Chapter 12
Coach Berrios clapped his hands together, the sound echoing. “Alright, get in your hitting groups! Let’s go!”
We were at an indoor facility a mile from school; it was still too cold to practice outside.
The inside had a turf infield and half a dozen cages, but the walls were too thin, and my fingertips tingled as we finished stretching.
The high school season was fast approaching, with tryouts a week away.
Not that I needed to worry about playing.
I grabbed a bat before I even realized it—habit more than intention—and stepped toward the cages, needing to swing as much as an alcoholic needed a drink.
“Easton.” Coach’s voice was gentle, which somehow made it worse. “You’re not cleared to swing yet.”
I froze mid-step. “I’m fine,” I said, even though that wasn’t technically true. The tightness in my shoulder had been creeping back into my sleep, worse than any nightmare.
“I know you are,” he said, putting a hand on my back and steering me away from the cage. “But we’re not setting you back. Can you go help with soft toss?”
Like a freaking tee-ball dad.
I didn’t argue. I walked across the turf to where Jake stood, clicking the knob of his bat against his palm. I found a bucket of balls and dumped them out, flipping the bucket so I could have a seat.
Jake swung at the first five balls, brimming with nervous energy. We’d been working on his swing for months at the Quinns’, but he couldn’t seem to stop pulling off the ball when he got excited.
“You’re doing it again, dude,” I said.
“I know, I know. I can feel it,” Jake said, shaking his head at himself. “I’m like that dumb kid that fails an open-book spelling test.”
“You’re not dumb. Just focus a bit more—work on this now so your body’s ready to crush it in games.”
“Okay, Mr. Coach,” Jake teased, but he listened.
He swung again—crack. Not perfect, but better.
“See?” I said. “You’re fine. Stop panicking.”
He smirked. “Wish you could hit. I like watching you swing.”
“Trust me, dude,” I muttered, “same.”
I spent an hour tossing balls underhand to teammates before Coach called for infielders, which meant grounders—something I was technically allowed to do, as long as I didn’t throw.
I jogged to shortstop with Zach, ignoring the twist in my stomach. Fielding was the one thing that didn’t require a shoulder able to rotate, and I needed to prove to myself I still had it—that I was still a baseball player.
After the third basemen fielded their grounders, Coach Berrios yelled at me, “Ready!”
The first ball came hot, skidding across the turf. Easy. I charged and scooped—except the ball rolled off the heel of my glove and kicked toward second base.
I heard Zach take a breath behind me. My face burned.
“Shake it off!” Coach yelled.
I reset. Next ball—another sharp hop. I moved toward it, but my glove dipped at the last second, and it ricocheted off my wrist again and onto the ground in front of me.
Two in a row. Two stupid, avoidable mistakes.
“Easton,” Coach warned, voice edged. “Relax.”
But I snapped. The frustration, the helplessness, the months of being useless—it all pressed in at once. I snatched the ball off the ground and slammed it into the turf so hard it bounced sideways and rolled across the field.
“HEY!” Coach’s voice boomed, bouncing off the metal ceiling. “What did I JUST say about not risking your shoulder?”
The whole team froze. Every eye landed on me. My breath came in sharp bursts. My fingers trembled.
“I didn’t—Coach, I wasn’t—”
“I don’t care!” he barked. “You spike a ball like that, you jerk your arm wrong, and suddenly it’s not only this season, it’s next season. You do that again before you’re cleared, and you’re done with grounders, too.”
He turned away before I answered, signaling for Zach to take my place.
The shame hit harder than a punch. Everyone avoided looking at me except Gavin, who stood next to Coach with his catcher’s glove and nodded at me, trying to tell me I was fine.
I stayed silent through the rest of practice, fielding cleanly, stepping aside to roll the ball gently to another player every single time. Each time I rolled, it felt like swallowing glass.
When Coach dismissed us, I headed straight for the gym attached to the facility. No one stopped me, but Gavin and Zach followed, taking a seat on the bench, ready to drive me home.
I climbed onto the treadmill and slammed the speed button up until the belt whirred under me. My legs burned instantly, but I hit the up arrow again and went faster. The air was too thick. My breath was too shallow. Sweat pooled at the base of my neck.
Faster.
My feet slapped the belt. My shoulder throbbed with each jolt, but still—faster.
The world narrowed to the beat of my footsteps until—
“Again.” My father’s voice is rough as gravel.
I’m fourteen, standing in our backyard, sweat dripping down my ribs. Dad is fifteen feet away—way too close—smacking grounder after grounder at me as if I am a machine.
The ball hops up and smashes into my shin. I hiss, grabbing at the sting.
“Again,” he says, hitting the next one hard enough that it shoves my hand backward after thudding into my glove.
“Dad, that—”
“Stop whining. Toughen up. You want to be a ballplayer, don’t you? Act like it.”
My arms shake. My legs hurt. My vision blurs. But he doesn’t stop. And I don’t dare ask him to.
He smacks another one at me so fast I barely see it.
“AGAIN,” he snaps.
The treadmill beeped under me, reminding me I was here—not there—but I didn’t know the difference. I ran harder, chest burning, lungs clawing for air.
Just toughen up. Just be better. Just fix it.
My foot caught the edge of the belt for half a second.
I stumbled, grabbing the rail. My breath tore out of me in a gasp.
I hit the stop button, slamming it again and again until the machine slowed to a crawl.
My legs wobbled beneath me as I stepped off, bracing myself against the wall. The world tilted.
The piece of metal was back in my arm, crunching and spinning; softer than before rehab, but still there.
I pressed my forehead to the cool painted cinder block, squeezing my eyes shut. I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or break something. Or all three. Instead, I bit the inside of my mouth. Blood seeped onto my tongue.
I told myself—lied to myself—that tomorrow would be easier. That I’d be better. That I’d make myself tough enough.