Mom Ball, page 9
Georgia hurries that way, and Morgan takes her time coming to us. “Practice ended better than expected. I can take Timothy with me to your mama’s house if you want.”
“If it’s over, I’ll be heading home too.”
“I volunteered you to help Nate pick up and lock up.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She lifts her hands. “Thank him. It was either you or Maribelle, and I think he’s a little worried about leaving Charlie with free range to pee on his blueberry bushes.” She rolls her eyes. “Not that mine are much more civilized, but that kid’s like a puppy with an overactive bladder.”
“Sure, you can take Timothy. Tell him to shower at Granny’s to save time.”
She salutes me, then pauses her hand midair when she notices the check. “Dang, girl. This is better than child support! I would’ve sold my kid’s name for this many zeros.”
Aniston laughs. “Better pocket that before it gets out of hand, Brooke.”
I fold the check in my back pocket. “I’ll start cleaning up and be home as soon as possible.”
“No rush.” Morgan smiles and walks toward the door with Aniston. Georgia meets them with a clipboard in hand.
I straighten up the equipment we used tonight and collect empty water and Gatorade bottles. I’m pouring half-drank Prime down the sink when Nate comes in holding his shoulder. He grits his teeth and rotates his arm a few times, then stops when he notices me.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure? Because you always made that same face when your arm hurt.”
He sits at the bar and sighs.
“Ice?”
He nods. “Don’t say anything. Only Mom and people to do with the team know I’m in pain.”
“Like constantly?”
He wavers his head. “I injured my shoulder last season and had surgery over the holidays.”
I blink. There’s a box of Ziploc bags conveniently beside the ice maker. I can’t help but think he’s iced it recently.
He nods. “I’m technically on injured leave now. That’s why I’m here instead of Florida for spring training.”
I finish filling a bag with ice and stand beside him. My hand draws to his shoulder like a magnet. I curve the bag to fit around his upper back and shoulder blade. He sighs, then leans his head back.
Due to our height difference, his face is incredibly close to mine. Like I can smell his orange gum distance.
I flinch, causing the bag to slide. I lean to center it on his shoulder, putting our faces even closer.
His breath is warm and slow and calculated. I count the seconds between each exhale until it all becomes too much. After a few breaths, he turns his head ever so slightly so that nothing more than Georgia’s napkin could slide between us.
I’m convinced he’s going to kiss me.
I want him to kiss me, but he can’t. Not now, not yet. There’s so much unspoken between us. So much tension hanging that I need to fill with real words, not nonverbal communication.
My lips part, but only for words. “I should go home and get Timothy ready for bed.”
He bites his bottom lip and sits up straighter on the bar stool. Then he puts his hand on the ice pack next to mine. It’s warm, and the contrast between his hand and the ice sends shivers down my spine.
I let go and take a step back. “See you later.”
“Yeah.” His voice is husky.
Maybe it’s the pain he’s in, or something more. I don’t stay to find out. I hurry toward my car without looking back. If I so much as stare at Nate one more second, I’ll close the gap on the last nine years.
Not tonight.
It’s our first game. Okay, technically practice game, but I’m still just as nervous. I pull up to the field and take a deep breath.
Morgan turns in on two wheels and comes to a screeching halt beside me. She hops out and tosses a handful of Cheetos in her mouth. I watch her jerk open the back van door and several baseballs tumble out.
All four of her kids follow, the last being Sofia. She’s the most dramatic, rolling her eyes so far that I can’t see the pupils.
“Go on, don’t get hurt,” Morgan instructs them as Timothy and I exit our car. “Boys, take this stuff to the cages.”
She opens the back of the van and a bat rolls to the ground. Ethan and Andrew unload a wagon and a bucket of balls. Then Ethan collects the balls from the ground and adds to the bucket. Morgan licks Cheetos crust from her thumb and smiles at me. “First practice game. Pretty exciting, huh?”
I shake my head.
