Swing and a Mishap

by Tara Sivec

  I drop the cap I’m still twirling in my fingers to punch Nick in the shoulder. Not hard enough to injure him, since he still has to be able to catch a fucking ball. Just hard enough to piss him off. And the punch isn’t about the loss of constant female companionship. I haven’t given a shit about that in…

  Exactly two years, when I suddenly became obsessed with checking social media.

  Nick is currently glaring at me while he rubs his shoulder, because even with the knee injury I went through, and even though I am considered “old” by professional baseball standards and actually at prime retirement age, my sprint time is still the best on the team. I can still catch or stop every ball that comes to me in the outfield. And I’m still a beast behind the plate. I have the skill after my injury; I just don’t have the heart.

  “I don’t love it like I used to. The money and the fame don’t give me someone to talk to who understands when I’m having a shit day, or to call when I’m lonely out on the road. It doesn’t give me someone to make it better after an eight-hour grueling practice, and it doesn’t give me kids to play catch with out in the front yard,” I explain to him, dropping my head to look at the two baseball caps I’m now fiddling with on the counter. “You don’t get it. You have all of that. You have Amanda and the kids, and you have a reason for wanting to keep busting your ass and putting your body through hell to play the game and bring home a paycheck for them. I have enough money that I never have to work for the rest of my life. Who the fuck am I even doing this for anymore?”

  “No, I get it. I do.” Nick nods. “If I didn’t have Amanda and the boys, I couldn’t imagine still doing this job and not having them to come home to.”

  “I thought I was making the right choice trying to settle down and be serious with Alana and she would be that for me—”

  “Oh fuck off, you never once thought that about her,” Nick scolds, pointing his beer bottle at me. “You made a hasty decision under pressure on national television so you wouldn’t look like an asshole in front of the entire world. She was a vapid social media influencer you met at a party who made you carry her purse in public so she could take ten thousand selfies. She was never going to be your person, and she proved that point by dumping your ass when she found out you weren’t going to be a big, famous ballplayer anymore, and she no longer had someone to get her into the best club openings and parties.”

  All I can do is sigh, because he’s right. Alana Caldwell was convenient. I said yes to a date with her, because the person I really wanted to date lived three thousand miles away. And I agreed to make things more serious and exclusive with her a few weeks later, because the person I really wanted to be serious and exclusive with was taken.

  Or so I fucking thought.

  I didn’t just spend the last six months feeling sorry for myself about my injury and about how empty my life is. Before she ended things, every minute I spent alone in the hospital when Alana was too busy to visit, or every time I called and she had one excuse after another for brushing me off and not having time to talk, it was never more obvious what a bad decision I made. And not just with making things exclusive in front of the whole world or saying yes to that first fucking date. But with my ridiculous decision to abruptly cut off all communication with one of the most important people in my life after that television debacle a year ago, because I thought it was the right thing to do.

  And because I thought she was taken. All this goddamn time.

  She would have put her life on hold and talked to me on the phone for hours after my injury if it’s what I needed.

  She would have sent me more messages than Nick to try to cheer me up when I was rehabbing, and she probably would have been the only one to succeed.

  She would’ve absolutely gotten on a plane to come to me if I asked.

  But I fucked up and I let her go, because I never thought she was an option for me. And I knew the only way I could move on with my life was to move on from her, as shitty as it was and as shitty as it made me feel.

  “Coach also let it slip you went back to Summersweet a few weeks ago, but he said you were barely there a full twenty-four hours before you turned right around and came back to Washington. When I asked him what the fuck happened in that short amount of time for you to immediately turn in your resignation and pack up your life here, he said I needed to ask you that. But I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.”

  Nick pauses, and a slow smile spreads across his face.

  “You’re not moving back home for a change or for a job you don’t even need. You’re moving back home to finally get you your pen pal! It’s so sweet I could puke.”

