“I know all twenty-three letters,” he jokes, but I don’t miss the sadness in his eyes as he squeezes the key chain. “I got in a lot of trouble when I was little, and my mom didn’t know what to do with me. Uncle Max told her I needed to hit something. He took me to the batting cages, but I didn’t want to go. The way he tells it, I grabbed the first baseball I saw and threw it at him—hard. And that’s how he knew I should be a pitcher.”
“Did you really?” I’m smiling as I try to picture it.
“I really did,” he says with an answering smile. “But I missed by a mile. Still, over the years, he would show me the scar from the injury. Every time it was in a different place.”
“Sounds like a good guy.”
“The best. And he was right about baseball. It gave me something to focus on. I loved the rules. The sense of order. But also how fast things could change. We’d go to games together and he’d make me keep score. You know how that is.”
I nod. “You can’t take your eyes off the field for a second or you miss something.”
“It quieted my brain. Gave me something more interesting to do than get into trouble.”
“Sounds like you spent a lot of time with him.”
His eyes drift with his memories. “As much as we could. He’s the one who came to every one of my games—who took me to watch the Diamondbacks. We spent every spring break traveling around and catching preseason games.”
“Not anymore?” I ask.
“He died of cancer last year.”
“Oh, shit,” I murmur, realizing that’s why he’s carrying his uncle’s key chain. “I’m sorry.”
He works his fingers around the metal, his thumb rubbing over the M. “He fought hard. Lived a year longer than the doctors expected, so I try to be grateful for that. And at least he died before I got hurt. That would have killed him faster than the cancer.”
Both of us look at his scars. “How did it happen?” I ask. “Was it during the playoffs?”
“I wish. Maybe it wouldn’t feel so senseless that way.” Frustration bleeds through every line of his frown. “The truth is that I fell during a game of pickup basketball. I was charging the hoop against a guy fifty pounds heavier.” He mutters a curse under his breath. “All these years, I did everything right to protect the arm. Always watched my pitch counts, never threw on short rest. I was playing the long game from the time I was ten.”
“Even though most guys don’t make it?”
His chin tilts up as his burning gaze locks with mine. “I hit ninety-two on the radar gun the week before the accident. I wasn’t going to be like most guys.”
I can’t look away. Though I’ve heard similar words from ballplayers before, I’ve never believed them as much as I believe Garrett. It pierces my heart, but also makes me want to keep my distance. He’s as focused as my dad. “I’m sorry,” I say. The words surface from a place deep down. A place that still remembers how much broken dreams hurt.
His nod is slight, but our gazes stay locked. It’s as if more passes between us than simply words. “I’m not giving up. Uncle Max never gave up on the things he loved. He taught me to do the same. He always said you didn’t have to be strong, tall, fast, or smart to play baseball. You just had to have one out of the four.”
I find myself nodding. There’s truth to that. “Is that why you love the game so much?”
“It’s reason number nine.”
“Number nine? You’ve got a list.”
“All the way to one hundred.”
My jaw drops. “Even when I loved the game, I couldn’t have come up with a hundred.”
“Ah,” he says, cocking an eyebrow. “So you did love it.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“You still love it. You’ve just forgotten.”
I hide behind a look of exasperation. “Please. You think you’re right about everything.”
“I am about this. I’ll prove it in two words: Cracker Jacks.” His grin erases the sadness. “How do you not love Cracker Jacks? Would we even know about them if not for baseball?”
I roll my eyes for effect, but he’s managed to make me smile. “Okay, I’ll give you Cracker Jacks. That’s one good baseball thing.”
“Two things. Superstitions,” he reminds me. “By the time we’re done with this contest, I’m going to have reminded you of all the reasons why you still love the game.”
His eyes spark with so much expectation, I almost wish he could. “Save your energy, Blondie. Baseball is not part of my plan. Let’s focus on how to win this thing.”
“You should come over to Seger’s house tomorrow night,” he says suddenly.
“What?”
“Jason Seger. A few of us are going to watch the Diamondbacks game. Scottie will be there. We can ask him about the interview.”
“A baseball party?”
“You worried about being seen with ballplayers? You can wear the dino costume if you want to come in disguise.” He pulls out his phone. “Come to think of it, I got a great picture of you waving those cute, fuzzy hands.”
“You did not!” I may not chase popularity, but that doesn’t mean I want to commit social suicide two months before graduation.
He flips through a screen I can’t see. “I wonder if it’s too late to get this in the yearbook.”
“Garrett!” In one quick move, I slide out of my bench and into his. I lunge for his hand.
“Hey!” He twists away when I grab hold.
He lifts his phone higher. I find the skin under his arm and tickle.
He shrieks and his elbows flap like chicken wings.
I’m shaking with laughter, but it worked, because I’ve got a hand on his phone. I grab it free and escape to my side of the booth. “Now who’s giggling?”
“You tickled me!” He’s still laughing, his big shoulders shaking with it.
“The great Garrett