“Yeah!” Timothy pumps his fist high.
“That’s what I’m talking about.” Morgan high-fives him. “Now scoot to the cages.” She pats his behind.
“Is it normal to be this nervous?” I ball my hands in fists.
Morgan crunches more Cheetos and shrugs. “I mean, this is your kid’s first game ever. Ethan had a game last night, and my oldest two have played ball for years.” She holds up the bag and pours crumbs in her mouth. Then she stares at me while chewing the last bite. “Give it time. You won’t care after a few years.”
I raise an eyebrow. I’m not sure this is the attitude a coach needs to have. Regardless, I follow her to the batting cages. All the kids except for Tami’s daughters are there, and Ethan is helping them hit off a tee.
Morgan enters from the other side and calls Reece to her. “Come on, I need to practice pitching.” She winds up her arm and pops her neck.
I turn to Aniston and Easton standing beside me. “Maybe you should pitch to them, Easton.”
He laughs. “I’m afraid it might look like I’m casting a fishing rod.”
I sigh.
“It will be fine.” Aniston glances around at the parents and smirks. “Morgan’s got to be better than most of these dads.”
I follow her gaze to Georgia’s husband, Carlton. He’s wearing a sweater vest and organizing Herrington’s equipment in the golf bag.
“Ethan can’t pitch?”
“According to Bubba and his blasted rule book, it has to be an actual parent or guardian,” Aniston tells me.
I nod.
“Trust me, I checked,” she adds in a whisper.
Every kid goes through a round with Ethan on the tee, then Morgan pitching. Except for Angel and Precious, who show up as we’re finishing.
Tami looks confused. “I thought this game started at ten.”
“Remember we posted to come thirty minutes early to warm up?” I remind her.
“I thought that was optional,” she answers.
I shake my head.
“My bad. I was up, but making new content.”
Easton’s eyes widen at the word “content.” I’m certain he’s remembering the time she came in with a sprained ankle from shooting one of her TikToks. For some reason, she hung herself over a mailbox and her heel caught on the curve when she tried to get down. She fell in the ditch and couldn’t walk. Someone handing out church tracts door to door found her an hour later and gave her a ride to the emergency room.
Ethan exits the net with the balls, and Morgan follows. “All right, to the field!” She points like a pirate discovering an island.
I fall in line behind Herrington’s family and notice that the golf bag is monogrammed with the number sixteen. Georgia is wearing #16 earrings too.
They really must love that number.
“Hey, Morgan, I flipped earlier, and y’all got the visitors’ side,” Jeffrey quips.
“You flipped without me?” She narrows her eyes at him.
“I would say we could flip again . . .” He nods toward the home dugout, which is about eighty times nicer than the visitors’. “But all my boys have already settled in.”
“Have they now?” Morgan pulls a scorebook from her bag. “Easton and Aniston, I trust the two of you are smart enough to figure this out.”
“I can do you one better.” Easton lifts his phone to his chest. “I downloaded GameChanger.”
Morgan snorts. “Good luck with that in this dead-zone service area.”
He taps his phone and frowns when the app spins. Aniston takes the book and pencil from Morgan and gives her a closed-lip smile.
“Brooke, I need you on first base. We can’t steal bases or anything cool like that at this age, so your only job is to make sure they run through the bag.”
“Got it.” But do I? The only baseball I ever paid attention to was Nate’s games starting in late middle school. I literally remember nothing from my brothers playing other than candy from the concession stand.
“Maribelle, you can keep the batting order.” Morgan pats her pockets and comes up short. After glancing around the ground, she reaches in her shirt and pulls out a slip of paper. “My bad. Forgot I stuck it in Grandma’s secret pouch.” She winks.
Maribelle pinches the edge of the paper with her index finger and thumb like she’s holding a snotty tissue. She winces and takes it to the dugout.
“Let’s get our bats, boys,” Morgan says.
