Home Run

by Heidi McLaughlin

  His comment left me confused until Davenport filled me in about his situation. Seems Branch has a child that he never gets to see, and that doesn’t sit well with him. I can’t blame him, really. I’d give anything to have my mom back, even if it were just for a minute.

  After I put the car in park, I take a chance and look at Ainsley just to see her, to memorize what she looks like in my car. I turn slightly and catch her staring, and I can’t help but stare back. Her eyes wander over me, and when she finally reaches my face, her hazel orbs bore into my brown ones. There’s something in the air; it’s a mixture of her perfume, my cologne, and the lust I’m feeling for her. If this were any other time, I’d make a move, but not with her. I can’t. The timing has to be impeccable.

  After getting out of the car, I run around the side to let her out, making sure I avoid looking at her through the front window. I don’t want to know if she’s watching me or not, and I’m afraid to look. I’m afraid that I will trip and fall on my face. She’ll laugh. I’ll think it’s funny, until I’m home nursing some wound that I have to hide from the skipper.

  “Are you always this polite?”

  My hand is on the small of her back while I guide her into the restaurant, holding the door open so she can pass through first. Her question catches me off guard, giving me pause. Aren’t all men like this? That is the one thing my father was strict about: manners.

  “I am,” I tell her truthfully. “It’s the way I was brought up.”

  “Two for Bailey,” I tell the hostess, still making sure that Ainsley is in front of me as we follow the hostess to our table.

  “Well, your mother did it right,” she says, sitting down and taking the menu from the hostess.

  “It was my father. My mother died when I was young. I honestly have very few memories of her, and what I do remember, sometimes I wonder if I made them up.”

  Her eyes peer over the menu, and I see sadness. “How do you mean?”

  I shrug, setting my menu down. “I’ll look at a picture of her, and I think of the day it was taken. What the weather was like, how she smelled, what we did that afternoon. It’s moments like those that make me wonder if it’s real or if I want them to be real.”

  “How old were you when the memories started to fade?”

  I look at her questioningly, wondering why she’d ask something like this. “I don’t know, maybe a year or so. I didn’t have a lot of memories of her to begin with, so it’s hard to say.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  I ponder her question for a moment, unsure of how to respond. I miss her because, at one point, she was in my life, but I’ve been told that I do. I don’t know if it’s a feeling I have deep inside of me or if it’s because that is what people expect of me. I don’t think about her, not like I think about my dad and wonder what he’s doing, so it’s hard for me to say whether I miss her or not.

  The waitress saves me from answering by arriving at our table to take our order. Ainsley orders first, choosing the alfredo, while I select the spaghetti and meatballs. Only after I place my order do I realize that Italian probably isn’t the best first date place.

  “Uh, sorry about the restaurant. I wasn’t thinking about the sauce.”

  “It’s okay. I promise not to be messy.” She winks, setting me at ease.

  “Phew.” I wipe my forehead, causing her to laugh. It’s a sweet sound, and one I enjoy listening to over and over again, and the sound is so much better when she’s doing it in person and not over the phone.

  “So, Ms. Burke, what do you do in your free time?”

  “Try to avoid eager baseball players like yourself.”

  I fall back into the booth with my hand on my chest. “You break my heart.”

  “I’m sure you’ll survive.” She drinks from her glass, never taking her eyes from mine.

  “What if I don’t? Will you nurse me back to health?”

  Ainsley leans forward, the ends of her strawberry blond ponytail falling over her shoulder. “You’re not very subtle.”

  I match her position and reply, “Not when I know what I want.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “To see you again. To take you on a proper date.”

  She sits back and begins to fiddle with her napkin. “I don’t date athletes.”

  As if she has impeccable timing for awkward situations, the waitress returns with our drinks and a basket of bread, giving me a moment to formulate a witty response.

  “Bread?” I ask, tipping the basket toward her. We each take a mini roll, add butter, and eat quietly.

  “I’m sitting here trying to fathom why you don’t date athletes, and I think I’ve come up with a list.”

  “You have? I can’t wait to hear this,” she says, setting her bread aside and leaning toward me.

  “Right, my first thought is because some of us are freaking ugly. I mean, have you seen some of the linebackers for Miami? Those guys have some seriously big heads, and I’m sorry, but I can’t picture you with a guy like that.” She smiles, giving me hope.

  “But that only covers football. Basketball players are probably too tall for you, and hockey players have missing teeth. That leads us to baseball, and the only reason I can come up with is that you think we smell.” I start to lift my arm to check and see if I do in fact smell, but she stops me.

  Ainsley’s hand lingers longer that what would be deemed friendly. When she finally pulls away, the smile she had is now gone and the pensive look is back. I haven’t been in many relationships in my life, but I can tell that her aversion to athletes has to do with someone hurting her. People don’t normally swear off an entire class of men without good reasons.

  Before I can ask, our food arrives. I thank the waitress and place my napkin in my lap. It’s a damn good thing my shirt is red or I’d be walking out with visible stains by the look at the heaping amount of pasta, red sauce, and meatballs.

  “Did you want to explain what you said?”

