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I gaped at him. What was happening? “I’m happy.” Or I was. Now I was still mostly happy but also very confused and a little worried.

He gave me a sad smile. “I was happy once too. You told me she was bad for me. You told me and I ignored you. I hurt you so much by letting your mother come back into our lives over and over again.”

It slowly began to dawn on me. Dad didn’t like Everett because of the years he kept his distance. “Dad, Everett is nothing like Beth.”

He put up his hand. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

I wanted to cry. It never occurred to me Dad would be anything less than delighted about Everett.

He sighed. “Just…just give me some time. This is a lot. First your mother and now this…”

I didn’t say another word. Not until we got to the Tangerines’ practice facility and I could focus on work.

21

EVERETT

“Hinton chases fastballs,” Coach Diaz said as he looked down the lineup while I warmed up in the bullpen, “and Cristobol misses your curveball every time. You’ve got this.”

I nodded once and threw another pitch. Then another. I felt good and everything was hitting just right. Somewhere out there Willa was in the stands. Once upon a time that fact would have distracted me. The need to show off, to be good enough, outweighed my ability to do my job. That lack of focus and self-doubt had walked me straight into an impossible case of the yips.

But now I had good medication, years of growing up, and confidence in my ability. So I allowed myself a moment to appreciate that my girlfriend was here to watch me pitch and then put it away.

“Last batter,” Diaz called.

I threw one more pitch, rolled my shoulders, and took a cleansing breath. There was a crack as the batter made contact, the gruff call of an out, and a crowd growing restless.

“You’re up.”

I left the bullpen and jogged towards the mound as my music played over the stadium speakers. I didn’t see the crowd. The sounds became a blur in the back of my mind. I checked the ruts left by the previous pitchers, made some adjustments to the mound, then took the ball, throwing a few practice pitches to Wes Allen. My job was to get the final three outs. To blast the balls past the batters so fast they were lucky if they could get a piece of the ball.

I never imagined myself as a closer. I was a starter. I threw hard and had a good mix of pitches that kept batters guessing, very similar to Chris Kaine. But my years away from the game changed me. When I threw, I threw for myself or to teach the high schoolers something. The muscles in my arm changed. Now I could throw a dynamic and nearly impossible mix of pitches but only for two innings. Maybe three if I was really efficient.

Maybe I could have worked to stretch out my arm and return to my starter days, but I found a home in the Mantas lineup as a closer. They’d also used me a few times in the reverse role as an opener. And while I did well coming out and starting the game with the top of the lineup on their heels, I preferred the adrenaline of coming in at the end of the game with everything on the line. Knowing that with the right pitch I could outsmart the best hitters in baseball.

I found peace on the bump, the ball molded perfectly to my hand, my fingers finding the laces to form the planned pitch. Everything stilled. It was me and Wes communicating the language of pitchers and catchers, and the batter who was my temporary challenge.

I wasn’t perfect, but I was damn good. One thing that set me apart from other closers was that I didn’t get rattled when my pitch missed or something went wrong. A ground ball skipped away from Hunter Holland, letting Cristobol on base. Not ideal, but not a problem. Instead of Hunter calming me down, I locked eyes with him, held out my glove, and let him know we had this. Then I turned my attention to Wes, let him see that I was on fire.

Five pitches later a double play ended the game. Wes jogged straight to me as he pushed his mask off his head and tucked it under his arm. “Damn man. You only missed one fucking pitch. I don’t ever want anyone else on that mound with the game on the line. You’re on another level these days.”

I finally let my gaze stray to the stands. I searched for Willa or any of the other Tangerines who might have come with her tonight but came up empty. The sting of disappointment was stronger than I expected. Maybe something happened with her dad? Or fuck, her mom?

Seth grabbed my shoulder. “Turn that frown upside down, buddy.” Then he twisted me towards the bullpen. And there, waiting at the end of the netting, stood Willa.

As fast as my mood fell, it made a U-turn. “Thanks man. I’ll see you inside.”

He clapped my back. “Say hi for me.”

Not a problem. No one stopped me as I jogged across the field. In a single motion I vaulted over the low wall to take her into my arms and kiss her. She felt just right, like this was exactly what I was meant to do after a game. No wonder every other win felt like something was missing.

“Good game.” She grinned up at me.

“Thanks. Nice to have you here.”

She wrapped her arms around me and locked her hands. “Not gonna lie, I’ve dreamed about this moment for a long, long time.”

“Is that so?”