Page 34 of The Way We Swing Back

I took a quick detour to Zach’s room. “Catch?” I asked him as he scrolled on his phone.

He looked up lazily, unfazed by the question. “You two have fun.”

“Will do. Come down and hit later, though.”

Gavin and I went to the backyard. The grass smelled freshly cut, the dirt from the batter’s box in the cage mixing with the sunflower seeds from Gavin’s bat bag. The smells consumed me inside and out, wrapping me tight and refusing to leave. I’d dreamed of this for months.

I picked up my bat bag, long stored at the Quinns’ house, and grabbed my Rawlings glove. Leather and pine tar added to the scents in the air as I pounded my webbing, my palm stinging.

Gavin tossed me a ball lightly, smiling as much as I was. I spun the ball in my hand as if it were second nature, the seams finding their home in my fingertips. Gavin stood ten feet away, catcher’s glove and hand ready at his chest, his body swaying on the balls of his feet.

As I pulled back my arm, fear of reinjury rained down on my brain like lightning, but I pushed it aside. I tossed the ball lightly to his glove, the follow-through of the throw pure bliss. Gavin’s glove snapped at the ball, a whack echoing as I hit his pocket cleanly.

I backed up gradually, letting my arm get loose, the motion free and easy. I felt no pain at all through twenty-five throws. A twenty-sixth couldn’t hurt, right?

I wound up, releasing the ball as hard as I had all day, hitting Gavin square in the center of his body. Damn, it felt good to be back.

“That’s all I can do, Gavin,” I said.

“That was fun.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Could you throw me some batting practice, too? I’m allowed to hit.”

“Awesome,” he said, leading the way to the cage.

My old bat was parked in my bag; it had long lost its pop. But the tape on the handle was new, the stickiness still fresh. I stepped into the left-handed box, eyeing up Gavin as he threw the first pitch toward me.

Foul tip. But it didn’t matter. My swing was smooth and familiar, like riding a bicycle. It was still there, the same as throwing. I may have had less strength than I had a couple of months ago, but that’d come back with time.

Elation came through me when, two pitches later, I squared up a ball for the first time in months, rocketing off the screen in front of Gavin; I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed the sound of the ball smacking the metal piping.

After my first round, Gavin picked up balls with me. “I wish I had your swing. You kill the ball.”

I grinned. I wasn’t sure I had stopped grinning since Nate had given me the news, if I was being honest with myself. “Thanks. And you kind of already do. I’m just bigger.” I was in a compliment-giving mood; what could I say?

Gavin beamed, tossing a ball into the bucket. “You call Tanner yet?”

I snatched a ball off the ground. Of course I hadn’t. But he was the first person I’d wanted to—before texting Coach, before I’d even left Nate’s office, the thought had been Tanner’s going to lose his mind. Which was a stupid thing to think about a guy who had a boyfriend.

“Not yet,” I said.

“Perfect, we can now,” Gavin said as he pulled out his phone.

I jumped on him, yanking the device out of his hand. “Absolutely not,” I said, tossing him in the loosest headlock that would keep him down.

He giggled into my chest. “It’s just a phone call.”

I tossed him away from me, but not before putting his phone into my pocket. “I’ll text him when we’re done. You get your phone when we get inside.”

“Dork.”

He managed to get back into the cage without an argument, and we rotated for the next two hours; Gavin would throw to me, then I’d underhand him a bucket. Back to the old days—or, at least, almost.

As the sun faded, Mr. Quinn walked out, watching us from the steps, not saying a word. He flicked on the back porch lights, just bright enough to let us continue hitting.

Around nine o’clock, blisters started to form on my hands, burning with each swing. I’d never enjoyed pain so much. I fought through it for another two buckets, but I realized tomorrow was Saturday, and we could hit all day.

We made our way inside, where Mrs. Quinn reheated the dinner she had made two hours ago—goulash. I bit down into my least favorite dish, but, even still, it was the best meal I’d had in weeks.