Mom Ball, page 20
In my estimation, I have about two minutes before the bathroom barracuda either slings a drink at me or keys my truck. I pull a hundred from my wallet and slap it on the table. Then I pick up my plate and head for the door. A hundred dollars should more than cover the cost of that plate.
I hurry outside and climb in my truck. Only when I’m safely at a red light about a mile away do I relax and stuff a few fries in my face.
I have somewhat of a reputation for stealing plates both on and off the field. But it’s always for a good reason.
The light turns and I drive toward my condo. Nine years ago, I left Pool Pub in Atlanta with a half-eaten burger on a plate. Back then, it was a huge sacrifice to leave a twenty, and my truck barely made it to Tuscaloosa.
This time feels eerily familiar, except I comfortably left a hundred, I’m in a nice ride, and I’m going to my luxury condo by the beach. That should make it better, but it doesn’t.
Nine years ago, I was on my way to see Brooke.
It would be the last time I saw her in person before our breakup, but I had no clue. Still, I don’t regret going.
I’d follow Brooke to the ends of the Earth as long as she wants me. Good thing she’s in Apple Cart, which isn’t too far from me.
It’s also much quieter, and I can live a normal life. To everyone there, I’m Nate Miller, or Anne’s son. And the only autograph I’ve signed for anyone over fifteen was on a Chipper Jones jersey.
I arrive at the Florida condo, aggravated I’m not in Apple Cart. I should be thankful I’m able to join spring training, but I miss Brooke.
My burger and fries are reduced to crumbs. After I park in the deck, I open my door and shake them from the plate. I may as well take this plate inside. I did pay for it.
Round, white, and heavy, it’s the same kind of plate I ran out with years before. Funny how things change and stay the same all at once.
The blankness of it makes me miss Brooke even more. Many nights I’d stare at the words she scribbled on the original plate with a permanent marker. She’d kissed beside the message, leaving a red lip stain.
Over the years, the lipstick faded, and I found myself doing all I could to preserve the plate best I could.
Whenever I moved my stuff, I’d pack it separately and carry it myself. If it ever broke, I imagine I’d try to glue it back together.
On some level, that’s what I’m trying to do with our relationship. Except this time I want the glue to be extra strong. Not like when we were young and let busyness and distance keep us apart.
It’s close to ten when I unlock my front door. Brooke may be in bed, so I settle for sending her a message instead of calling. She sounded tired earlier, which I assume is common for someone who works at a hospital all week, then takes a bunch of kids to the Moonshine County ballpark.
I set the plate on my kitchen counter and shoot her a text.
Wanted to say I love you one more time.
I hit Send and go to my room for a shower. When I return, the text remains unread. Knowing my luck, Timothy will read it in the morning.
That’s fine. I have no reason to hide my love for his mother. And if he thinks that text includes him, all the better. The little guy has grown on me.
I open the sliding door to my balcony and step outside. The air is sticky, but the cool tile under my bare feet makes up for it. I pull a patio chair to the railing and prop up my feet.
They’re terribly ugly. Big and blistered, with a crooked toe from an old sprain. Brooke’s feet were always so dainty and small, and she kept her toenails pink or red. Everything about her is equally adorable and gorgeous. I wish she were here.
I lean back into the cushioned chair and crane my neck and look at the stars. A habit I’ve formed since being back in Apple Cart. In Atlanta, I have to settle for a barely visible moon among city lights.
Lots of people go into the Georgia mountains to camp and hike on the weekends. I never understood why until I’d lived in Atlanta a while. They want an escape from the noise and the constant movement of things.
Buying the Apple Cart mansion was my way of escaping. Or so I thought. But after reuniting with Brooke, I believe we could be happy anywhere.
I sigh and mentally play out scenarios if my arm doesn’t live up to expectations.
If that happens and I choose not to retire, there’s a good chance the Braves might trade me. There’s also a chance they could send me back to the minors. That would mean less of a chance at bouncing back to my current status.