I give Aniston a silent plea for help. She rubs my back. “You got this. Remember, they run through the bag.”
I nod, then head to my post on first base. Jeffrey’s entourage of coaches stares at me from their ivory tower. It has a concrete floor and little shiny hooks to hold their bags. We get dirt and a wooden bench that’s seen its better days.
Morgan adjusts a cap on her head and pulls her hair through the back. She gets in some kind of squatty stance and smiles at Jack. I don’t even try and understand her process with the batting order, since Jack is a loose cannon.
Somehow the stars align and God smiles on us, because Jack hits the first ball she throws. I watch him like a hawk as he barrels toward my base.
Unfortunately, Jeffrey’s team scoops the ball and gets it to the first baseman way before Jack. He’s out.
Carter is up next and watches every ball. He mopes off the field, dragging his bat.
Poor kid is probably shell-shocked since he hasn’t played a game without his parents. I study the snakelike pattern in the dirt where his bat left a mark and take a deep breath. Aniston comforts him in the dugout.
Timothy is up next. I choke back a tear and pray he does okay. He swings and misses, then stands and watches three balls.
Morgan holds the ball up. “Timothy this is the fifth pitch. You have to swing.”
He nods. I close my eyes.
A ding rings out, and my eyes pop open. The ball is about two feet from the plate, but it’s legal.
“Run, Timothy!” Morgan yells at the top of her lungs.
He takes off toward me and slides into first. The umpire calls him safe. Morgan slaps her hand on her head and calls time.
She hurries to first base. “Timothy, please don’t slide at first again. Run through the bag. ’Kay?”
He nods and she pats his head.
After Morgan returns to the pitching circle, I smile at him. “Thanks for keeping us alive,” I whisper.
He grins.
Andrew comes up fourth. His pants are already dirty and both shoes are untied. But neither he nor Morgan seem to mind.
She throws two pitches and he stares at her. She grits her teeth and makes a stern face. He straightens and holds his bat higher.
On the third ball, he swings for the fences. Our dugout and bleachers go crazy. I push Timothy toward second base. “Stop watching the ball, son, and run!”
Carlton is at third base scrolling his phone. He looks up at the excitement and motions for Timothy to keep running. He does keep running—just not fast enough. He falls somewhere between second and third base and Andrew blows past him. How my kid managed to fall instead of the one with untied shoes makes no sense. Maybe it was nerves.
Morgan screams at Andrew to slow down, and everyone else screams at Timothy to get up.
Jeffrey’s team fields the ball toward the infield. The second baseman catches it as Timothy hits third base. Andrew jumps on home and everyone cheers.
The ump calls him out. “Passed runner, run doesn’t count,” he declares from the plate.
Morgan grabs Andrew by the ear and pulls him toward the dugout, giving him an earful while she’s at it.
Jeffrey walks smugly to the pitcher’s mound as his team jogs off the field in triumph.
It’s going to be a loooong game.
CHAPTER 11
Nate
It’s déjà vu when Shelby hooks the sticky wires to my arm. I lean back, pleased that it doesn’t hurt as much as last time.
Dr. Trenton will be happy to know I haven’t so much as touched a piece of furniture except to open a drawer for clothes.
Seriously. Since the house is five times the size of my Atlanta condo, I hired Mom to clean it. She protested at first, then agreed to take payment if I let her cook for me anytime she wanted.
Best deal I’ve ever made. Maybe one day I’ll convince her to try my oven.
“Hey, Shelby, I’m going to lunch at twelve,” another PT assistant says.
“Okay, thanks.” Shelby smiles at her, then finishes adjusting my machine.
Twelve.
If it’s close to twelve here, that means it’s close to eleven at home. Or Apple Cart. Technically I live here too.
I pull my phone from my back pocket with the hand that isn’t stinging from voltage lines. Yep. It’s ten ’til eleven. Timothy’s first game is going on right now.
I bite my thumbnail and groan.
“Are you all right? Need me to turn it down?”
