Page 20 of The Way We Swing Back

I turned sharply.

Mr. Quinn strode toward me, his face tight, his eyes scanning me like he couldn’t decide if I was a problem or a disappointment. Or both. “Please don’t leave until we talk,” he said, voice clipped. He glanced at his phone then back at me.

“Okay,” I said. It came out small and thin, like it didn’t belong to me.

He gave me a nod that barely registered as acknowledgment and walked into the hospital. Which made sense. I hurt his kid, and parents don’t keep you around after that. My dad was right about one thing: you only got to be a problem so many times before people stopped wanting you around.

I went back into the lobby again, deciding to sit for a second time. I sank onto one of the plastic chairs, the vinyl cold against my palms as I gripped the seat. A man two chairs over turned a magazine page like it was any other Saturday.

My backpack rested on my lap, but I couldn’t unzip it to check my phone or even fidget with the zipper without the pulse of panic spiking up my arms. Every sound—the squeak of nurses’ shoes on linoleum, the low rumble of the vending machine, the rustle of a magazine page—felt like it was targeting me, as if someone had put a spotlight on my chest and was waiting for it to explode.

In, out. In, out. The breathing trick Tanner always made me do, except it wasn’t working, because every time I got near calm, the snap played again. That crunching, wrong sound as his wrist hit the floor would come, and I’d be back at the start. My hands wouldn’t warm up no matter how hard I flexed them.

That felt correct, somehow. Like my body already knew I wouldn’t be allowed to be comfortable today. Gavin was in there because of me. Whatever the doctor said next, that part didn’t change, and no apology I could think of made the sentence end any differently: he got hurt, and it was on me.

I stood again. My mind jumped back to the image of Gavin’s face twisted in pain, the sound of bone crunching when he hit the floor.

Cast. Surgery. Him never gripping a bat the same. All my fault.

A nurse wheeled a gurney through the hall, the squeal of its wheels echoing through the building. I flinched. My ears throbbed; my heart caught in my throat. The distant crackle of an intercom announced some room I didn’t know, some person I didn’t care about.

I imagined Gavin lying on the hospital bed, his wrist bent at an unnatural angle. I pictured Mr. Quinn hovering while I just stood here, useless, frozen, betraying him. My throat tightened until swallowing was impossible. My stomach lurched, close to vomiting.

I tried texting Tanner, hoping he’d give me an anchor, a sense of normalcy. My fingers shook as I opened the app. No signal. The one person who could talk me down, and the place wouldn’t even let me reach him.

Then I saw Mr. Quinn again, farther down the hall. He was talking to someone—maybe a nurse, maybe a doctor—but his posture screamed irritation and impatience. He didn’t look at me once. Not even a glance.

My shoulders tightened. I wanted to move, to run down the hall, to grab him and demand answers. I wanted him to tell me Gavin was okay. But my legs had turned to lead; my knees were locked in place. I sank back into the chair, my head in my hands.

“What am I doing here?” I whispered so quiet I wasn’t sure I’d said it out loud.

Still, I stayed put because Mr. Quinn had said not to leave.

Hours passed—or, at least, that was how it felt. My chest heaved with shallow breaths. Sweat dampened my hoodie even though the room was cold. I shifted in the chair, trying to find relief, but it was futile. Every noise made me jump; every shadow made my stomach twist.

I closed my eyes, trying to picture the Quinns’ house and Gavin safe and laughing. But the image fractured and was replaced by him lying on the floor, his face contorted, screaming, my hands shaking too hard to hold him.

I imagined the worst: Mr. Quinn angry, furious at me, yelling like Dad used to, Coach shaking his head in disappointment. Tanner’s voice stung in my head, too, asking why I hadn’t been more careful.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, hands over my face, and tried to make the world shrink. Tried to make it stop. Tried to make the panic retreat. But it didn’t.

Footsteps clicked against the floor, sharp and fast. I peeked between my fingers. Mr. Quinn approached, flanked by Coach, who had a calm, steady presence that made me think the ground beneath me might hold.

“You’re still here,” Mr. Quinn said, voice tight, almost accusatory, though not directly at me. He didn’t look angry, just... tense.

“You told me not to leave,” I whispered, my voice cracking.

He nodded once, briskly, and moved toward the desk to speak to a nurse. I followed; the air finally settled just a fraction, like a weight had been lifted.

Coach put a hand on my shoulder. “You did well,” he said quietly.

I exhaled, relief mixing with lingering panic. My legs trembled, but I stayed put. My heart still raced, pulsing with every breath.

Mr. Quinn gestured me over, and I followed him into a room. Gavin lay inside, his wrist wrapped and elevated, a bright cast covering it. He was pale, eyes wide, but he waved when he saw me.

The floodgates cracked. My knees threatened to buckle. I wanted to run to him, to apologize, to make sure he was okay. I kept my hands in fists, my knuckles white, and my jaw tight.

“Easton! I got a cast!” he said, his voice brighter than it should have been.