What would Brooke think of that?
Would she be willing to uproot her life—and Timothy’s—for something less stable? Even if she were, would I let her?
Like Timothy, I never had a father in my life. Also like Timothy, I grew up in a great community with an awesome mom and plenty of people who had my best interest in mind.
Worst case scenario, Brooke leaves me again. If that happens, I still want to do all I can to encourage Timothy’s love of ball. That kid has some raw talent.
A slight breeze cuts the muggy air and makes me yawn. Ace is probably catching his second wind, but I’m ready to wind down. Maybe I am an old man at twenty-seven.
I retreat through the glass door and lock it behind me. When I check my phone, I see a text from Brooke.
I love you too. Good night.
She follows that with a kissing, winking smiley face. I grin at the message while I brush my teeth. Again, she has me acting like a teenage girl.
Maybe this is karma for me laughing about how ridiculous some of the girls at our high school used to act.
Whether karma or my own weirdness, it doesn’t much matter. I fall asleep quickly with a stupid grin plastered across my face. Even better, I dream of Brooke.
CHAPTER 23
Nate
Every time my phone makes a sound, I jerk my head to check if it’s Brooke. Ninety percent of the time, it’s reminder dings or some telemarketer.
We talk every day, but with our odd schedules, never at a set time. Monday night she worked late, Tuesday night Timothy had practice, and Wednesday night they went to church.
I’ve been working out and meeting with people at random times. I pitch a little here and there, and I eat lunch with some of the team every day.
Maybe if I ate lunch with Ace every day, he’d quit trying to get me to go out at night. I didn’t care for it back in the day, and I really don’t care for it now. He’s one of those loyal and fun friends, but our commonalities pretty much end with baseball and burgers.
I’m back in Atlanta to check in with the doctor one more time before I pitch a spring training game. After my appointment, I headed for the interstate. I’ve been packed all morning so I wouldn’t waste any time going back to the Atlanta condo. The only stop I made was at Buc-ee’s for gas and a bathroom break. Naturally, I left with a massive fountain drink and Beaver Nuggets. That’s a necessity.
Now the Beaver Nuggets are long gone and I’m speeding through downtown Apple Cart.
A siren bleeps behind me. I glance in the mirror and see blue lights. Freakin’ Bradley Manning.
I roll my eyes and pull over. He’s cocky to a fault, which means I can’t act mad. That will send him on a power trip and he will assert authority. I roll down my window and wait for him to reach my truck.
It’s hard to read his face with those Top Gun glasses. He frowns. “Nate, why were you driving so fast? If a deer ran out of the woods, you could’ve wrecked badly. God forbid a log truck enter the road.”
I swallow the urge to insist turkey would be more common this time of year, and that loggers post signs where they’re working.
“I’m sorry, Bradley. I’ve been in Florida and flew into Atlanta earlier, so I’m ready to get home.”
An unexpected grin crawls across his face. He laughs a little, then smiles wider. I blink, worried what this might mean.
“So you’re calling Apple Cart home again?”
“I always have.”
He scribbles something on a paper and pushes it through the window. “Welcome home, big dog. I let you off with a warning.” He straightens his sunglasses and points at my face. “From now on, let’s channel all that speed into pitching.”
“Yes, sir.” I wait until he turns away before rolling up my window and crawling back onto the road.
I near my house soon enough, but I pass it and go toward Brooke’s. Timothy spots my truck and waves wildly.
He meets me when I park at the edge of his grandparents’ house. I wave back, then glance at Brooke’s house.
“Hey, Nate!” He hugs my waist.
“Hey, buddy, good to see you.” I hug him and pat his back.
It’s nice to get such a welcome greeting. We pull away, and he tells me what I’m about to ask. “Mama is at work. Granny picked me up from school.”
“Okay. How is ball going?”
