A new hitter is up; the first one wasn’t bad but wasn’t great, either. This one seems to be more of the same. I listen to the soft slaps of balls being fouled off or hit weakly to the infield. My thoughts drift again.
Plans not passion. It’s always my line, but is it also an excuse? Is it really easier to put cream on people’s necks than it is to figure out what I like? What I might love?
Am I willing to love anything?
I see now how careful I was to protect my heart. AromaTher wasn’t a passion and I liked that. Even when I shifted to broadcasting, was it something I loved? Or did I love that Garrett was my partner? Would I love it if it were only me?
Another batter comes to the plate, and I hold my breath, but it’s not Garrett. There’s a sharp crack of the bat and I watch a ball fly deep. This guy has some power. My gaze follows the next few crisp, well-struck balls and try to remember what it felt like to play myself. To stand behind the fence and watch my dad play. My gaze shifts to the man holding the clipboard. To coach the kids’ teams.
I’m waiting for my heart to answer, but it’s my stomach that pipes up with an unpleasant rumble. I realize I’ve been feeling sick ever since I left the bookstore this morning. The only two jobs I’ve ever loved were coaching Little League and running story time.
Why did I quit that job?
Before the question can circle my head a second time, I answer myself: because it wasn’t a real job.
But could it be?
My breath stills as I watch Garrett climb out of the dugout. Something flashes in his hand—something metallic—and I bite my lip when I realize what it is. The key chain. The M.
The reminder to keep fighting.
I’m up on my feet as he rubs his back foot over the chalk line in the batter’s box and then settles in his stance. God, he looks good. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I watch as he hits three balls deep, working the ball to right and left field—not something every hitter can do. He takes the same dozen swings as the others, and I see the coach gesture to the pitcher. He wants to see more. My heart surges in my chest, pride for Garrett, for how much he’s improved. Sometimes, the universe gets it right, I think. Persistence pays off. Garrett has worked for this. He’s fought for it.
Maybe it’s time I started fighting, too.
Each crack of his bat is one more swing at the obstacles standing in front of him. I’m not sure where his path will take him, but he’s brave enough to go after what he wants.
Even if that includes a girl too afraid to listen to her own heart.
It’s time I focused on where I’m going. I can’t stay stuck in place for fear of getting lost. I have to find my own way. And I have to stop planning for the worst and open my heart to risk.
Even if that includes a stubborn baseball player.
I square my shoulders, commentary running through my head as if I’m in the broadcast booth. Walters, you’re up to bat. What are you going to do with your chance at the plate?
Chapter Forty-Nine
Garrett told me that Coach Richards starts every week going over the baseball accounts, so I know where to find him on Monday morning. He’s in an office in the basement of the gym that’s a lot of gray cement and cheap metal furniture.
The door is open, but I knock anyway. He looks up from his computer screen, and for a second I’m not sure if he remembers who I am. Then he smiles. “Josie Walters. We missed you last week at our first playoff game.”
A blush prickles up my neck. “Sorry about that. Nice win, though.”
“It was.” He rocks back in his chair. He looks older without the baseball cap on, the gray more obvious in his hair. “So what brings you to the dungeon?”
It is a little dungeon-esque, right down to the colder temperature. Unless that’s my nerves. “Garrett told me some things about you. Including that you run summer baseball programs.”
His smile grows warmer. “Garrett told me some things about you, too. Why don’t you have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.”
And so I do.
…
Cholla’s second playoff game is scheduled to start right after school. It’s a home game, the last one of the season, because if the team wins, they move on to the quarterfinals and neutral territory. I skipped the first playoff game, but I’m not going to miss this one.
I use the excuse of “girl issues,” which is embarrassing because it lacks originality, but I don’t have time to be clever. Mr. Evans actually rolls his eyes, but he releases me fifteen minutes early. I’ve never missed a minute of class, so I don’t feel too bad about it. Besides, I’m a girl and I have an issue, so it’s not even a lie. I’ve got to run to my locker, grab what I need, and reach the broadcast booth before Garrett does.
When I get to the field, the visiting team is loosening up in the outfield while pitchers are warming up in the bullpens. There are the usual noises from the dugout below—players organizing their equipment and Coach Richards barking advice. I give Scottie a quick wave; he’s raking the dirt infield like an artist—creating swirls in the freshly watered earth. Someone mowed earlier, working the angle of the blade so the grass looks like it’s striped