“Huh?”
Shelby nods toward the machine.
“Oh no, it’s fine. I remembered somewhere I needed to be.”
She laughs. “Practice?”
“Yeah, but not mine.”
Her face contorts with confusion.
“The machine is fine, thanks.”
“It will cut off in ten minutes. Dr. Trenton should be here by then.” She takes her hand off the knob and half smiles before making her way to the next guy.
I wiggle my hand, then uncurl my fingers. They’re almost asleep. Using my non-dominant hand again, I get on Facebook.
I don’t have an account. There are a few fan pages dedicated to me or the Braves as a whole, but Nate Miller as a personal profile doesn’t exist. However, Mom is a very active participant.
Anne Miller is my pseudo when I want to stalk people for fun. Or in this case, check to see if anyone posted about the kids’ game.
She’s still logged in on my phone from the time she borrowed it to check Jim Vann’s live weather radar.
Sure enough, she’s friends with Morgan. I know Brooke isn’t on Facebook, as I’ve checked many times in the past. I check again for the heck of it. Nope. Might as well click on Morgan.
She has nothing about this particular game, but does appear very active on Facebook. Mostly complaining about people leaving trash in the Pig parking lot and how tired she is all the time.
“Nate.”
Dr. Trenton’s voice startles me, and I drop the phone. He picks it up and hands it to me.
“Thanks.” I pocket the phone quickly and realize the machine has stopped. Shelby walks over and starts unsticking the cords.
“How are you feeling today?” he asks.
“Much better.” I put on an optimistic face.
“Much” might be a stretch, but I’m hoping he will give me a clean bill of health.
“Let’s see.” He stands behind me and waits until Shelby pulls the last cord and rolls the machine away. “Stand for me.”
I stand and try not to flinch when he digs his fingers into my shoulder blade. He mashes around a few minutes, then starts our routine of stretches and pulls. I go through the motions, relieved there is minimal pain.
“Much better than the last visit.” He slaps me on the shoulder and grins.
I don’t even move under the pressure. My cheeks hurt from smiling so widely. “You think I can start training soon?”
He draws in a breath and picks up my chart. Then he makes some notes and looks at me. “I think you can slowly integrate heavier weights and some pitching to see how your arm reacts.” He holds up a hand. “Nothing too heavy. I’ll write up a plan and we can Zoom in between visits.”
He scribbles some more notes and talks to himself, then writes a little more. “I suggest speaking with your trainer about a revised workout.”
I grit my teeth.
“I understand you don’t want to show pain, but if you go back to normal too soon, it could make matters worse.”
I nod. “Good point. I’ll talk with him.”
“Be smart and safe, and I’m confident you’ll make a full recovery.” He extends a hand, and I shake it.
The words “full recovery” are music to my ear. However, I can’t get the kids’ game out of my mind. As soon as I’m in my truck, I pull out my phone. When I unlock the screen, it’s still on Facebook. As suspected, nothing about the game.
I toss my phone on the dash of my truck. My stomach sours at the memory of Brooke riding with me when I first moved to Atlanta. It’s a miracle my old truck made it here. Even more of a miracle that it survived my spontaneous trip to visit her on a bad tank of gas.
That was the last time I saw her in person while we were still together.
We’d talked and texted and video chatted plenty the next few weeks. Each time, she acted a little more distant. I assumed it was because she was busy adjusting to college and new classes. Add to that a weird roommate with a very fast lizard, and I’d feel out of whack too.
What I didn’t expect was when I wanted to plan a weekend together and she broke up with me instead. All I could get out of her was how our lives were going in different directions and it was for the best. I could hear her crying on the phone.
All I wanted was to hold her and assure her we could make it work. I never got the chance.
Brooke
The pastor asks everyone to stand for the invitational song. I turn my head to hide a yawn and spot Nate across the church. He grins at me. I straighten and turn toward the front. It was an innocent grin. Definitely one fit for church.
