Page 5 of Double Play

He plates the sandwich, turning to me just as I avert my gaze to the refrigerator, pretending to read the shopping list glowing on the LED screen of the freezer door. “Eat,” he demands, catching me off guard with the firm bite to his tone. My head rears back for a moment, but he stops me before I can protest. “You can’t go all day without eating, especially when your anxiety is bothering you. It’s dangerous. So, eat.Please.” His voice is much softer, making me stand down and obey his order. As hard as it is to admit, he’s right. I need to take better care of my body, especially now that I’m a legit pro athlete. I won’t do my team or myself any favors if I’m not at my best, starting with eating right and facing my anxiety instead of acting like it hasn’t gotten worse since I left Argentina.

I swallow, nodding my head as I pick up the grilled cheese and take a bite. It melts on my tongue and an obscene moan falls from my lips as my eyes roll back. “Holy mother of balls, I’ve never tasted anything this good in my life,” I say on a contented sigh, looking up to find him staring at me like I have an arm growing out of the top of my head. His brows are bunched, and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat while his deep blue eyes stare at me like I’m some kind of science experiment. I realize that I voiced that thoughtout loud, and suddenly, I’m mortified. I literally just sounded like I was having the best orgasm of my life, then uttered the phraseHoly mother of ballsin front of Hawk Mason.

Smooth, Arden.

I clear my throat awkwardly. “Sorry. I guess I was hungrier than I thought. Where did this bread come from? It’s really good.” I’m just trying to make small talk so that maybe he’ll forget about the carb-induced climax he just witnessed, so I’m surprised by his answer.

“I made it,” he mutters flatly, returning to the stove and placing the dirty pan in the sink. I look down at the sandwich, then back up at him as he takes a glass from the cupboard, fills it with water from the tap, and walks over to set it in front of me.

“You made this bread? Where’d you learn to do that?” He freezes at the question, the mask of indifference that had melted the smallest amount slipping right back over his face. Obviously, I struck some kind of sore spot because before I can say another word, he disappears from the kitchen, stomping toward the stairs. For the tiniest second, I almost felt like he was showing me a side of him I’d never seen before…a side nobody but Jacks gets to experience. But I guess I was misreading the situation, because here I am, alone with my grilled cheese, wondering what the hell just happened with Hawk—and how awkward as fuck it’s going to be living under the same roof until I have enough money to find a place of my own.

FOUR

HAWK

“Fuck,”I growl quietly, leaning my back against the closed door of my room before sliding down to my ass. I drop my head into my hands, gripping my thick black hair in my fists and pulling until the sharp bite of pain grounds me, slowing my heart rate as I take a deep breath through my nose and let it out slowly.

Knowing Arden was moving in today, I purposely stayed away. I wasn’t ready to be near her, not with the thoughts that always seem to plague my mind when she’s close. I’ve only met her a handful of times, but each one had me more confused than the last, even though we’ve barely spoken. I wish I could explain any of it, but I just can’t. And the worst part of it all is that I can’t even talk to Jackson about it.

Because he’s in love with her.

He has no idea I know, which is good because I’d hate to tell him that I’m fully aware, yet still have an overwhelming need to possess every part of her body and soul. That can never happen. If he’s not willing to put his feelings for her into the universe, neither am I. It’s going to kill me being in such close proximity to her, but I need to get my shit under control. I can’t continue to snap at her every time she touches a raw nerve. She’s the purest fucking soul, and she doesn’t deserve my indifference. Especially when she’s one of the two people in this world who look at me like I’m not broken.

But the truth is—I am. No matter how much I try to forget my fucked-up past or how many hours of therapy I sit through, it always has a way of resurfacing and reminding me of who I really am. Tonight, it was Arden asking me where I learned to make bread. As much as baking is an outlet for my anxiety, some memories have the opposite effect.

“Hawk, I’m hungry,” my five-year-old brother Hayden said, his arms hugged around his stomach that I knew was empty. It was Sunday morning, which meant he likely hadn’t eaten anything of substance since his school lunch on Friday. Mom had been on a drunken bender for a week straight, only coming home last night after midnight and passing out on the couch. I’d tried waking her to tell her we needed groceries, but she just groaned, rolled over, and left me to figure out what to feed the boys. Hayden was the easier of the two because he could eat anything, but Henry had allergies, so we had to be careful with him.

