Page 5 of Carter
5
Harper
The crack of the bat split the air, followed by a wave of cheers as a pack of little boys scrambled across the dusty infield. My nephew, Trevor, was somewhere in the middle of it—arms pumping, helmet slipping sideways, pants already grass-stained.
I laughed under my breath. Saturday mornings at the park weren’t usually my idea of a weekend, but after everything this family had been through, normal felt like a gift. I tugged my jacket tighter against the early spring breeze and tried to relax into the bleachers.
“Go, Trev!” I called, cupping my hands. He glanced back, grinning like his life depended on it, then promptly tripped over his own cleat. Typical.
The other parents were shouting encouragements, sipping their iced coffee, and arguing softly about batting orders and play calls. I let myself soak it in—the ordinary rhythm of a community that had no idea how fragile safety really was.
That’s when I saw him.
Cap pulled low, sunglasses catching the sun, whistledangling from a lanyard. He was crouched at third base, one knee bent, pointing a little boy toward home with a patience that surprised me. I knew that stance. Broad shoulders, coiled strength, a way of watching everything without seeming to.
I hadn’t seen him in months, but I would know him anywhere. Carter Robinson.
My pulse stuttered. For a second, it was like I was back in the ER—curtain ripped open, men with wrong eyes, Lindsey’s shaking hand clinging to mine. Carter stepping forward like a wall between danger and us.
But this wasn’t that night. There were no sirens, no adrenaline. Just kids and sunshine and the clean smell of cut grass. And him.
He looked up, scanning the bleachers. Our eyes caught—just a flicker, enough for my chest to tighten. His mouth tugged into the faintest grin, the kind you could miss if you blinked. I didn’t blink.
“Harper?” my sister nudged me with her elbow, jolting me back to reality. “Do you know that coach?”
I hesitated, then forced my voice steady. “Kind of.”
Kind of? I’d watched him fight men like they were flies he was swatting, in a hospital corridor. I’d watched him put himself between me and danger without thinking twice. That wasn’t “kind of.” That was unforgettable.
Down on the field, Trevor made it safely to first, arms pumping like he’d just stolen home in the World Series. Carter gave him a high-five, ruffled his helmet, and sent him back to the base with a clap on the shoulder. My nephew beamed like he’d just been knighted.
And just like that, I knew. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was the universe’s way of reminding me that some people weren’t meant to stay strangers.
When the inning ended, Carter lifted his cap, wipingsweat from his forehead, and looked back at me again. Longer this time. Steady.
I should’ve looked away. I didn’t.
The ump called the inning, and a ripple of chatter rose as the kids jogged toward the dugout, dust clouding around their sneakers. Parents clapped, hollered, and shook out blankets against the chill. I pretended to fuss with my coffee cup, but my eyes kept tracking Carter as he stepped off the field.
He pulled his cap off, swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, and started toward the bleachers. For a moment, I thought he might be heading for the water cooler or one of the other coaches. But no. His line was too direct.
Straight for me.
My sister shot me a quick, curious glance. “Friend of yours? I thought you said kind of,” she whispered.
I didn’t answer. Not yet.
He stopped at the fence below, resting one arm casually on the chain link. Up close, he looked exactly as I remembered him, yet nothing like him at all. Less lethal, more… human. Still dangerous in a different way.
“Harper,” he said, like it was a name he’d been holding onto.
“Carter.” I tried to sound neutral, but it came out softer than I intended.
His mouth quirked, almost a smile. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Same,” I admitted. “You coach Little League now?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Neighbor’s kid needed a coach. Figured it was safer than me sitting at home, staring at the walls.”
