Page 19 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

Alex is standing closer to me than before but I don’t dare talk to him. He needs to stay focused, and Coach doesn’t like distracted players. I scootch over a seat so I’m shielded more by the dugout and turn my focus to Edwin, the star freshman who is now taking swings against the same pitcher. He gets a first pitch fastball that he sends to the fence, and I wince and sit up tall to take a peek at Alex’s reaction. He’s stopped his practice swings and is simply watching. My heart aches because I know he’s sick seeing this.

Edwin fouls off a few off-speed pitches then swings and misses on another fastball, but Coach tells him to take one more before he leaves the batter’s box. The pitcher may as well have served it on a platter because Edwin digs in with a full leg kick and knocks the ball off the left field foul pole, the reverberation like someone rang a bell to alert the village. I’m sure Alex is thinking they’re announcing the arrival of the new king. He’s going to let this get into his psyche. I know it.

Alex is up next, and the hotshot pitcher hit his count for the day, so he gets to hit off of a pitcher he’s more familiar with. I hope it helps him find some confidence, but I know how Alex thinks—he wants to prove himself against the other guy. Against Edwin.

After a few warm-up throws, Alex steps in and I set up to film. The first pitch comes in right down the pipe and Alex drills it down the first base line. He rolls his shoulders after the swing and digs his back foot in more. He’s anxious, which is obvious in the way he leaps on the next two pitches and sends them foul, one crawling up the third-base wall and into the seats. One of the kids out here watching practice sprints to collect the souvenir.

Alex backs out for a second, holding up a hand to take time. Coach is leaning against the side of the dugout with his arms crossed, his sunglasses doing little to mask the fact he’s staring right at his star player. Probably wondering if he can be fixed. Alex takes a deep breath and blows it out hard, dropping the tension from his shoulders before rolling them one last time. He sets up in the box and nods that he’s ready.

“You got this,” I hum.

The pitch sails in at what feels like mid-nineties, maybe a hundred. It’s dead center. And Alex doesn’t even flinch.

“Strike three!”

The pitching coach is calling balls and strikes, and he’s a little pumped that one of his guys got the punch-out. Alex is less enthused, though, and tosses his bat toward the dugout as he pulls his helmet off and shouts, “Fuck!” on his way in. Coach’s head swivels as he passes. He’s clearly giving Alex the stare-down. There’s a fine line between loving a player’s passion and thinking they need an attitude adjustment.

Shit.

I move back to my original seat and tuck my phone into my back pocket. Alicia has gotten to her feet and pulled on the ridiculously furry coat she brought out with her. It’s cold but it’s not snowing, for Pete’s sake. She’s hovering in the aisle, and every time Alex paces from the water cooler back to the dugout she pops up on her toes and holds up a hand to get his attention. She’s trying to leave but get credit. I know it in my gut, and I can’t help but feel amused that she’s so clueless about what Alex needs right now.

He finally seems to acknowledge her, giving her a nod, and she gathers up her massive purse and pulls her jacket tight as she heads through the main gates. I shouldn’t feel so smug given that my friend is having a dream crisis in front of me, but I’m so glad she’s gone.

The rest of the hitting groups finish up over the next thirty minutes, and Alex volunteers to shag balls, going extra hard to spoil what would be good hits if he weren’t out there fielding them. Some of the guys call him out for it, but he doesn’t stop, even diving a few times to make a stop at short. My chest hurts for him, because I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to show his worth, to Coach, and to himself. He may have sucked hitting today, but he wants the world to know he can still field better than any player on this roster. And I’m guessing it’s because he can that Coach lets him work out his shit on the field without telling him to stop.

Practice ends and the players clear out, a few lingering behind to put the batting turtle away and rake the field. Brayden takes the long route around, and I know it’s so he can stop by and talk to me. I tense up as he gets closer, catching Alex’s gaze from across the field as he drags a rake around third base. He stops and leans his weight on it as Brayden steps through the gate, and I get a tightness in my chest, like I’m somehow betraying Alex by talking to him.

“You missed me. I threw first and I put on a show,” Brayden says, stopping a row in front of me and popping a foot up on a seat so he can rest his crossed forearms over his thigh. I smirk a little because having dated him freshman year I recognize the various ways he likes to peacock. This pose flexes his leg muscles and shows off his forearms. I’m not so jaded that I can’t admit they’re mighty nice to see.

“Yeah? You pitch to the other pitchers?” I joke, knowing pitchers don’t hit and implying that he struck out the worst bats on the team.

His head rears back and he coughs out what sounds like a genuine laugh.

“No, but I’ve had bad days when even those guys could rake off of me.” His blue eyes crinkle at the sides with his smile. He’s a pretty man. Always has been. He just knows it.

“You coming to the house party Saturday night?” he asks.

I glance to Alex, who is still watching the two of us from out on the field. Brayden follows my gaze and nods.

“Ah, gotta ask your boy. You two . . . finally . . .” He swirls his finger in the air as his gaze shifts back to me.

“No, we’re . . . I don’t know,” I stammer, suddenly more confused than ever.

My pulse races with panic, and fight or flight takes over. I stand and shove my hands in my back pockets, the ends of my hair not tucked in my hat whipping across my face as the wind picks up.

“Well, I’m inviting you,” he says, pulling his hat from his head and running his forearm across his brow. There’s no sweat there. He did that for effect. God, I know all of his moves.

“Thanks. Yeah, I’ll . . . try to make it,” I say, shuffling my way down the row and away from him.

I glance at Alex again, and he starts to move the rake around. Brayden chuckles.

“Alright, then. I hope you do. I’d love to catch up, see how the music is going,” he says, and the fact he drops that little line hooks my chest and tugs. I don’t let it show in my steps or my expression, instead smiling and waving bye, but the fact he made the effort to note something that is mine means something. In the months we dated he never took an interest, not once. Alex flirts with me a few times and suddenly Brayden wants to be present. I really don’t want him to be, but it’s also kind of nice.

I squeeze my eyes shut when I get to the side gate and flop my back against the wall outside the door to the clubhouse. I push my fists in my eyes and groan quietly. How did I get into this situation? And what was that little alpha display Alex put on with the death stare?

I nod to a few of the guys as they walk out after changing, keep my head down, and pretend to be reading my phone when the coaching staff passes. Alex has a key since he’s a senior leader, so I’m sure he’ll be locking up. After about ten minutes, everyone else is gone, and Alex ambles through the gate, stopping the minute his cleats hit the concrete. The weight of the world—his world—is pulling down his shoulders, his eyes, his mouth, his very being. He drops his gear bag at his feet and shrugs.

Now isn’t the time for me to sort through my mess. My friend needs me. I give him a soft smile and step into him, letting him wrap his arms around me and sink his face into the side of my neck. His arms are heavy on my shoulders and his chest shakes. I rub my palms in circles around his back, then clutch him against me tightly as he lets it out, my neck damp with his tears.

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