Page 25 of The Way We Swing Back

“Think it over,” Nate said. “Now focus on your shoulder.”

On the drive home, I stared out the window while Gavin and Mrs. Quinn talked about nothing remotely intriguing. My thoughts raced to how Gavin had followed my instructions. How he’d looked at me when he finished.

He had done everything I told him, and some stupid part of me had felt good about it. Useful. But useful didn't pay for college, and it didn’t help me throw ninety. Nate could keep his someday. I had six weeks to figure out how to be cleared, and a someday I couldn’t see was no use to me now.

Chapter 12

Coach Berrios clapped his hands together, the sound echoing. “Alright, get in your hitting groups! Let’s go!”

We were at an indoor facility a mile from school; it was still too cold to practice outside. The inside had a turf infield and half a dozen cages, but the walls were too thin, and my fingertips tingled as we finished stretching. The high school season was fast approaching, with tryouts a week away. Not that I needed to worry about playing.

I grabbed a bat before I even realized it—habit more than intention—and stepped toward the cages, needing to swing as much as an alcoholic needed a drink.

“Easton.” Coach’s voice was gentle, which somehow made it worse. “You’re not cleared to swing yet.”

I froze mid-step. “I’m fine,” I said, even though that wasn’t technically true. The tightness in my shoulder had been creeping back into my sleep, worse than any nightmare.

“I know you are,” he said, putting a hand on my back and steering me away from the cage. “But we’re not setting you back. Can you go help with soft toss?”

Like a freaking tee-ball dad.

I didn’t argue. I walked across the turf to where Jake stood, clicking the knob of his bat against his palm. I found a bucket of balls and dumped them out, flipping the bucket so I could have a seat.

Jake swung at the first five balls, brimming with nervous energy. We’d been working on his swing for months at the Quinns’, but he couldn’t seem to stop pulling off the ball when he got excited.

“You’re doing it again, dude,” I said.

“I know, I know. I can feel it,” Jake said, shaking his head at himself. “I’m like that dumb kid that fails an open-book spelling test.”

“You’re not dumb. Just focus a bit more—work on this now so your body’s ready to crush it in games.”

“Okay, Mr. Coach,” Jake teased, but he listened.

He swung again—crack. Not perfect, but better.

“See?” I said. “You’re fine. Stop panicking.”

He smirked. “Wish you could hit. I like watching you swing.”

“Trust me, dude,” I muttered, “same.”

I spent an hour tossing balls underhand to teammates before Coach called for infielders, which meant grounders—something I was technically allowed to do, as long as I didn’t throw.

I jogged to shortstop with Zach, ignoring the twist in my stomach. Fielding was the one thing that didn’t require a shoulder able to rotate, and I needed to prove to myself I still had it—that I was still a baseball player.

After the third basemen fielded their grounders, Coach Berrios yelled at me, “Ready!”

The first ball came hot, skidding across the turf. Easy. I charged and scooped—except the ball rolled off the heel of my glove and kicked toward second base.

I heard Zach take a breath behind me. My face burned.

“Shake it off!” Coach yelled.

I reset. Next ball—another sharp hop. I moved toward it, but my glove dipped at the last second, and it ricocheted off my wrist again and onto the ground in front of me.

Two in a row. Two stupid, avoidable mistakes.

“Easton,” Coach warned, voice edged. “Relax.”