Page 17 of When Fate Breaks
We’ve met the Di Fazios one other time since the New Year’s trip, but it was just for a quick bite at a diner on our way out of town after visiting Grammy for Easter two years ago. Both of our families were crammed together at a table really meant for four and we had less than one hour before we had to leave for the airport, so the kids let the adults do most of the talking. Blake and I had just managed a couple of jabs at one another and three and a half heated games of tic-tac-toe passed across the table on napkins before it was time to head out. So, without counting thatpoor excuse for a visit, as Kyle liked to call it, this will be the first time in four years that our families have gotten to see each other.
A whistle sounds and I turn my head towards the field. A blur of nine blue jerseys come running out of the dugout to my left. I immediately spot Blake, his brown curls bouncing under his cap as he jogs towards the outfield. My parents start making their way up the bleachers but I pause at the fence at the same moment Blake’s eyes shoot up and to the side, locking on me.
The rest of his team blows past him to their positions on the field, but Blake skids to a stop, veering in my direction. He grabs at his cornflower blueJaysjersey, pulling it up and over his face, wiping away the sweat from his brow as he jogs my way; when he pulls it back down, there’s a smirk on his lips.
“Hey,” he says, when he reaches the fence.
“Hey,” I say back. We’ve both definitely had a growth spurt in the last few years, Blake now standing about three inches taller than me. His turquoise eyes are still striking, even squinting against the offensively bright summer sun. He opens his mouth to say something but is cut off by a gruff voice to his left.
“Di Fazio!Get out there!” his coach shouts to him.
“Gotta go,” he says, jerking his head towards the field.
“Don’t pick all the grass out there,” I mouth, turning back towards the bleachers.
“Shut up,” he says, rolling his eyes but hiding a smile as he jogs away, taking his place in left outfield.
When I reach the top of the bleachers, Kyle stands up to greet me. “Who the heck is this, Brett, and what has she done with your baby girl?” he asks sarcastically, looking from me to my dad.
I shake my head and giggle in response. “Hi, Uncle Kyle. Hi, Aunt Emily,” I say, leaning into Emily’s outstretched arms.
“I don’t think you can even call us Aunt and Uncle anymore,” Emily says. “You’re a full blown adult!”
“Calm down, I’m only thirteen!” I laugh.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Emily responds with a wink. “She’s just beautiful, Heidi,” I hear her turn and whisper to my mom as I take a seat next to Dad.
My foot brushes up against a crumpled up piece of paper; when I pick it up and unravel it, I see it’s a lottery ticket. I can feel Dad peering over my shoulder. “Aw, no luck today, Kyle?”
“Nope, not today. No worries though,” Kyle says, plucking the ticket from my hand. “Next week’s the week. I can feel it.”
“Didn’t you say that last week?” Dad asks him, an eyebrow raised.
Kyle shoots Dad a look that could kill.
Dad throws his head back laughing. “I’m just messing with you, man. Follow those dreams.” He tries to pat Kyle on the shoulder, but his hand is quickly slapped away.
“Nope,” Kyle says, “Go back to your store and screw something, Jacks.”
Dad and I shake our heads, laughing, as we turn our attention back to the game. In the time it took us to get settled in the bleachers, the Jays pitcher had been on fire, quickly striking out two batters.
I have only bare minimum knowledge of baseball, but, from a look at the scoreboard, I can tell the Jays are up by one with only one out left.
“Is this the final inning?” I ask Kyle.
“Yep,” he responds, suddenly jumping to his feet. “Let’s finish this!” Kyle shouts, causing both Dad and I to flinch in surprise.
“Yeah, let’s go, Blake!” My mom and Emily shout practically in unison, waving a set of blue and red pom-poms that appeared out of thin air.
I look back to the field, seeing a boy in an orange jersey at home plate to bat and another on second base.
The Jays pitcher throws two strikes and then the batter fouls one off. On the fourth pitch, the bat makes a loud cracking sound as the ball shoots into the outfield, still in but sharply to the left.
“Oh, no,” I hear Dad and Kyle say under their breath at the same time. I look from them back to the field just as Blake launches into the air after the ball.
He just barely catches it, falling to the ground, as the player that was on second approaches third. Kyle jumps up out of his seat again, yelling. “Go!”
As if in response, Blake darts to his feet, pulling back and launching the ball across the field with all his force. The opposing player falls to slide into home. I don’t remember standing, but I’m suddenly on my feet. A cloud of dust shoots into the air as the ball reaches the Jays catcher. Three seconds feels like three hours before we hear the umpire.
