Page 20 of Home Sweet Home

The next boy came to the front of the line, and Evie started to help him fill out the sign-up sheet, but Robert was still there, hovering next to West with his hands on his hips and his chest puffed out like a baboon.

“Played a fair bit of ball back in my day,” Robert said. “If you need an extra set of hands.”

“All set on that front.” West’s voice was cool and detached, so different from the Mr. Congeniality routine he’d been putting on all afternoon. Evie turned to look at him, only to find what looked like an entirely different person. Tension ran through West’s jaw, his teeth clenched, his fists balled at his sides. His eyes flashed with some sort of challenge as he stared down Robert Martin.

“Easy,” Rich hissed through a gritted smile. “The camera.”

West didn’t back down, and whatever the weirdness was between the two of them hung in the air for a few moments before Robert broke the silence.

“Of course,” he said, the bravado from before gone. “Good luck.”

* * *

“So, West,”the redheaded reporter said, sliding her phone onto the dugout bench. “How’s it feel? Being back home?”

“Well, Red. Sorry. Mind if I call you Red?”

The reporter blushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sure.”

Evie had spent the last fifteen minutes pretending to be engrossed in her sign-up sheet, but she’d been listening to their conversation, which so far made her want to vomit.

“It’s been real nice, getting back to my roots. Don’t get me wrong. I love LA. And I forgot how sticky it gets in the summer here. But it’s been good to be back with the people I grew up with. The people who raised me, made me who I am.”

Evie flipped to the next page on her clipboard with enough force to rip it out of the clip, grabbing the corner just before the wind could pick it up and flutter it across the field.

The reporter tapped her fingers against the bench. “Is that why you came back? More cynical people might think this is all a publicity stunt. An elaborate way to get the fans back on your side.”

“Listen,” West said, leaning forward on the dugout bench, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “I know I messed up. There isn’t anybody harder on me than I am on myself. But for the first time in my life, I found myself with a lot of free time on my hands. And I decided I wanted to do something good. Something that meant something. I’m just lucky the team was willing to have me.”

“I see,” the reporter said. “And I know this might be a delicate topic, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask. Why’d you do it?”

Silence filled the dugout, the only sound the wind rustling through the grass, and it took Evie a second to realize she was holding her breath. Rich, who was standing behind the reporter, shook his head silently and drew his finger over his neck.

“It’s in the past,” West said. “If it’s all right with you, I’d prefer to focus on the future, which is how excited I am to work with these boys and play some ball.”

After a few more questions, most of them softballs since West had dodged the big one, the reporter took off in her Prius.

“Nice job,” Rich said. A second later his phone chimed, and he put a finger in the air before walking off toward the gazebo to take the call.

Fifteen minutes before, the lawn outside the fence had been filled with people, but now it was just the two of them in the maddeningly quiet dugout.

“Guessing that wasn’t theCreek Water Chronicle,” Evie said.

“LA Times,” West said. “Doing a piece on the team.”

“On the team. Right. I’m sure they won’t mention how selfless you are for coming back home and coaching these boys out of the goodness of your extremely pure heart.”

West raised an eyebrow. “Gotta get back into the league’s good graces, Peach. Otherwise, I lose my job. My sponsorships. All of it.”

Despite how the people of Creek Water felt about West, she knew the rest of the world wasn’t so forgiving. Her mind drifted back to the flicker of what she’d seen on TV that day in the diner—the boos in the stands and the angry woman holding the sign. Those probably weren’t isolated incidents. There were probably thousands of mean comments online, and every reporter and news anchor was having a field day talking shit about him. She knew exactly how much West cared about his image. Each one probably killed him a little.

“I guess some things don’t change,” Evie said.

West’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but she peeled herself off the wooden bench, not in the mood to stick around to clear it up. She needed something to do, and as she glanced around the field, desperate for a task, her gaze landed on the table and chairs still set up just outside the fence. They needed breaking down so West could load them in his Jeep and bring them back to Della.

She started with the table, flipping it to the side so she could bend one of the hinges. It creaked and groaned, refusing to fold as she used every ounce of effort to push it.

West sprang up from the bench. “Let me help.”

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