He shrugs. “We’re getting better. I could use a little work on my short hop though, especially when Coach Morgan has us roll the ball.”
“What do you mean roll the ball?” I raise my brow skeptically.
“That’s how we beat the team that fielded better.”
I shake my head. “Winning is good, Timothy, but learning to play the game correctly is more important.”
He nods slowly, as if mulling it over before agreeing.
“Why don’t you get your glove and we’ll work on the short hop.” I point to him. “Not for rolling the ball, but for true grounders.”
He smiles and nods bigger this time, then disappears into their house. I lean one arm against the door of my truck and sigh. Between the flight and appointment, then driving like a maniac to get here, I’ve barely had a minute to catch my breath.
Timothy returns with a ball and the mitt I gave him. I grab a glove from my toolbox.
“Take a few steps back.” I motion where I want him in the yard.
I throw some balls and comment on his form, letting him know what he’s doing right and what can improve.
“Have you practiced this any since I left?”
“Some high school softball girls helped us on the T-ball field. One of them played first and showed me some stuff. I throw a ball against the barn and catch it sometimes too.”
I grin at the memory of throwing the ball for myself as a kid. At least Timothy has the broad side of a barn to work with. I would toss the ball on the roof of our mobile home and let it roll off. More than once, I had to admit to Mom that’s why her wind chimes got so tangled.
“You’re doing good.”
“Thanks.” He stands a littler straighter after my compliment.
Brooke’s car pulls beside us and slows. She sticks her head out the window. “This is a nice surprise.” She continues into the garage.
I toss Timothy the ball and signal him to hold it, then follow her car. By the time she opens her door, I’m standing beside it.
She gets out and smiles widely. I grab her face and kiss her gently for a second, then hug her close. Her hospital scrubs give off a stench of cleaning supplies and rubber. But her hair still has the usual floral, springy scent I find intoxicating. I lean back and smile down at her.
“I didn’t expect you to come out here.”
I shrug. “I convinced the team to let me have a couple days off after my appointment.”
“Have you seen your mom yet?”
“Nope. You were my first stop.” I tap her tiny nose with my fingertip, then step back for her to shut the car door.
“I have some chicken and rice in the Crockpot if you want to stay and eat.”
“I do.” My nerves flare when I hear those words come from my mouth. It probably would’ve made more sense to say “sure” or “thanks.” Even a head nod would’ve worked. But I’ve spent four hours alone in my truck today, daydreaming about what life married to Brooke might look like.
Luckily, she didn’t sense the weirdness in my word choice. She yells for Timothy to come inside, and he meets us in the living room.
Brooke’s carriage house has a homey feel not yet present in my mansion. She has pictures and Bible verses hanging on the wall. Cookie-smelling candles stay lit on the mantel and kitchen counter whenever she’s home. And she has actual curtains and throw pillows.
I used to think of those as women things, but they’re starting to grow on me. I’d never admit that to anyone and risk lowering my masculinity. But living in an actual house, especially one the size I own, is different from a sleek city condo. A little coziness could make it more comfortable.
Brooke sets her purse on the couch and heads toward the tiny kitchen.
“Do you need any help?” I ask.
“No, all I have to do is slice the chicken and put everything on our plates.”
“I can fix drinks.” I follow her.
I’m not wired to sit and have people wait on me, even if I am a guest. That’s one thing Ace never understood. He’d tell me to relax whenever we were at an event. I’d go refill my own drinks and throw away my empty plates instead of leaving them on the table.
He’d argue we were major leaguers and didn’t have to do that anymore. In my mind, what you do for a job and how much money you make has nothing to do with how you act.
I pour everyone a glass of sweet tea while Brooke fixes bowls of rice and chicken.
“Timothy was catching good today.”
“I know he was happy to see you too. When did you get in?”
“Maybe thirty minutes before you. Not long.”
My mouth goes dry as I watch Brooke carry our plates to the table. From the mundane conversation about our day to eating dinner together, I get a glimpse of what being married to her might be like.
