by Shey Stahl
For me.
For Tatum.
And for the one across from me.
It’s as if fate knew my pain and his and said here, you can have this one.
I don’t know what will happen after his last game. Regionals and the draft. And my heart hasn’t prepared herself for the idea of this guy who’s worked his way into our lives, one pitch at a time, is going to leave us. I’ve only been on one date with him, but it feels like a lifetime with him.
“Cason?” His eyes lift to mine, waiting. “Are you going to take me home tonight, or what?”
The intensity of his eyes smolders. I know, such a weird word, but I’m telling you now they fucking smolder. “Depends.”
I finish the remainder of my wine and arch a playful eyebrow. “On what?”
His jaw ticks and he swallows before saying, “If I get home-field advantage.”
I start laughing. “I won’t kick you out in the middle of the night.” I wonder if he catches onto the meaning or what I’m implying. For the past month, I’ve made him go back to his room so Tatum doesn’t know.
His eyes narrow on mine, hope and confusion in them. He stares at me, surveying my face as his expression falls serious, his voice dropping. “She might see me.” His tone portrays his emotion more than his words do. And the look in his eyes is unlike anything I’ve seen before.
But you want to know what made the night epic?
Waking up next to him in the morning and Tatum crawling into bed with us.
“Boy,” she says, curling into his arms and laying her head on his chest. “Mama, it’s our boy.”
Our boy is right. The one that showed us love still exists.
Another term for a fastball. “This pitcher is throwing gas.”
CASON
1 MONTH LATER
Blood rushes through my veins, adrenaline pumping with the pounding of my heart. I stare at the ball in my hand and drown out the noise in the stadium. Thousands of people cheering, music blaring, but I hear none of it.
A no-hitter.
That’s what I’m up against. Bottom of the sixth. No hits. A few have got a piece of a couple, and my heart drops when they do, but they foul off the fence post and save my ass.
After the sixth inning, nobody talks to me. Won’t even sit next to me in the dugout. That’s when it begins to sink in. A no-no. Something that doesn’t happen often once you get into the upper levels of baseball.
In the eighth inning, I notice my dad in the stands for the first time. He’s been there the entire time, sitting right next to Sydney and Tatum, yet until now, I haven’t noticed anyone. I’m so far inside my own head, I can’t tell you anything aside from how many fastballs I’ve thrown and that my changeup gets the right fielder every time.
I look to Tatum, who’s wearing all Sun Devils gear, sitting on my dad’s lap, cotton candy in hand, smiling.
Ninth inning, two strikeouts, 0-2 count. I can essentially throw what I want here. Maybe draw the batter to swing, but if he gets a hit, it’s over.
I lift my eyes to Sydney. Seated above the dugout, nervousness on her face, her hands pulled up near her mouth.
I want to laugh. She’s nervous? Ha. I can barely stand up here and toe the rubber without wanting to cry. I haven’t pitched a no-hitter since my sophomore year of high school.
Close the deal. That’s all I need to do. Nodding to Ez’s pitch selection, I grip the ball in my hand. Curveball. I need it to paint the black and secure this last out. I can do it. I know I can.
Silence spreads throughout the stadium, everyone anxiously waiting to see if this kid who’s struggled all season, the one who threw a hundred and five mile an hour fastball can pull off a no-hitter.
I set my hands, wind up, and deliver.
In those second 375 milliseconds it takes for the ball to reach the plate, I hold my breath.
It’s followed by the pop as it hit’s Ez’s glove, the swoosh of the bat as their shortstop attempts to get a piece of it, and the bellow of the umpire calling the strike.
Ez is the first one to me. Practically jumps over the top of me as he rushes the mound. The rest of the team soon after. I don’t remember much about the next twenty minutes. Cameras are in my face, media, my coaches… everyone. Through all that, I never get a chance to see my dad or Sydney.
“I don’t even know how to put it into words,” I tell the press and everyone else who asks me how I feel about pitching ASU’s first no-hitter in ten years. I pitched all nine innings, and it felt amazing.