  She shakes her head no. “There’s no explanation needed. I just don’t date athletes.”

  “I get it. Whatever happened, it must’ve been bad.”

  Ainsley sets her fork down and places her hands in her lap. She looks at me wearily, opening and closing her mouth. Each time I think she’s about to say something, she changes her mind, only to try again.

  She finally shakes her head and fiddles with the end of her fork. “I think that when you’re lied to repeatedly by someone you love, you lump everyone into one category. For me, that’s athletes.” Ainsley speaks without making eye contact.

  I reach my hand across the table and place it on hers. It’s a bold move and one that will likely get me kicked in the nuts. “I like to pride myself on being different, better than the other guys out there. I don’t know if I should plead my case or not, but I don’t frequent the bars or pick up random chicks. I dated briefly in college but have focused mostly on my craft. I know you don’t want to give me a chance to prove differently, and I probably can’t sweet-talk you into it, but know…” My words trail off because I don’t know what I want her to know. I’m sure she can figure out that I like her. Hell, I’ve only asked her out three times now, and the only reason she’s here is because I bombarded her. I call her nightly, but it’s only to talk about Fort Myers and the places that I need to visit. I’m trying, but maybe I need to stop.

  Ainsley stares down at her food, moving her fork around absentmindedly. Removing my hand from hers, I go back to eating. The conversation has ended, as there isn’t much to say anymore. I’m trying to bring down the barricade between us, and she seems intent on keeping it up.

  Once people get it in their minds they don’t like something, or in this case someone, it’s hard to change their thought process. It sucks for me because I really think she’s beautiful, and I want to get to know her while I’m here in Florida.

  I can only stomach a few more bites before I push my plate away and call for the check. Honestly, I want to get up an
d just leave her here, but that’s not how I was raised.

  “You ready?”

  She nods as I toss down a few twenties to cover the tab and wait for her to walk by me, following her out just as I followed her in. And even though she wants nothing to do with me, I open the car door for her and wait until she’s inside before shutting it. This time, I don’t run to the other side or even walk briskly. Each step I take is harder than the last because all I want to do is pull her out of the car and ask why. Why does she have to lump me in with her notion that we’re all liars? She doesn’t even know me well enough to say something like that.

  But I don’t. Instead I get behind the wheel and drive her back to the zoo. And this time, I don’t get out to open the door for her. I continue to look ahead, waiting for her to say something.

  “Thanks for lunch.”

  “Sure, take care, Ainsley.”

  She doesn’t have to tell me again that she’s not interested. The message has been sent and received. I’m pulling away before she even has a chance to shut the door, leaving her in the parking lot to watch me drive away. This isn’t how I expected the day to go, not even close. At best, I would’ve called her later, before practice, with some dumb excuse for directions just so I could hear her voice, but that won’t happen now, not ever again.

  I can’t believe I thought I could change her mind by showing up at her job. That seriously was dumb thinking on my part.

  The drive back to the training facility is quick, because I exceed the speed limit and traffic is light. When I get inside, I change quickly and head for the batting cages. It’s time to get some aggression out. I don’t know what the asshole looked like that hurt her, but his face is going to be on the ball that’s going to meet my bat repeatedly.

  Way to ruin it for me, buddy.

  Chapter 10

  Ainsley

  Instead of going back into my office, I slip into my car, where I let the tears flow freely. They’re a mixture of anger, hatred, and plain stupidity. I want a redo. I want to go back to the moment when Cooper walked into my office with those beautiful flowers so I can let my heart dictate what I’m going to say and do instead of my brain, because my heart wants to like him even though it goes against everything I was told from the time I started dating.

  “No athletes.”

  It’s not only my rule, but my mother’s as well. She was more specific early on, preaching that baseball players were nothing but trouble and to stay far away, so I did and went for football instead. That turned out to be disastrous. And after witnessing many of my high school friends in precarious situations, I started following my mother’s advice wholeheartedly.

  And just when I think that I can finally let Cooper in a little, to maybe get to know him and start hanging out, he tells me about his mother and sends my head into a tailspin. Cooper devastated me when he told me that his mother died and his memories of her have all but faded.

  That’s the reality that I’m facing now, and my biggest fear is that I won’t remember my mother in the years to come. Sure, I can buy her brand of perfume so that I can smell the scent she’s worn all my life, but what about other little things? What about the way her eyes light up when she has good news or how she dances when she’s cooking? I can’t capture those moments now, and to try to record them would be futile anyway. Now my mother never has good news, and she stopped cooking long ago.

  Already my memories are hazy, and I’m often reminded of a moment when she’s holding my hand and says “remember when,” only I don’t, but I still play along. I should write them down, but the thought of letting go of her hand while she tells me a story pains me. So I stay there, trying to burn every single word into memory so that someday, when I have a son or daughter, I can share the stories.

  Thoughts of Cooper filter into my mind. I blink hard, trying to send them away, but it’s no use, he’s already found his way into my mind with his crooked little smile and beautiful brown eyes.

