Page 21 of Hard Ball

“Well, I’m glad you stopped by…” Her fingers trace up my arm in a move that I know is meant for me to fall at her feet, but it only makes me move away from her touch.

“Look, Angela, I’m really flattered that you’re interested, but the feeling is not mutual, okay?” I expect a confused look, I expect maybe some flicker of anger behind those green eyes but what I get is a million-dollar smile.

“Sure thing, handsome. Keep telling yourself that.” She winks, her fingers teasing over my skin once more before she struts past me and out the front door. It’s not until my name is called and I take my coffee from the girl behind the counter that I realize Angela never got a drink.

I shake the nagging thought that’s rolling around in my head and head back out to my truck. Why is it that the one girl I can’t stop thinking about wants nothing to do with me, but the one girl I want to leave me the hell alone keeps showing up like she has a tracking device hidden in my clothes? If I were ten years younger, I would have jumped at the chance to bag a girl like Angela. She’s beautiful in the obvious sense, the way she does her hair all the way down to the way her nails match her outfit. It’s all calculated, contrived, and assembled accordingly and although some men might like that, I have a penchant for yoga pants and T-shirts.

It’s been a week since the bar, a week of knowing Harper is out there, denying her feelings when I can see them clear as day when we’re together. Her mouth tells me to leave her alone but when I see that lust burning behind those gorgeous eyes of hers, I know I need to keep going. Do I crowd her? No. If I thought for one second that she really wanted me to leave her alone, I would. I’m not a stalker. But I know that look in her eye, I know it because it’s the same one that I get whenever I think about her, whenever I’m near her and honestly, I want her more than I’ve ever wanted another woman and a part of me is petrified.

As I start my truck, turning onto the road and driving toward the stadium, my phone rings. It’s Will.

“Are you on your way?” he asks, an edge to his voice that causes the hairs on the back of my neck to prick up.

“Yeah, why?”

“Coach is on a rampage. T.J. is talking shit; you know the normal stuff. Just thought I would warn you, so you hurry your ass up.”

Coach being on a tear is nothing new. It’s game day, it’s something to be expected. But the T.J. thing. That is new.

“What the fuck does T.J. have to say, the guy just got called up from the minors.” He’s been up for about a week and the second I met him, I knew he was going to be trouble. The boy—because that’s what he is, a fucking boy—is more concerned with taking my job than actually improving his own.

“The usual. Telling people you’re a has-been, washed up and ready to be replaced.”

The groan that leaves my chest is loud and heavy. I’m getting way too old for this high school shit.

“Don’t listen to him, Anderson, you know he’s full of crap.”

That’s an understatement. The only reason he was brought up was because Lopez got hurt and needs surgery on his knee. Without that, he’d still be rotting in Triple-A, wondering when he was going to be brought up to The Show.

“Thanks for the warning.” Sarcasm drips from every word, and from the way Will laughs on the other end, I know he got the message.

“See you soon!” he yells before hanging up and I take a big swig of my coffee. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.

10

Harper

“Dad?” I ask, entering his office and shutting the door behind me. He’s been in here all night and I wanted to watch the Hawks game with him, but he never came out. Not even when Mom called that dinner was ready.

“I told your mother that I was busy and not to be disturbed,” he mutters, not looking up from whatever he’s reading. I know he wants me to leave, but I stay rooted by the door. “Harper, I am not in the mood to repeat myself tonight. Please go see your mother.”

“But Daddy, you missed the game… we always watch them together.” I’m trying to make the tears go away but they start to fall, anyway. I miss him. I miss who he was before the accident.

“I don’t give a shit about the game!” he yells, causing me to flinch, but still, I don’t move from where I’m standing.

His eyes meet mine and they aren’t the eyes of my father, they’re the eyes of a man who wants nothing to do with the person in front of him. He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking out a bottle of Advil and taking two pills dry. He’s been getting more and more headaches lately and Mom has been begging him to go see a doctor, but he refuses.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. This was a mistake, he’s in one of his moods and I should have known to just stay away. It’s better for both of us when I just stay away.

He says nothing as he gets up from behind his desk and makes his way toward me. I try to stand tall, but the closer he gets, the angrier he seems to become. He opens the door and waits for me to move. The heaviness in my chest grows as more tears start to fall. This man isn’t the man that would tuck me in before bed, this isn’t the man that would take me to the park and push me on the swings.

This is a man I barely know anymore and before I think better of it, I open my mouth and say, “We don’t have to watch baseball, we could do something else?” Before the last word leaves my mouth, I know it was a mistake.

The hardened look in his eyes shows me exactly how useless my words are. They won’t make a difference, they never do. Mom says the anger is just a side effect of the accident, but it’s been a year and he hasn’t gotten any better and I wonder if he ever will.

“Don’t you get it?” he sneers, pushing me out of the room. “It’s not just baseball that I don’t want to see anymore…” Even at my young age, I know what he left unsaid and as he slams the door in my face, I shut my eyes, wondering if he knew that all I wanted was to be enough. Enough to make him see the life he still had to live.

I wake with sweat covering my entire body and my sheets soaked through. I wipe away the stray tears that must have fallen while I slept and I stare at the ceiling. This isn’t the first time I’ve dreamed of my father, or the night he died, and it probably won’t be the last. Sometimes the words are different, but the sentiment is the same. I’m not important, he doesn’t care about me anymore. That’s the part that haunts me no matter how many hours of therapy I have. You would think after ten years, the memory of that night would get easier, but honestly, the older I get, the more I question everything I thought I knew.

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