AN HOUR LATER, still amped and unsure how to process any of it, my dad enters the club house.
“Guaranteed you’re in the top ten draft picks for the first round,” Dad tells me.
I say nothing, but I do smile. Truth is, I have no idea how to react.
Dad’s bombarded by the guys from the team. It’s pretty special to make it to the majors, and I’m the only one on the team with a dad who’s made it. Naturally they want his attention. Once we finally leave the clubhouse, I’m eager to see Sydney.
“Invite her to dinner. I’d like to take you guys out tonight,” Dad tells me, walking ahead to talk with my agent.
I pocket my cell phone that hasn’t stopped ringing and search the crowd outside the clubhouse.
I notice Sydney approach with Tatum in her arms, and the tension in my chest loosens.
“No-hitter!” she screams, and Tatum puts her hands up in the air, as if she knows she’s supposed to be excited but doesn’t know why.
The second she’s within a foot of me, Tatum lunges forward and steals my hat. “Boy!”
I’ll never tire of hearing that word and her precious voice.
Taking her in my arms, I hold her close. “What did you think, kid?”
She holds out her hand. “Belly jelly?”
Laughing, I pull out the stash I keep in my pocket for her.
Sydney curls herself around my other arm. “I’ve never seen a no-hitter in person. That was amazing. I don’t think I breathed the entire time.”
I sigh into her hair. “You and me both.” Emotion digs deep inside me, and believe it or not, I fight back tears. This shit is heavy. I pause, mulling it over in my head, and then go for it. “My dad wants you to come with me.”
She looks up at me, our eyes locked on one another. “To dinner?”
I nod and shove the unwanted thoughts of her turning me down out of my head. I don’t have time for negativity.
A stain of red spans across her cheeks. She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to spend some time alone with your dad?”
“He asked if you and Tatum wanted to come to dinner.” My smile falters. I shift my feet, adjusting my shoulders. Hell, I’m fucking fidgeting. “You don’t want to, do you?”
She blinks, smiling. “I’d love to. I’m starving.”
Jesus. She really knows how to keep a guy guessing.
“WHAT WAS CASON like as a kid?”
Groaning, I set my beer down on the table. “We don’t need to talk about me.”
My dad chuckles under his breath, lifting his eyes to Sydney as he colors on a napkin. We’re at a local steak house. All you can eat meat. My kind of place. Although I’d rather Syd be eating my meat, I settle with her sitting next to me at the table, her hand on my thigh under the table and, unfortunately, asking about me as a kid.
Spoiled.
Unpredictable.
Irrational.
To name a few. I like to think college taught me a lot and made me grow up, but I also know my dad, he’ll never say that about me.
“He was the best kid,” my dad tells her, looking at me with a smirk. “As long as there was a baseball in his hand.”
“Hey, man, color,” Tatum tells my dad when he stops drawing her snowmen to color.
Man? She’s so fucking cute.
Smiling, I watch him with Tatum, reminded of my time spent with him. I loved every minute I spent with my dad. At home, on the road, he did ever
ything he could to make me feel like I was the most important person in his life.
Dad winks at Tatum. “Hand me the red crayon, Loretta.”
“They’re cute together,” Sydney notes, watching my dad with Tatum.
“He’s really good with kids. I get it from him.”
Tears sting her eyes as she watches them. “My dad passed away before she was born, and Collin’s dad lives in Colorado. She’s never even met him.”
“Maybe he’s hanging out with my mom,” I snort, looking down at my phone. It’s my mom again.
The rest of dinner is spent with me ignoring the constant ringing of my phone, my dad sharing embarrassing stories of me wearing pull-ups until I was seven, and informing Sydney that when I was ten, I called my dad while he was on the road and told everyone my bat was hard when I woke up. Turns out, I was on speakerphone, and everyone on the team bus heard me.
Shaking my head, I scowl at my dad, my cheeks pink. “Stop talking.”
