Page 89 of Running Home to You
In a stroke of poetry that only offered itself on the wings of competition, Kate got her redemption. The entire field went still in the last inning as she approached the plate. Abby and so many others already knew what was coming. It’s like the entire stadium knew.
Jenna Crosby on third base. One out. Coach Ackers clapped and pointed through a flurry of signs, calling for the ultimate sacrifice. A squeeze bunt. There was no one else more primed, more prepared, more destined for it. It wasn’t the glory of the home runs that Abby muscled out of the park, but the finesse, the willingness to surrender that made it work.
The players clutched each other’s hands. Abby, who never prayed, willed the softball gods to smile down on them. The pitch came and Kate squared for the bunt, Crosby already at a dead sprint for the plate. If Kate hit it wrong, it was over. It required a gentle touch. A focus through the cheering and heat.
Kate tapped the ball just right, slotting it between the pitcher and first baseman. They crashed on it, but the ball veered out of reach, enough for Crosby to slide beneath the rushed toss to the catcher. Her fingers brushed the plate as Kate sprinted to second base. 3–3.
Erica Hightower struck out. Two outs.
Mick limped up to bat next, the game-winner on the line. She launched a shot to the fence, sending Kate on a sprint from second, arms pumping, legs propelling her to cut around third. The throw came in to the catcher, but Kate had the jump. They faced off as the ball flew in, and despite the tie, Abby knew it was over as Kate lowered her shoulder. She plowed into the catcher and skimmed the plate. Another lull over the field. Another pause that dragged on forever.
“Safe!” the umpire cried.
4–3.
The team rushed Kate, but Abby stayed behind. Grinning, yet determined not to ruin it. Plus, they still had to get through Southern Colorado’s final at bats. She wouldn’t let herself feel it until Madison Quong struck out the last batter, until Mick collapsed in celebration and exhaustion, until Jill and T.K. hobbled out of the dugout to join the victorious Eagles, and Kate launched herself into Abby’s arms.
She cried into her chest. “We did it.”
Abby squeezed her back and shut her eyes. “You did it.”
Kate pulled back, gazing at her through tears that Abby couldn’t discern as happy or sad, leftovers from their fight or a signal that all was forgiven. But at least they had this. This moment on the field when everything felt right again.
“Thank you,” Kate whispered.
Abby swallowed a pit of tears, reached for her, but the rest of the team piled around them in celebration. She withdrew in the laughter, taking in Kate’s joy, one she broke from more than once to glance at Abby, as if making sure she was still there, in the precious breath before their final game, without the pressure of what came after.
The National Championship
She suited up like it was a funeral. She, of course, had suited up for one not long ago, but had blacked most of it out. On the afternoon of the national championship, however, Abby would never forget dressing for the end. She deliberately tugged on her socks and stirrups, tucked in her maroon jersey after running a hand across her last name and number, and tightened the belt around her pinstripe pants.
Most of her teammates had a pregame ritual or superstition they followed, part of the Church of Softball, but not Abby. For all her belief in the game, she didn’t subscribe to its superstitions. But suiting up for the last time as an Eagle resonated like worship. She let it wash over her as she sat on the wooden bench in the locker room, hands clasped, mitt beside her, aware that her future in the game didn’t have to end today, but no matter what she chose, a part of it would be lost forever.
“Come here, Cruzer,” Mick said behind her.
Abby turned around and smirked. She let Mick apply lines of eye black on her cheeks, once again falling into reverence, this time for the quiet friendship they had formed two years ago. Even while caught in the middle of Kate and Abby’s fight, Mick didn’t abandon her. She didn’t say anything about it, just reminded Abby to eat,smacked her on the back too hard like she always did, joked and called her names. Their own love language. They spoke it there in the musty locker room, sunlight highlighting the floating dust as Mick applied the oily lines that Abby usually resisted.
“The knees going to make it today?” Abby asked.
“Seven innings and they’re going into well-deserved retirement.” Mick hit her with a knowing smirk. “I’m more worried about Hutch’s shoulder.”
Abby peered past her, through the small window of the trainer’s room where Kate sat on the table. Mick patted her back as she departed, encouraging Abby to go to her. Not that Abby needed any prodding. Her metal cleats tapped across the concrete, taking her to Kate’s side as the trainer taped her shoulder.
“How is it?” Abby asked.
Kate’s gaze brightened, despite the wince that hadn’t unhitched from her face since the semi-final collision. The trainer diagnosed it as AC joint separation, a gruesome strain of the ligaments between her collarbone and shoulder. Kate could barely raise her arm, let alone throw, and while there wasn’t enough ice or rest to help her before the finals, everyone knew she’d push through.
“I’ll be all right,” Kate said. “At least the throw from second is shorter.”
With the team’s onslaught of injuries, Coach Whitley returned from her suspension in time to make creative adjustments to the lineup. Jenna Crosby had broken two fingers in the semi-finals and since Kate couldn’t make the throw from shortstop anyway, she moved her to second. It set up Abby to shift from third base to the place she always seemed destined for—shortstop.
“I guess we’ll get to turn two one more time,” Abby said.
“Yeah.” Kate smiled.
She sat with her jersey unbuttoned and pulled down around her right arm. Abby studied the familiar curve of it, the freckles she’d kissed, the healing that came from its embrace. When the trainer finished taping her, Abby nodded at him. “Can you give us a minute?”
He nodded and left. Kate grimaced as she attempted to pull her jersey back on, but Abby stepped in, gingerly slipping it back into place. She buttoned it, eyes trained on the jersey’s stitches, on the rattle of Kate’s breathing. “Thank you.”
