Relief flooded through her at the olive branch he extended, especially since she should be the one doing so.
“The 2015 post season,” she said. “Game two of the Division Series against the Cardinals. Your shot to the left field bleacher seats was a beauty.”
“You saw that one, huh?”
The juxtaposition of Little Leaguer joy brightening his eyes and the confident, all-male grin tugging his lips had a laugh bubbling up from her chest.
“Are you kidding me? The whole world saw that hit. I mean, even if they weren’t watching the game live, there’s no way anyone missed the highlight reels running on practically every media site.”
Hands deep in his front pockets again, Ben let out a heavy breath. “Hitting that ball against our rivals did feel pretty great. Especially with the ups and downs of the next season, what with . . . well . . . never mind.”
Belatedly, she realized 2016 had been his last full season. While it had been a banner year for the Cubs, Ben had struggled at times due to his injury.
“That was a good game. A good day,” he murmured, head down, lost in his own memories. A dark cloud passed over his features, dampening the softness of his nostalgia. “Don’t get many of those anymore.”
A pang of regret for the shoulder injury that had sidelined him pierced her chest. She’d watched her older brother Alfredo deal with a similar situation after his car accident. The loss of the dream of making it to the big leagues still tore at Freddie, despite his move from player to coach.
“But you’re doing good things,” Julia told Ben. “You see that, right?”
Without realizing her intent, she moved closer, pressing a hand to his chest. Through the ribbed material of his turtleneck sweater his heart beat heavy against her palm. Strong. Slow. Steady.
“Different ones, sure,” she continued. “Think of the lives you shape with the clinics you sponsor. The ones you help with the money you raise.”
His confident grin had faded, replaced by a wistful smile. “Which brings us back to our mission here: grab a quick bite while we go over your thoughts on the script, then head to rehearsal at the youth center. Right?”
Subdued, his playful persona sadly missing in action, Ben turned to face the direction of the restaurant, poking out his elbow for her to hook her hand through his arm.
She got the message. The discussion about the new path his life had taken, post-baseball, wasn’t a topic he cared to discuss.
Everyone had their own dragon to slay. Hers revolved around her bid to move out from under her family’s thumb to forge her own path. Ben’s was . . . actually, she didn’t really know.
Frankly, she had no business asking him about it, even less business wondering or worrying.
Chapter Three
“Okay, okay, esperen un momento!”
Sitting off to the side, Ben watched Julia calling for the kids to wait a moment.
Laughter lingered in her voice. It softened her face and danced in her hazel eyes at the antics that had ensued as soon as she brought up the idea of some of them performing a solo during the bombazo part of the program.
Little Bernardo, the five-year-old firecracker she’d mentioned during the meeting earlier today, had been the first to jump up out of his seat.
They had gathered in one of the larger classrooms at the Humboldt Park Youth Center about fifteen minutes ago. Desks had been cleared out to accommodate an electric keyboardist and a guitar player in one corner. Regulation plastic school chairs with metal frames were scattered about for the kids to sit on while they practiced. The center didn’t own choir risers, but apparently Julia had rented a set for them to use for the soiree.
While two adult volunteers accompanied them on the keyboard and guitar, the group of teens who sang in their high school choir had taken charge of the various percussion instruments. Two girls with heavily lined eyes and pouty lips held a pair of maracas, one set more like little eggs that made a shushing sound when the girl moved her hands to the rhythm. A third girl with straight dark hair and a shy demeanor gripped the pandereta, as they called the instrument, its silver jingles sounding with each shake. A scrawny kid with a wide smile grasped the dried, hollowed-out gourd called a güiro in his left hand, creating a scraping sound as he dragged a wide metal comb up and down the ridges carved into one side of the instrument. Finally, an older teen named Rico, a husky guy with a football player’s physique who seemed to be the leader of the group, held on to a plenera, keeping the beat by tapping a steady rhythm on the tight leather spread across the top of the tambourine-looking hand drum.
In the midst of the hoopla, young Bernardo stood center stage, shaking his hips in a solo dance, his chubby belly jiggling with his efforts.
Ben chuckled and Julia shot him a “you’re-not-helping glare.” He covered his grin with his fist. Message received: the rambunctious kid did not need any encouragement.
Hands raised to gain the group’s attention, Julia joined Bernardo in the center of the room.
Rico laid off on the beat, earning Ben’s respect when the rest of the group followed his lead. Including Bernardo, who slumped in a chair next to the older boy.
“Bueno, if we want to do a round of bombas,” Julia went on, “who here wants to take one of the shout-out verses in the middle of the song?”
About ten of the thirty-five or so kids raised their hands. Naturally, Bernardo raised both of his.
Julia reached over to ruffle the boy’s hair playfully, slapping his raised palm in a high five. Her ease and comfort with the kids made Ben wish she felt the same camaraderie with him. But no, from the moment they’d walked into the youth center, she’d been all business.
Of course, it probably didn’t help that it’d taken them an