With whip cream on her lips from her pie, Sydney laughs so hard she clamps her thighs together. “I love your dad.”
I pull her into my side, kissing her temple. “You better love me more.”
She doesn’t say anything. Probably because she’s laughing too hard.
Like how I slipped that one in there? And hey, I know it’s soon, and we haven’t said it out loud, but I feel it deep inside my chest.
I haven’t said it yet, but I fell in love with her at 6:00 a.m.—her hair a mess and my hand trailing over her skin. That’s when I knew that somewhere between three bases and home plate, this girl was my home run.
After dinner, Sydney leaves with Tatum to get her to bed, and I stand in the parking lot talking to my dad.
“She’s great, Case,” he notes, watching her van pull out of the parking lot.
I shove my hands in my pockets. “She is. The kid’s pretty great too.”
He leans into the side of his car, his arms crossed over his chest. “Cute kid for sure. What’s your plan with them?” His eyes focus on mine. “I see that look on your face, and hers.”
My dad has always been extremely perceptive to what I’m thinking. “I don’t know. She’s one to wait for. I know that much.”
Pushing off the side of the car, he hauls me into a hug. “I’m so proud of you, Case. I can’t believe I got to see my boy pitch a no-hitter.”
Shit. Don’t cry now. I laugh over the tears trying to let loose and hug him.
“Just remember,” he whispers in my ear, “if it’s right, it’s worth waiting for.”
He told me that same advice when I was offered to play in the majors my senior year of high school. He’s right though. Sydney’s worth waiting for.
Another term for a double play. Or when a team wins both games in a doubleheader.
SYDNEY
Cason traps me against the kitchen island, his mouth at my ear. He’s trying to kiss me, but Olaf is attacking his feet. “Why is everyone in this house so obsessed with me?”
He’s teasing, but in reality, we totally are. I laugh and hear Sadie in the family room with Tatum. “I’m not!”
Cason frowns and looks back at me. “She’s not part of this house.”
“Bullshit I’m not.”
And then comes the “Bullshit!” from Tatum. Naturally.
Cason shakes his head. “It’s better than her running around saying cock. That was weird.”
“True.” I search his beautiful blue eyes, loving the spark in them when he talks about Tatum. “The worst part was it felt like a normal word after a while.”
“Why is this Christmas tree still up?” I overhear Sadie ask Tatum. “Are we just keeping it up until Christmas?”
Tatum ignores her completely, chasing Olaf around the room. “Here titty-titty!” Lunging between Cason’s legs to get the kitten, she holds him up. “I loves you.”
“She’s talking to me,” Cason notes, winking at me but widening his stance to keep from tripping over her and the cat.
Staring up at him, she holds out her hand. “Where’s my belly jellies?”
Cason pulls a bag from his pocket. “As you wish, Loretta.”
They have a system. He’s her Frozen buddy—I think he has a secret crush on Elsa—and he’s her snack bitch.
When Tatum runs back into the family room, Cason says, “I got a meeting with the Angels tomorrow.”
My stomach drops, but not necessarily in a bad way. This is what he’s worked so hard for all his life, and for me not to be excited for him because I’m being selfish isn’t fair to him. “That’s huge!” And sucks for me and the kid. “My dad signed with the Angels right out of high school.”
His eyes widen. “Did he play in the majors?”
“No. Sadly he was in a horrible car accident before he could. That’s why he turned to coaching.”
“That sucks.” He shrugs one shoulder, keeping his eyes on mine. “I’m not going to get my hopes up. It’s just a meeting.”
I think back to what his dad told me during the game last week—the one where Cason pitched a no-hitter. Luke told me they called Cason the natural when he was younger. Baseball never took much effort for him. And it didn’t. Which is why it’s more than a meeting. Any club would be stupid not to take on his talent. “But it could be more,” I hedge.
“I don’t want to get ahead of myself. I’ve been…” His eyes find mine. “…disappointed before.”
