Page 12 of The Way We Swing Back

“It’s nothing serious. Just soreness.”

“Bullshit,” he said, and there wasn’t any bite in it—only certainty. “It’s not just sore. It’s hurting you. You’re trying to swing around it, and it’s getting worse.”

“Throw me another one.”

“No,” Gavin said, not moving, not lowering his voice. His eyes locked on mine; I tried to keep my gaze steady, but it drifted away as the lies flooded my body. “If you don’t tell my mom, I will.”

That pulled me up short. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

I turned toward him, my jaw tightening. “You’re going to snitch on me to your parents?”

“That’s not all they are. They care for you.”

“They don’t need to worry about me—”

“They already do,” he cut in. “So do I.”

I looked at him. Really looked. He was no longer just the kid who used to follow me around like a puppy, asking to take extra swings. He still basically did that, but he’d grown—just enough to be noticeable.

“Tanner says you’ve got a shot at playing after high school,” Gavin said. “Don’t screw it up because you think being in pain is cool.”

I eyed the ground for a second, toeing the dirt with my cleat. My arm throbbed in rhythm with my heartbeat.

“You gonna say anything?” he asked, backing off his tone.

I shook my head, finally exhaling. “Not yet.”

“I’ll give you until tonight.”

I reached for the cheapest deflection I had. “You and Jake always act like—” I stopped. It came out of my mouth sounding like my dad, and we both heard what I nearly said.

He huffed. “You really want to go there?”

“Right,” I said, grinning to soften the subject change I never should have made. “I don’t.”

He turned away, muttering words I couldn’t catch.

I stepped out of the cage, rolled my shoulder slowly, and walked past him toward the porch. “I’m still swinging tomorrow,” I said.

“We’ll see.”

I watched Jake throw balls to Gavin for the next ten minutes; his swing was as smooth as silk but still lacked the punch I knew he wanted.

When we sat down for dinner with the family, Gavin kept looking at me like... I didn’t know what. I was sure Jake would have had a good analogy.

We waited until after everyone was home from the game, the pizza was eaten, and the plates were cleared. Mr. Quinn settled in his usual recliner with a newspaper folded across his chest, half-reading, half-listening to the evening news. Mrs. Quinn was on the couch, one leg folded under her, sipping from a glass of iced tea, which was one of my favorite scents, though it was currently doing nothing to alleviate my fear. The kitchen light was still on behind us.

It was time. I hadn’t thought it would be this hard to tell the truth.

I stood in the middle of the living room as if I was giving a class presentation I hadn’t rehearsed, my heart racing. Gavin was next to me, arms crossed, close enough to serve as a solid, silent reminder: You’re not doing this alone.

Mrs. Quinn looked up first. “Everything okay, boys?”

My throat was dry, my toes tingling, the pizza turning to brick behind my ribs. “Uh. Kind of. Can we... talk for a sec?”

She sat up straighter, concern wracking her face. “Of course.”