  The corner of my mouth twitches at Nick’s exuberance as he pumps his arms in the air and dances his big body around on top of my bar stool. Nick was the only person who knew about my yearlong “pen pal” relationship with Wren Bennett, and it was only because he caught me smiling down at my phone one too many times. He snatched it out of my hand once at practice when I was icing my shoulder in the dugout, and Wren had accidentally sent me a video of herself drunk, singing very, very badly but adorably. Nick naturally assumed I was laughing at a funny meme I hadn’t shared with him and wouldn’t give my phone back to me until he read through damn near all of our messages.

  “I’m happy for you, man, but are you sure about this? You really want to retire from pro ball to be a… high school baseball coach?”

  “If Jack Carter can do it, so can I. He’s perfectly happy being retired from the game and coaching at Fullton State,” I remind him, referring to our friend who played for the Mets and was one of the greatest pitchers of all time.

  “Jack fucking Carter is an anomaly, and don’t forget; he’s got his Kitten to make everything better. I’m assuming since you’ve already packed up your life and made this big decision that you took my advice of apologizing to your pen pal for being an asshole, she forgave you, and now you’re going to live happily ever after on a Podunk island in the middle of nowhere? When’s the wedding, and can I wear purple?” Nick asks, laughing and shielding his face with his arms when I raise my fist and threaten to punch him again.

  Nick was never a fan of me cutting off all communication with Wren a year ago, mostly because it turned me into the moodiest of bastards. He’s been telling me to apologize to her ever since I ran out of my last package of salt water taffy and spent fifteen minutes screaming at him in the locker room about what a shitty friend he was for never sending me any surprise goodies in the mail. I didn’t just miss the damn taffy, and Nick knew it. I missed her. I missed hearing how her day was, I missed her giving me shit all the time. I missed giving her advice about Owen’s baseball. And I even fucking missed her kid, and I’d never even met him. I’d seen enough videos and heard her talk about him so much it felt like I had though.

  When I got the clean bill of health from my surgeon and the Hawks’ team doctor, and months later that empty feeling in my gut still hadn’t left me, I knew why. I knew what was missing, and I knew what I had to do, where I needed to go, and the only person who could make this feeling go away. I wanted more from Wren the very first time we talked again after high school. She made me laugh when I was feeling sad and alone in a hotel room in Minnesota, eating room service by myself in bed with the local news on. I had been mesmerized by a butter sculpture of a woman, while the rest of my team was out to dinner with their significant others.

  But when we spoke about her son’s father still being in their lives, she never corrected me. I naturally assumed they were still together. I turned us into pen pals and kept us strictly in the friend zone out of respect for her. I never asked about him again, and she never brought him up, but he was always there, hovering in the back of my mind. This nameless, faceless man who got to see the smile on Wren’s face when he said something that amused her, who got to hear her voice when she said his full first and last name, because he said something that annoyed her. The man who got to hold her when she was having a bad day, who got t
o celebrate with her when she had a good one, and who had the privilege of waking up to her in his bed every morning.

  It was hard not to hate a man I’d never even met.

  Every damn time I saw a new message pop up in my inbox, every time she said something to make me laugh, every time I felt less lonely out on the road when she’d send me ten pictures of cleats and ask me which ones were best for Owen, I would almost cave and tell her I would give my left arm to have her standing right in front of me instead of thousands of miles away. My right arm to see if she tasted as good as I imagined. And my entire baseball career and all the money I’ve ever made to see her wearing nothing but my jersey and hear her moaning my name while wearing it.

  I had every intention of going right to Wren as soon as I got to Summersweet Island a few weeks ago and apologizing as soon as I saw her, begging her to be my friend again, even if we could never be more. I would gladly take any part of her she would give me and that her man would be okay with. And then she wasn’t at the ballfield during her son’s game when I was in town, because she had to work. And I got to hear quite a few conversations from Wren’s family while I watched the last hour of the game, to make me realize a quick trip to Summersweet Island to apologize to Wren would never suffice.

