Page 50 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

“I’ll be right back,” I say to Omar and Brian.

I skip over the seats and walk along the concourse to the other side, making my way down the last row of steps until I’m right next to the man, who in many ways, had a part in raising me.

“Hi,” I say, getting his attention.

“Nikki!” His genuine excitement to see me feels nice, and he leaps to his feet then swallows me in a hug. It feels like a betrayal, but I throw my arms around his back and reciprocate.

“How are you?” he asks, scooting over a seat so I can sit next to him. I check the view, a little relieved that one of the light poles obscures us slightly. I’m sure Alex has noticed, regardless.

“I’ve been good,” I say, which isn’t a total lie. I have been good. I’ve been great. I’ve also been a fucking mess. “You?”

We meet eyes for an awkward second, and I quickly glance away.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean?—”

“It’s okay.”

We watch the field for a few seconds in silence.

“Alex isn’t good,” I finally utter. But he knows that.

“That’s my fault.”

“Mmm,” I agree.

The next two batters strike out, so at least Alex made contact. I know he’ll look for me when he gets to the field, if he hasn’t already.

“Why’d you come?” I swivel my head to look at him when I ask.

He takes a deep breath, his arms crossed over the TIFF logo on his jacket, his face marked by tan lines from the glasses he usually wears. They’re propped on his head right now.

“I don’t miss a game. Been watching them online. Saw fall ball too.”

I nod.

“Okay, but you came in person.” I know why he’s here, but I want him to say it. And then he needs to find a way to say it to Alex so his son can let go and listen long enough to get what he needs.

“He’s struggling. His stance is all wrong. His at bats have been?—”

“He’s been shit. He knows that,” I say, wincing a little at calling him out on it bluntly.

“I know he knows. He might not think I know him, but I still do. I always will. At least out here. This is the one place . . .”

“The one place you still want a relationship,” I finish.

He sighs, then rolls his head to the side to meet my gaze.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“What should I tell him?” I’m certain he knows what I mean by that question. I don’t need to know what to say about him being here, or about life, or about how sorry he is. I need the small nugget. The piece of wisdom. I need the thing that works. That has always worked.

He chews at his lips, his mouth so much like his son’s. They share the same dimple, though his is permanent now, weathered from sun and wrinkled with age.

“Tell him to cut the field in half. Stand quiet. Crack the whip and commit.”

I repeat his words in my head.

“Okay,” I say, standing but placing my hand on his shoulder. It’s a hard space to navigate with him—to have old fondness and new hate.

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