Page 50 of Play the Field

Once I was squatted, Cat started her wind-up. Her form was nearly perfect; the ball made a perfect windmill as it passed over Cat’s shoulder and was swiftly brought down. When it released from her grip, a fastball came hurtling toward me.

It moved so fast that my eyes wanted to close to protect themselves. But I forced them to stay open, bringing my right hand up to reinforce the glove as the pitch made contact with the leather covering my hand.

A bright stinging radiated from the center of my gloved palm. I stood up, shaking it out as I did. “Much better.”

Cat beamed with pride as they crossed the distance between us. Pulling off my glove, Cat kissed my palm and eyes it closer. A red spot grew at its center. “Did I hurt you?”

“Eh, hazards of the job.” I looked up at her, my throat tightening under her emerald gaze. “You’re very pretty.”

Blushing, Cat stuttered. “You’re… really pretty too.”

Watching her eyes, I smiled. “That was a really strong pitch.”

“I hate this glove.” She sighed. “I wish I could find my old one.”

I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. “Isn’t that thing like two decades old?” All these years later, I could still picture the peeling leather of that brown glove.

With an assured nod, Cat pulled back. “Yeah, but it’s easier on my hand and I can actually move it.”

We walked toward the dugout, happy with our practice for the day. As we did, Cat licked her lips. “So, how’s the writing?”

“Don’t ask me that.” I buried my face in my glove, the smell of old leather wafting into my nose. It had been a few days since I worked on what was becoming an interesting idea. But I kept getting stuck.

“Come on, just tell me something.”

Reluctantly, I confessed. “It’s slow. I keep feeling like it’s a waste of time.” Not looking up, I packed my bag and changed my shoes.

Cat scoffed. “Well, that’s definitely not true. Worst case scenario, you wrote something cool for yourself. Best case, you write an award-winning bestseller. Either way, I’ll buy it.”

I shook my head, hiding my embarrassment. But it was sweet, and I knew it was entirely truthful. Once our stuff was packed, we made our way to the parking lot. Standing between our cars, Cat laced her fingers with mine. “You know, if it sells, you wouldn’t have to worry so much about closing the shop here and there. You could go… say… to a professional softball game anywhere in the country.”

Nudging her shoulder, I raised my eyebrows. “The truth comes out.”

“I joke.” Cat kissed my cheek. “Can I come over and make you dinner this week?”

“Please.” I pressed my lips to hers. It was risky kissing in the open like this. It wouldn’t be long before the paparazzi caught on to our early morning practices. But for now, it felt safe.

Cat watched me get into my car, leaning against the good of her black Mercedes. As I pulled out of the parking lot, watching her wave goodbye, I felt my heart pounding. The extra money wouldn’t hurt. And maybe it could solve our problem; maybe Cat leaving town wouldn’t be the end.

30

CAT

Rummagingthrough the attic was a far bigger pain in my ass than I expected it to be. Daniel had left dozens of unlabeled bins up here. And now that I needed to find my old glove, his non-existent organizational system was becoming a thorn in my side.

“Where the fuck is this thing?” I muttered to myself as I moved yet another box to the side. I was waist-deep in opened containers when I heard the attic stairs creaking under the weight of someone’s foot.

Knowing it was my brother, I shook my head. “Dude, you have to do something about this. It’s a mess up here.”

Laughing, Dan appeared on the landing while ducking his head under the rafters. “Aren’t you unemployed?”

“Rude.” I narrowed my eyes at him as I tossed the box I’d been digging into the side.

Dan waded through the sea of boxes – objectively made far messier by my scavenging. Wrinkling his forehead, he sighed. “What could you possibly be looking for?”

My shoulders dropped at the question, pausing long enough to look around. I must have seemed like a madwoman. It was close to dinner time and I was in my brother's attic muttering tomyself while hunting for an item that was packed away at least a decade ago.

“My old glove. I know mom would have kept it.” I rubbed my forehead, trying to picture in my head where she would have hidden it.

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