  Stopping by just to beg her to be my friend again was definitely no longer on the table.

  Seeing her again and then turning right around and going back to Washington to live and figure out the rest of my life was absolutely no longer in the cards for me.

  Knowing what I know now… the next time I see that woman, I am never, ever leaving her again.

  Thinking back to that game a few weeks ago, I have never been more thankful to find out Wren’s sister Birdie was just as chatty as she used to be back in high school.

  “She’s going to be pissed she missed you if this is just a quick overnight trip. That woman has more T-shirts, hoodies, and jerseys with your name on the back than anyone else I know, watches every single game like it’s a religious experience, and God forbid any of us interrupt her while you’re playing.”

  “I wish Wren wasn’t working. There are too many baseball rules I don’t know or understand. I never thought I’d say this, but Wren being a baseball freak since birth and it being the only thing she has ever watched on TV since she learned how to use the remote as a toddler would really come in handy right now.”

  “Did I tell you guys Wren’s sperm donor might be coming to Summersweet to visit Owen? That piece of shit hasn’t set foot on this island in years, only calls when he wants something, and now he thinks he can just come here and fuck up their lives in person instead of doing it by phone or text like always.”

  “He told her she was looking old the last time he called. Can you believe that shit! He’s also on wife number four now, while Wren continues to be sad and alone like always, so that’s just great.”

  “I swear something was up with her a few years ago, and I thought she’d met someone. She was always so happy and giddy and disgusting all the time, even when sperm donor would call and try to bring her down. And then poof! It was gone and she was back to being the same sad and lonely Wren who does everything for everyone else and never makes time for her own happiness. She really needs something new in her life to shake things up. I can’t handle seeing her like this anymore.”

  “Nope. I didn’t get the chance to see her or apologize yet,” I finally admit to Nick, pulling myself out of my trip down memory lane. “Once I got there and realized I never wanted to leave, I figured I needed a plan in place before I even attempted to talk to Wren again and make things right between us.”

  Deciding to join my friend in a beer before I have to leave for the airport, I grab the last one out of the fridge, twist the top off, and hold it out between us. Nick clinks the neck of his bottle against mine, and we bring them up to our mouths, but I pause with a smile on my face.

  “And I also realized Wren Bennett has a shit-ton of explaining to do.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Wren

  “Pitches be crazy.”

  “What in the hell are you eating?”

  Leaning closer to my phone I have propped up against a small jar candle in the middle of my kitchen table, I take another slurping bite off my spoon.

  “Jell-O shots. YOLO!” I shout before leaning back in my seat and dipping my spoon back into my bowl to stir everything around.

  “It looks like you took one of Owen’s Jell-O snack packs out of the fridge, dumped it into a cereal bowl, and then poured vodka over it.”

  I slurp another bite of strawberry vodka Jell-O into my mouth and smile at my best friend’s face on the screen of my phone, currently judging me from thousands of miles away.

  “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.” I shrug.

  “Wren Elizabeth Bennett!”

  “Emily Jean Flanagan!” I shout back.

  Her long, beautiful, ginger-red hair sways around in its high ponytail when she shakes her head at me, her bright green eyes glaring at me through the screen when I take another bite of my concoction.

  “All right, now it just looks like you’re eating Jell-O vodka soup. Put that down right now!” she orders.

  I do as she says and set the bowl on the table off to the side of the phone, pushing it out of my reach so I’m not tempted to continue day drinking/vodka soup eating.

  “I miss you. I wish you were here.” I sigh dramatically.