With the way he’s staring at me, I think I know what he’s talking about. Us. Or whatever we are. “Cason, I really like you, and I know you want more from this… and I might even be falling in love with your stupid, charming ass.” His lips quirk into a smile. “But, I do have a daughter to think about, and falling for you might not be right for her. Or you.”
“She loves me,” he adds, a certain amount of annoyance held in each word. “And I know you love me. There’s no might about it.”
My cheeks bloom with heat, knowing he’s right. I do. I just haven’t brought myself to say the words to him.
“Listen.” He holds my face in his hands. “I’m well aware of the fact that this won’t be easy. When I’m drafted, you, Tatum, there’s so many unknowns, but we’ll do what we can and make it work.”
He’s absolutely right. That’s exactly what we were doing now. He graduates in two days, the draft following soon after.
And me? I can buy my own coffee now. So there’s that. Though I’m still working out of the garage, my business is going crazy. Financially, I recovered from where I was three months ago.
Emotionally, I have no idea how to describe where I am now. Scared. Nervous. Happy. All part of my daily spectrum of emotions.
My biggest fear? Tatum. She knows Cason is a part of my life, she’s seen us kiss, lays in bed with us in the mornings, yet we still haven’t told her that in a month, he will be leaving. I’m not sure how to have that conversation with her. Taking away her boy? Um, I don’t want to be the one to do that.
I mean, look at them. We’re having a heavy conversation about where our relationship is going, and they’re torturing the kitten together.
“Stay for pizza?” I ask Cason as he lays on the floor and wrestles with Tatum.
“I’m starving,” he says and then proceeds to take a playful bite out of Tatum’s belly as he traps her on the tile floor.
“Boy! No!” She smacks at him, wiggling around. “I’m not food!”
God, could they be any cuter together?
LATER THAT NIGHT, after pizza and watching Frozen, I’m lying in bed with Cason, and he rolls over to face me. We’ve been sleeping in the same bed for over a month, though I refuse to acknowledge we’re dating. We totally are, but I can’t play all my cards that soon. I have to keep the guy guessing a little.
“Are you nervous?” he asks, his voice low and rough.
“About?” I touch my hand to his cheek, loving the way the moonlight hits his shoulder and outlines the definition, the power in that right arm that’s going to take him
so many wonderful places. And does so much for me too. Wink wink.
“Me leaving.”
The corners of my lips twitch. “I wouldn’t say nervous. More like terrified.”
Sadness marks his features, his lips pressed into a flat line. “I wish I could take you both with me, wherever it is I go.”
“We’ll be right here, waiting,” I whisper, trailing my fingertips over his bicep and to his chest.
His dad told me the one piece of advice he ever gave Cason and hoped he remembered. And now I hold it true to me. The game usually gives you what you deserve, good or bad.
I think the same can be said for life and love.
Another term for being in the Major Leagues. “Being in the bigs.”
CASON
1 MONTH LATER
Graduation passes in a blur. Regionals even quicker. I make three appearances on the mound during regionals and pitch like I should have all season. With Sydney and Tatum cheering me on.
Draft day follows. The biggest day of my career. I spend it with my dad and what feels like hundreds of news outlets. I accept the offer right before the pick is made.
“Angels man, fucking Angels,” Ez groans through the phone as I’m packing my clothes.
“I know. But Pirates, man. That’s great.” Ez was picked up by the Pirates. He left on a plane this morning.
I’m not sure how I feel about being drafted to the Angels. First round, picked tenth for 6.8 million. Still, the money means nothing.
You know what does?
My dad and wondering if I’ll ever live up to his clout in the league, if my arm will hold out, and Sydney. Like it or not, I don’t want to leave her. I knew it was coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier that afternoon.
“Tell Sadie I’m waiting for her to answer my text.” He laughs. “Bitch needs to stop ignoring me. I hit it better than that drummer any day.”
Chuckling, I close the zipper on my bag and leave it on the floor next to the bed. “You tell her. I’m not playing messenger for you. And if you call her a bitch, pretty sure that’s not ending well for you.”