“I’m working on it,” I replied, pulling open the cupboards that were nearly bare. Mom couldn’t work, so we got food stamps, but she often traded them for liquor, so the end of every month was tough. I’d learned how to make some easy meals with cheap ingredients, but those were all gone. And it wasn’t like I could drive to the store even if Ididhave money. I was still two years away from getting my license, so I’d have to figure it out.

I walked over to the computer, hoping like hell that I could find something. I’d been using a website where you typed in what you had lying around, and it gave you recipes that would work. It had saved me more times than I could count, but today would be a long shot.

Entering every single thing we had in our cupboards and refrigerator, I crossed my fingers as I hit the enter button. The machine froze for several moments, which was nothing new for the old piece of junk, before a single recipe finally popped up on the screen. Reading it, I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing my brothers wouldn’t have to go to bed hungry again.

I hopped up, walking into the kitchen with Hayden following me like a shadow, as always. Thankfully, Henry was entranced in the Elmo DVD he watched on a loop all day, every day, so I didn’t have to worry about making sure he wasn’t messing with things.

“Should we call an ambulance for Mommy?” he asked as I preheated the oven. “She keeps making those noises like she’s hurt.”

I shook my head. “No, she’s okay. She just needs a nap.” The truth was, I never knew if she was okay. I’d called our dad on multiple occasions, but he had married a wealthy woman on the other side of the country and started a new family with her, so he wasn’t much help. My grandparents kicked my mom out when she was pregnant with me, and we rarely saw them. She was all we had, and more importantly, calling the police or paramedics to help her meant they’d see the shit we lived in. Our one-bedroom apartment was falling apart, and there was rarely food. I did my best to keep my brothers clean and fed, but if any other adults knew what it was really like, they’d separate us. And I couldn’t bear the thought.

“Can you get me the big red bowl, Hay?” I asked, trying to divert his attention. He loved to help me, so I used it to my advantage, giving him random jobs to do as I worked. Keeping the two of them safe and happy was always my number one concern, as difficult as it was at times.

“This one?” he shouted, holding it up above his head triumphantly, his little feet slapping against the floor as he ran my way and hoisted it onto the counter.

“Yep,” I replied, ruffling his hair. “Now go check on Henry so I can make us some bread. There are two pieces of cheese left over from last month that are probably still good. You guys can have sandwiches.”

“Ok,” he said, heading toward the living room but turning back to me as he reached the archway. “Hawk?”

“What’s up?” I asked, looking up from where I was pouring flour into the measuring cup.

“You’re the best big brother ever.”

His words play over and over in my head as I wipe away the tears that have spilled down my cheeks, standing and walking to the bed and climbing under the thick, heavy comforter. Thinking about Hayden and Henry still hurts, even though it’s been over seven years since I’ve seen either of them. Last I knew, they were living in Arizona with our dad and calling his new wifeMom. They became a family, and I was left behind.

When he showed up at our doorstep with a police officer during my senior year of high school, I was surprised, to say the least. He walked out on us when Henry was an infant, and we hardly ever heard from him until he rode in on his white horse, acting like he gave a fuck. Apparently, a friend of his who had a son in Henry’s class had made him aware of how we were living, and he hopped on the first plane to Walton, Virginia with custody papers for the two of them in tow. At first, I wanted to slam the door in his face, cops be damned—but I knew my brothers’ well-being was at risk every day in our old, dilapidated apartment. So I did the one thing I never thought I’d do. I didn’t put up a fight when he said he wanted to take them home with him. He told me he’d raise them with his new wife since they were never able to conceive, giving them a real home with a loving extended family, away from Mom and her addiction. She had already done enough damage to their childhoods.

I didn’t really question why he didn’t want me too, since leaving her wasn’t an option anyway. I was technically an adult and had a promising future playing baseball, despite my shitty situation. I thought I’d be able to find a way to get her into rehab so she could get better without worrying about who was taking care of the boys. Then I could enter the MLB draft without feeling the guilt of leaving her alone while she drank herself to death. I even had hopes that she’d someday work to get them back, or that once I’d made my way to the big leagues and had the means to provide for them, they’d come live with me. What I didn’t expect was for our dad to brainwash them into thinking I didn’t love them anymore.

I’ve tried calling him and messaging him on social media several times, but he’s made it clear that they don’t want to talk to me. Since he has full custody and they’re still minors, I can’t contact them to plead my case. Instead, I have to live every day knowing that they’re across the country thinking I chose our alcoholic mother over them. Which, I can’t say is completely inaccurate. But what choice did I have when she wasn’t going to help herself?

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