And it’s wonderful.
The only problem is I have a whole team celebrating the recovery of my arm. I’m an actual contender for pitching Opening Day. That might complicate things if I were to elope.
“What time do y’all practice tomorrow?” I ask, after deflating my own daydream with reality.
“Seven.” Brooke sets forks by everyone’s bowls, and I pass out teas. “Timothy, you want to pray?”
Timothy bows his head and thanks God for the food, baseball, and me coming to eat with them. My heart inflates like I’m the Grinch catching on to Christmas. He’s one special boy, and I’m honored he thinks so highly of me.
“Y’all start at seven?” I ask as we eat.
“Yeah, Morgan wanted to hold out for a bigger field. It was either that or the T-ball field again. We couldn’t do it right after school since most of us work.” She drinks some tea, then adds, “More like all of us work except Tami.”
I shove a forkful of chicken and rice in my mouth and try not to imagine how Tami fills her day.
“Why don’t y’all come to my place around five-thirty when everyone gets home. That way you can be done before seven, and you and I can have that date in Tuscaloosa.”
Her closed lips curve into a faint smile as she chews.
“Mama, that sounds like a good deal for all of us,” Timothy says.
We both laugh.
“It really does,” Brooke agrees. “Sold!”
Brooke
Cars line the edge of Nate’s yard as everyone arrives for practice. I watch Tami hoist her youngest on her hip and tiptoe down the hill in her heels. This time they’re covered in black leather instead of baseball leather. She wobbles a little with the baby, and I stand in case I need to run and try to catch her.
After a few close calls, they make it to flat ground and the baby coos happily. I sigh with relief. That will be one resilient child. Good thing she didn’t bring her to the game in Moonshine County.
Half the kids are in their own little world, and the other half crowd Nate, asking about the Braves. Morgan walks up to the group and lets out a whistle so loud that Nate plugs a finger in his ear.
The remaining kids come running, and chatting parents pay attention. Morgan turns to Nate with a face that silently says, You. Are. Welcome.
I swear, she would’ve made a great teacher. Or prison guard.
Nate slaps his hands together and scans the group, who now have their full attention on him.
“It’s good to be back with y’all. Coach Morgan and I had a talk, and I’ve come up with some things to help with what each player needs to work on.”
Morgan nods as she paces behind Nate with her hands laced behind her back. She’s totally giving me prison guard vibes.
“As usual when we practice here, I have some stations. When you’re at my station, we’ll work on what I think will help you most.” Nate points across the field. “Fly balls will be over there with the dads.”
Easton, Carlton, and Jim wave. I narrow my eyes to make sure I’m not seeing things. Nope. Jim is wearing a hard hat, and he doesn’t work at the mines. He’s a military recruiter. I hope the hat is in relation to recruiting for the army and not because he’s that cautious of fly balls.
Although, that would explain why his son ducks at anything flying overhead and why he wears a Harry Potter cape. Maybe I should suggest Reece join the homeschool co-op in Wisteria when our season ends. Some more outside influences besides his parents might do the boy good.
“Miss Brooke and Miss Aniston will help inside with the tee.” Nate hooks a thumb toward the building behind us. “Coach Morgan and Ethan will help toss grounders.” He emphasizes the word “toss” and gives Morgan a look.
She looks like a kid with her hand caught in the cookie jar. He’d mentioned last night he needed to talk to her about rolling the ball on purpose. I join Aniston across the yard and try not to laugh. Very few people attempt to correct Morgan, and even fewer people earn her allegiance to their ideas.
“Okay. You two go inside to Brooke and Aniston.” Nate taps Timothy and Carter on the arm. “I want Jack, Charlie, and Herrington with Morgan first.” They go to her. “Reece, you’ll start inside with me.” Nate tosses a ball back and forth in his hand. “The rest of you start with the Village People.”
