Page 83 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“It’s a good place.”

“It is.”

Easton falls silent again, while I replay the story in my mind and wonder what he’s trying to clear from his head today.

Another inning passes. The red team scores a run, and Easton belts out a loud whistle in congratulations.

If they only knew the random bystander with the Aces hat on sitting in the outfield was Easton Wylder.

“I just couldn’t do it today,” Easton says unexpectedly.

“Do what?”

“Be in the same space as that fucker. The locker room. The field. The gym. He’s everywhere. I’m sick of having the guys babysit me. I’m sick of not being able to walk in my own clubhouse without wanting to throw a punch every time I hear his voice.” He pauses but his frustration continues to resonate. “I’m sorry for bailing on you, but I just couldn’t do it today.”

There’s nothing I can say to make him feel better. Honestly, I don’t know how he’s occupied the same space as Santiago for this long without a serious fight breaking out between them.

So, I don’t say anything.

Instead I move my hand to rest in the grass beside his and then hook my pinky around his. He looks over to me, his eyes a well of unexpressed emotion, but when he tightens his pinky around mine, it’s all I need to know that my silent show of support and little bit of affection is enough for now.

So with the sun slowly moving toward the horizon, we sit and watch the rest of a Little League game while trying to remember what life was like as kids. Back when my dad wasn’t sick and his shoulder wasn’t injured. Back when there were no contracts to abide by and we could just be a girl and a boy sitting on a grassy slope enjoying the warm Texas evening together.

We don’t feel the need to talk just to fill the silence.

Our pinkies are linked.

And the simple connection is all we need right now to reassure each other that we’ll get through this.

“Shit. Maybe I need to get a shoulder injury, if that’s how you come back and swing the stick.”

The next pitch comes. I swing and connect. The crack of the ball against the bat is the most satisfying sound in the world. And even better, there’s still no pain. No pinch. Just like new.

“He’s the only lucky fucker who could pull it off, though.”

“Bunch of fucking cackling women. Leave the poor man alone. He needs to reacquaint himself with his balls right now.”

I laugh as I take a swing and miss the fat pitch Coach Walton lobs from the mound. All three guys say, “whiff,” in unison.

I hold a batting-gloved middle finger up to J.P., Tino, and Drew standing behind the portable backstop as I take my hacks. The Santiago Brigade. Following me around like the three musketeers anytime I hit the field at the same time as Santiago.

They’re trying to keep my nose clean and my temper at bay. It doesn’t look too good when the unofficial team captain goes fist-fucking his replacement’s face. But shit, how satisfying would that be since the asshole seems determined to annoy me every chance he gets.

Another pitch. I channel my anger at Santiago, my drive to return, my need to prove to Scout that I’m good to go.

And when I hit the next pitch—a line drive that goes right through the five-point-five hole between third base and shortstop—I know I’m back.

“What do you think she’s telling Walton out there?” Drew chimes in, trying to get in my head as I watch Scout lean in and say something in Walton’s ear. He nods.

“Oh, Walton, you handsome devil. If you hit that pain in the ass Wylder in the nuts, you can take me out to dinner tonight,” Tino says in a high-pitched voice. I step out of the box, my hand up to hold the pitch.

“Fuck you, Tino,” I laugh as both Walton and Scout look to me from the mound, wondering what the hell is going on.

“It’s just the asshole brigade,” I shout to them and wave for them to pitch.

Used to our antics, Walton winds up, throws the pitch, and when I let loose on my swing, the crack echoes in my ears as I watch it clear the wall into the stands in left field.

Hell yeah, I’m back.