  Even during lunch, I had to fight to maintain my resolve. I’m attracted to him, and I can’t deny it. Knowing that there are flowers on my desk from him makes me giddy. I should be sitting in my office and smelling the fragrant roses, remembering the look on his face when he came through my door. Instead, I’m wallowing, and we all know that a self-inflicted pity party will get you nowhere in life.

  I contemplate going back into the office but know that I would be tempted to call Cooper, especially with his flowers sitting on my desk, and apologize for messing up what could have been a perfectly enjoyable lunch. Or instead I could go home.

  I opt for home. I want to talk to my mother, maybe go for a walk. It’s time that she tells me why she swore off baseball players. Maybe her story will help me once and for all with Cooper and give my reasoning a little more oomph behind my words. He sees right through me, and that honestly scares the living daylights out of me. Most men take what I say and leave, but not Cooper. He wants the reasons, the facts behind my stance.

  My drive home is usually done on autopilot, but this time I find myself wondering what Cooper is doing. Where does he live? What does he do in his free time? These are all questions I should’ve asked earlier, but I put up a wall that his gallant efforts couldn’t break down. I know he’s frustrated. I could see it on his face, and I don’t blame him. I’d be angry too if the tables were turned.

  Driving through the development to my mother’s condo, I wave at the few people who are walking. It’s a gorgeous day out, and my mom needs to be outside, getting some fresh air. The challenge will be getting her out of her rocking chair. She likes to sit there, with an afghan on her lap, and stare at the pond. I swear she’s waiting for a gator to rise from the water. Mom has mentioned a few times that she’s been waiting her whole life to see one.

  “I’m home,” I yell, making sure she can hear me upstairs. When she got sick, I moved out of my apartment and into her place so I could take care of her. My independent life changed drastically. My social calendar ceased, and my friends suddenly didn’t have time for me. Stella is the only one who is still around, but I’ve known her for years. She grew up knowing my mom and has been trying to take some of the burden off of me. But it’s my burden to bear. I’m her daughter, and it’s my job to take care of her.

  I climb the stairs and stop in her room. She’s exactly as I thought she would be, sitting in her rocker with a cream-colored afghan draped over her lap. Today, her scarf is light purple with violets on it.

  “Do you want to go outside?” I ask her as I sit on her rented hospital bed. “It’s warm, the flowers are all blooming, and the birds are chattering away.”

  “No, I’m fine here.” That’s her canned answer. I’ve asked her to fight for her life, for the life that we have planned, but I know in my heart she’s given up. The chemo makes her sick for weeks on end; she’s frail and can’t walk unless assisted by a walker. Her life isn’t as it was just a year ago, and I have a feeling it’s hard for her to remember those days.

  I sigh, letting the frustration set in. I don’t know what else I can do to help her get over this funk.

  “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  Oh, Mother, where do I even begin? I shake my head, not knowing the answer. “I don’t even know, Mom. So much is going on that I can’t wrap my head around everything.”

  “You need to find a nice man. Someone who is going to take care of you when I’m gone.”

  “Will you stop saying that?” I crouch down in front of her so she can see the agony on my face. “You’re too young to leave this realm, Mom. You can fight the cancer. You can get up and start living your life instead of sitting in this chair, waiting to die.”

  A single tear falls from her eye. I wipe it away gently, knowing that her skin is sensitive.

  “Have you thought about looking online for a man?”

  Exasperated, I stand and go back to her bed. “I met a guy. In fact, we went to lunch today.”

  “Is he nice?”

  “I thin
k so,” I say, shrugging. “I didn’t give him much of a chance because I made the mistake of complimenting his mother on his manners, and he corrected me, saying his mother had died when he was younger. My heart hurts for him.”

  I move around her room, checking her pitcher of water and making sure she took her meds.

  “Death is a part of life, Ainsley. Some of us just go sooner than expected.”

  “Yeah, but you can fight this, and you’re choosing not to.”

  “I am fighting. You just don’t want to see it. You expect me to go out and play golf or take the boat out with my friends. I’m weak, Ainsley. It hurts to walk. I wouldn’t be able to swing my club, let alone climb over the edge of a boat to get in, and I don’t want anyone to help me. Don’t let my situation mess up something that could be important to you.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Sitting on the small stool in front of her, I gaze out the window staring at the same nothingness she looks at all day.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he’s a professional athlete. I met him a couple of days ago when the Boston Renegades came to the zoo to hang out with some underprivileged children.”

  I don’t need to look at my mother to know what she’s thinking or to know that her hands are gripping the arms of her rocker.

  “You know how I feel about athletes. They’re nothing but trouble, every last one of them.”

  “I know, but you’ve never told me why, so I’m asking now. Seconds ago, you tell me not to let what’s going on here mess things up, but as soon as I mention baseball, you avoid the subject. Mom, I need to know, because I have a feeling that I’m chasing away a really great guy. All my life, you’ve told me to stay away from them, but never why.” I take her hand and place it in mine, resting it against my cheek.

  “Remember that time you dated what’s-his-face—”

  “Mom, I don’t want to remember my relationship with Mark. I thought he was different and he wasn’t, but what if this man is and I’m not being fair to him?”