Page 63 of The Best Friend and the Shortstop

“Son,” he says, resting a hand on my shoulder. I shirk him off, and he holds up his palms. “I do not regret my decision to stay in Odell, to get married right out of college and start a family, to foster your passion, to get to spend my days on a field throwing a ball to you, none of it. Not for one second. I would have maybe gotten six at bats somewhere in Des Moines and then been done anyway. I’m nowhere close to the talent you are. So don’t think any of this, my failures, has anything to do with my choices back then. I was a different man then. A better man. And I’m trying really hard to get back to that man. It took fucking up the love of my life to see how far I strayed.”

I stare at the ground and soak in his words. They’re sobering, and there’s so much in them that hits a nerve.

“Was it drugs? Alcohol?” I ask, giving him a sideways glance.

He shakes his head.

“Nothing like that. I think it’s just me. I think I got lazy at life. Maybe I got angry somewhere. Small towns can be that way, stifling. It’s not an excuse, just the environment. But I got restless, and then I got stupid. And I will regret that for as long as I live.”

I swallow the harsh lump in my throat. I don’t forgive him. I might not ever. But I can live with his admission. I can accept his self-penance. And my God, I can learn from it.

“I told Nik I love her,” I let out.

He’s quiet for a few seconds, so I glance up and catch his crooked smile.

“Yeah?” he finally says.

I nod. Thinking about her, simply saying her name, feels good. As hard as this moment is, being here with him, just the mere mention of loving her changes it.

“Good. She’s meant for you.”

“I know,” I say, bending down and picking up my bat. I kick a loose ball toward my dad, then walk over to my gear bag and pick my batting glove back up. I put it back on and my dad gathers up the rest of the balls, then drags in the bucket from just outside the net.

“You ready to work?” he asks.

I nod and line myself up at the plate.

“I am.”

19

nikki

My seat is open as Omar and I walk onto the concourse.

“You chase her away?” my friend says, noticing just after I do.

I shrug, but really? Yeah, I sort of did.

Omar and I settle in and he pulls out his phone, I assume to text Brian. Lacrosse has an away game tomorrow, so they left on the bus early this morning.

“You two seem . . .”

“Serious?” His brow lifts as he types. He clicks send then shifts his gaze to me. He looks a little freaked out. I breathe out a soft laugh.

“Kind of fast, huh?” He flattens his phone on his chest, palm over it in an affectionate way. I think he’s in love.

My shoulders hike up briefly.

“Who am I to judge. I’m just the opposite. Kinda slow,” I joke.

He leans into me with a laugh, then reads the incoming text. I peer over and catch the heart Brian sent back but stop short of teasing my friend. It’s sweet.

I sink my hands into the front of Alex’s hoodie and tuck my chin so I can breathe in the remnants of his shampoo scent. I love this hoodie, and I hope to never ever give it back. But also, he’s going to have to wear it periodically so I can get a refill.

The guys are stretching in the outfield, marching in a slow line, lifting one leg at a time then lunging in the other direction and twisting their bodies with their arms out.

“Can they really get a good stretch in like this? It feels more like dance or marching band, the way they’re all in unison,” Omar says. I cough out a laugh because he’s right. It kind of does.

---