,” he repeated. “You flinched on contact.”
“I didn’t flinch.”
“Yes, you did,” Jake jumped in, concern written on his face.
Gavin gave me a look, sharp and steady, like the ones Tanner used to give when I lied badly. He had turned into a Tanner replacement, spending way too much time watching everything I did. Annoying.
“You’ve been doing this for weeks,” Gavin said. “Your follow-through’s been shorter; you don’t want to pitch long distances to me. You’re hiding it.”
“It’s nothing serious. Just soreness.”
“Bullshit,” he said, and there wasn’t any bite in it—only certainty. “It’s not just sore. It’s hurting you. You’re trying to swing around it, and it’s getting worse.”
“Throw me another one.”
“No,” Gavin said, not moving, not lowering his voice. His eyes locked on mine; I tried to keep my gaze steady, but it drifted away as the lies flooded my body. “If you don’t tell my mom, I will.”
That pulled me up short. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
I turned toward him, my jaw tightening. “You’re going to snitch on me to your parents?”
“That’s not all they are. They care for you.”
“They don’t need to worry about me—”
“They already do,” he cut in. “So do I.”
I looked at him. Really looked. He was no longer just the kid who used to follow me around like a puppy, asking to take extra swings. He still basically did that, but he’d grown—just enough to be noticeable.
“Tanner says you’ve got a shot at playing after high school,” Gavin said. “Don’t screw it up because you think being in pain is cool.”
I eyed the ground for a second, toeing the dirt with my cleat. My arm throbbed in rhythm with my heartbeat.
“You gonna say anything?” he asked, backing off his tone.
I shook my head, finally exhaling. “Not yet.”
“I’ll give you until tonight.”
I reached for the cheapest deflection I had. “You and Jake always act like—” I stopped. It came out of my mouth sounding like my dad, and we both heard what I nearly said.
He huffed. “You really want to go there?”
“Right,” I said, grinning to soften the subject change I never should have made. “I don’t.”
He turned away, muttering words I couldn’t catch.
I stepped out of the cage, rolled my shoulder slowly, and walked past him toward the porch. “I’m still swinging tomorrow,” I said.
“We’ll see.”
I watched Jake throw balls to Gavin for the next ten minutes; his swing was as smooth as silk but still lacked the punch I knew he wanted.
When we sat down for dinner with the family, Gavin kept looking at me like... I didn’t know what. I was sure Jake would have had a good analogy.
We waited until after everyone was home from the game, the pizza was eaten, and the plates were cleared.
Mr. Quinn settled in his usual recliner with a newspaper folded across his chest, half-reading, half-listening to the evening news.
Mrs. Quinn was on the couch, one leg folded under her, sipping from a glass of iced tea, which was one of my favorite scents, though it was currently doing nothing to alleviate my fear.
The kitchen light was still on behind us.
It was time. I hadn’t thought it would be this hard to tell the truth.
I stood in the middle of the living room as if I was giving a class presentation I hadn’t rehearsed, my heart racing. Gavin was next to me, arms crossed, close enough to serve as a solid, silent reminder: You’re not doing this alone.
Mrs. Quinn looked up first. “Everything okay, boys?”
My throat was dry, my toes tingling, the pizza turning to brick behind my ribs. “Uh. Kind of. Can we... talk for a sec?”
She sat up straighter, concern wracking her face. “Of course.”
Mr. Quinn lowered his paper and gave me his full attention. Suddenly, the room fell too quiet. I shoved my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie—one I’d stolen from Tanner’s closet—the smell of acorns filling me, and focused on the coffee table so I wouldn’t lose my nerve.
“My shoulder’s been bothering me,” I said. “For a while.”
“How long is a while?” Mr. Quinn asked.
“A couple of weeks. Since, uh, since last spring, really.”
Mrs. Quinn’s brow knitted. “And have you seen anyone yet?”
I shook my head again.
“Easton,” she said, voice soft but serious. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
Gavin shifted beside me. “He didn’t want to be a problem,” said the gremlin, unable to stay quiet, “but I saw him flinch real bad today. He’s not okay.”
Mrs. Quinn set her glass on the table with a quiet clink. “You are not a problem.”
I finally looked at her. “It shouldn’t be a big deal. I figured it’d go away. But... it hasn’t.”
She stood. “Okay. Then we’re going to take care of it.” Just like that. Not mad. Not panicking. Just moving into action.
“I—what?”
“I’m calling Dr. Fennelly in the morning. He’s the orthopedist we took Zach to after his hip thing; he’ll point us in the right direction. I’ll get you in by the end of the week, maybe sooner.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do,” she said, stepping closer. Her voice didn’t rise, but it landed with promise. “You might not be family, but you may as well be. In this family, we don’t wait around when something’s wrong.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
She gave me that same look she used when Gavin was sick or when Zach had been limping after a game. “You need anything for tonight? Ice? Advil?”
“I took Tylenol already,” I managed.
Mr. Quinn stood, too, walked over, and put a hand on my back. “We’ll figure it out, alright? Focus on resting that arm. And absolutely no throwing until you see the doctor. That includes batting practice for Gavin.”
It was the steadiest thing I'd felt all day, and I didn't know what to do with a hand that wasn't going to hurt me. Or with the way he knew my biggest test would be Gavin asking me to throw to him.
Mrs. Quinn stepped forward and—like it was the most natural thing in the world—wrapped her arms around me. Loose enough that I could’ve pulled away, but with a warmth I didn’t want to move from. “You don’t have to hurt alone,” she said near my ear.
I nodded into her shoulder. When she let go, I wiped at my face, more out of reflex than need.
Gavin didn’t say anything. He just bumped his elbow against mine as we turned to leave the room.
I didn’t look back. For once, leaving a room didn’t feel like getting away with something.
I’m nine, and Dad and I are in the backyard, only the two of us. The sun is setting behind the fence, turning everything that dusty orange color that makes the grass look dead. Dad decides I need to learn how to catch a “real” throw, not the soft lobs he usually gives me.
He winds up like he’s pitching in the majors, and before I can even get my glove ready, the ball slams into my thigh. A sharp, mean sting lights up my leg, and I yelp before I can swallow the sound.
Dad drops his arm, sighs, and walks toward me, annoyed. “Come on, Easton,” he says. “You've gotta toughen up. Men don’t cry over little things.”
My eyes burn, and I try to blink back the tears. I hate crying in front of him. It feels like failing a test I didn’t know I was taking.
“It hurts,” I whisper, rubbing the spot. The seam of the baseball leaves a red imprint through my shorts.
“Of course it hurts,” he says. “Life hurts. Baseball hurts. Being a man hurts. You handle it anyway.” He crouches down so we are eye-to-eye. His breath smells like beer and mint gum. “This?” He taps my leg. “This is nothing. One day you’ll laugh about getting hit by a stupid ball.”
I nod, even though I don’t feel brave or tough or anything he wants me to be. My chest tightens, and I swallow hard so my voice won’t shake.
“Now get your glove up,” he says, standing back up. “You can’t play scared. If you want to be good, you learn this lesson now.”
I raise my glove even though my arm trembles. Even though I don’t want to play anymore. Even though the whole world feels too big and too loud and too important.
Dad smiles. “That’s better,” he says. “That’s being a man.”
I tell myself not to cry again. If I can do what he wants, maybe he’ll be proud. Maybe he’ll stop sounding disappointed all the time.
He throws the next one just soft enough that it doesn’t hurt, and I think maybe that means I’ve done something right.