Page 82 of Off Limits: The Firsts

My feet stop the second I spot Easton.

The moms pushing strollers have to swerve around me and a little boy bumps against me, but I stand still, trying to comprehend how the mere sight of him eases the stress of my day.

He’s lying on a slope covered in grass beyond the left field fence, his legs are crossed at the ankles, his hands are braced behind him, and an Aces baseball hat sits low over his brow. His attention is focused on the Little League game playing in front of him where little boys about five or six years old are trying their hardest to master his game.

The boys are adorable and the man observing from his incognito spot in the outfield even more so, and yet I can tell something is bothering him. He’s never missed a training session like he did this afternoon, and the simple text he sent me offered no explanation.

I should leave. The fact that he didn’t reply to any of my texts should be a big enough indicator that he wants to be left alone and me being here is anything but leaving him alone.

But I don’t move. Can’t. And I’m not blind to the fact that my inability to walk away stems from so much more than wanting to know why he bailed on his workout today. The kind of so much more that often wakes me up in the early morning hours and challenges me to pull up a thought that doesn’t involve Easton in some way, shape, or form, all the while being lulled back to sleep by the even rhythm of his breathing beside me.

The kind of so much more that has me standing in the middle of some recreational park a few blocks away from the stadium questioning why I chased after a man when normally I’m the one running the other way.

But there’s something about seeing him in this element, watching the game he loves in its purest form that tugs on my heartstrings and has me making my way over to him.

“You just can’t stay away from the game, can you?”

“Seems like it,” he muses without so much as a look my way as I take a seat on the grass beside him.

We sit in silence as the inning plays out and watch the extremely patient dads trying to coach their sons on how to swing the bat or field a ground ball. I can’t help but wonder what Easton’s thinking about. Would he trade his experiences for ones like this? Ones where the game was about having fun and absent of the pressure that came with realizing you’re expected to live up to the standard of play your father has set? Is that why he’s here?

Another inning ends. Another round of high fives is handed out as the teams enter or leave their respective dugouts. And I’m still in the dark about what’s going on with the man beside me.

“You blew me off today,” I say after a bit.

He nods. “I did.”

“Everything okay with your mom?” I ask, fishing for a connection with him when he feels so far away right now.

“Yep.”

“Just needed to get some fresh air?” I ask, scrambling for anything to keep him talking.

“Yep.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Nope,” he says and then hangs his head for a beat before scrubbing his hand over his jaw. When he lifts his head up, he glances at me momentarily, expression guarded, before he looks back to the game, but I can see he’s upset now. It’s in the sag of his shoulders. The defeat in his posture. The stress etched in the lines on his handsome face.

“You want me to leave?” Please say no.

“Nope.”

My sigh of relief is audible. All I want to do right now is rest my head on his shoulder, make a connection with him somehow, but know I can’t because of the ever-prying eyes of the public. It only takes one person to recognize the man in the outfield is Easton and take a picture with their phone and . . .

“Manny?” he asks pulling me from my thoughts with his guess on how I knew where he was.

“Yep,” I say, taking a page out of his book of one-word responses and earn a soft chuckle from him.

“My first season with the Aces was rough,” he begins to explain. “I had a few games that really tested me and messed with my head. Without confidence, skill can only take you so far in this game, and my confidence was shot. I was this huge prospect surrounded by all of this hype and I wasn’t delivering. Teammates and coaches were throwing advice my way but all I heard was white noise. After one particularly shitty game, Manny walked into the locker room and told me to follow him. I thought he was crazy. It was almost midnight and here I am traipsing after him through the streets of the city until we ended up here. He made me sit in the middle of the empty field and told me to tell him what I remembered about playing as a kid.”

“He brought the fun back,” I murmur. I can picture the two of them in the darkness out here and it brings a smile to my lips.

“He did. He made me remember all those first moments when I finally fell in love with the game. And then he told me to come back the next day at ten o’clock. I did.” He smiles and shakes his head at the memory. “There was a T-ball game starting. The kids were running to the wrong bases, swinging the bat backwards, and playing with the weeds in the outfield. It sounds stupid, but watching those little guys drowned out the white noise for a bit.”

“It is oddly relaxing,” I admit.

“It is,” he murmurs, “and ever since that night, this is where I find myself when I need to clear my head.”