  Neither one of us says anything for a few quiet seconds, both of us just staring at each other like sad puppy dogs. My sister Birdie and her best friend Tess Powell both work at Summersweet Island Golf Course together. Birdie as the social media and marketing director, and Tess as a bartender in the clubhouse. I’ve always been insanely jealous they get to work together and see each other all the time, and even more so the last couple of years. Growing up, it was always the four of us together, but since Birdie and I are sisters, and even sisters who are the best of friends need a break from each other every once in a while, Emily Flanagan with her fiery hair and her fiery spirit was always my ride or die. The one person I tell everything to, who only judges me if it’s for my own good and will always, always tell me the truth.

  Ever since Emily moved away four years ago to follow her dreams, Birdie and Tess never make me feel like a third wheel when I’m with them, but I always feel Emily’s absence. Especially when Birdie, Tess, and I get together at my family’s ice cream shop, the Dip and Twist, for something we like to call Sip and Bitch. A time to gather and drink vodka slushes from the ice cream shop while sitting at the purple picnic table we carved our names into as children, complaining about whatever is troubling us.

  Usually, Emily is able to FaceTime with us for every Sip and Bitch, but she’s been busy the last few months and we haven’t been able to reach her on those nights. I’m such a good friend that I thought inviting her to my own private Sip and Bitch in the comfort of my own kitchen while my son is at school was a brilliant idea.

  “Stop being sad. And for fuck’s sake, stop watching the recording of your sister’s proposal on national television,” Emily demands.

  Turning away from my phone guiltily, I pick up the remote control from the table, aiming it at the small TV that sits on my kitchen counter and switching it over to a baseball game. Right as Birdie was reaching into the cup on the 18th hole in a tournament Palmer played in Hawaii a few days ago, where I know she’ll pull out his ball from his winning shot, as well as a small, black ring box.

  The most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed, and I’m probably biased, because it happened to my baby sister. Palmer worked it out with the golfer who shot before him in the tournament to slip the ring box into the hole after the guy sunk his putt so it would be there when Palmer made his own shot next. Since Birdie and Palmer have this thing where she runs and jumps into his arms at the end of whatever tournament he plays, Palmer set her back down on her feet after he made his shot and asked her to grab his ball out of the cup for him. All of
the spectators on the golf course in Hawaii and everyone in the world watching on television let out a collective gasp and an “Awww” when Birdie stood back up with a confused look on her face as she held the ball and the ring box in her hand then turned around to find Palmer down on one knee on the green.

  My mom and I knew the proposal was going to happen. Palmer Campbell, being the sweet guy he is, came up to the Dip and Twist a few hours before he and Birdie were to leave for the airport and asked our permission to propose to her while they were in Hawaii. My mom and I both burst into tears immediately, and Palmer apologized for not asking us sooner, but he was afraid we’d… well, act just like that every waking minute we were around Birdie until she had the ring on her finger. Which made sense. Mom and I barely kept it together when we said goodbye to them at the ferry dock. Birdie could tell something was up with us and jumped right to the conclusion that we were acting all fidgety and weepy saying goodbye to her, because we knew something bad about the plane she didn’t. Palmer had to literally pick her up and put her on the ferry to take them to the mainland, with Birdie shouting the entire way about how that was the last time she would let him pick her up and put her where he wanted her.

  Since my mom and I knew when the proposal was going to happen—and after fifteen years of unrequited love, Birdie was finally going to get her happily ever after—of course I set my DVR to record the entire thing. I was beyond happy for my baby sister and the love of her life. She deserved to be happy with a man who treats her like a queen. I was only a little bit sad and a tiny bit jealous that I’d probably never get to experience something like that. I had my shot, and I blew it by keeping my mouth shut for entirely too long.

  “I have to continue watching that proposal until I’m numb from it all,” I explain to Emily. “I’ve calculated that twenty-seven more times should do the trick. Birdie and Palmer’s plane landed a little bit ago, and she’s coming straight here to show me the ring, where I will happily and dutifully sit by, while my sister recounts every single tiny detail of the proposal at least five times before pulling out a binder I’m sure she made on the flight home filled with pages and pages of wedding planning ideas. I really am so very happy for her.”