The Catch

by K. Bromberg

  “I know you can.”

  “He’s sleeping right now. Do you want me to wake him?”

  Yes.

  “No. It’s okay, Sally. How’s he doing?”

  I hate that she pauses when she answers. “He’s sleeping more and more each day. I hate it but at the same time know it’s the only time he really gets any real peace. The doctor said that’s pretty much what we can expect; the hours of sleep to increase more and more as his heart weakens and tires.”

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath to try and hold back the tears. I know the truth regardless of how hard I cling to hope. I don’t want him to die.

  “How are you doing, Sally? Are you sure you don’t need me to hire a nurse to give you a break? You do have a life of your own.”

  “I already told you I’m fine. Besides you know how stubborn he is. It’s a miracle he even lets me be here to help him,” she says.

  “I appreciate it. I really do. If there was a way to get this contract for him and take care of him, I would do it all myself.”

  “I love him too, Scout. You don’t need to thank me.”

  And there’s something about the way she says the words that makes the first tear slip over. It’s stupid to not think of them as a couple, but I find solace in knowing my dad was able to experience love again after devoting his whole life to loving Ford and me.

  “I’m glad he has you.” My voice is barely a whisper when I finally find the words to speak.

  “How about you? How are you doing? I know you must be under a lot of pressure to win that contract for your dad. Just know he loves you regardless.”

  I nod my head as I look to where Easton is shaving at the bathroom sink and know what she says is true, but I still wish I could hear it from my dad.

  “Can . . . can you just tell him I called? It’s nothing important. I just wanted to hear his voice.”

  “Tell you what. How about I go and put the phone in there with him? I know it sounds silly, but sometimes when I need to know he’s okay, I’ll go sit next to him and listen to his breathing. Maybe if you hear it too, it’ll put whatever is on your mind at ease for a bit.”

  She’s right. It does sound silly and yet I find myself saying, “Thank you. I’d like that.”

  “That’s what I thought. Just hang up whenever you feel better.”

  There is noise on the phone as she walks to him, some rustling as she lays the phone down.

  Then there is the sound of him breathing. It’s even and the rattle is a little louder than last time we talked, but it’s still there. I needed this. To know he’s still with me. To know his heart still beats.

  And just like when I was a little girl scared of the monsters under the bed, I snuggle deeper under the covers and listen to his breathing to soothe my fears away.

  I may not be snuggled up against him with his big hand holding mine like he did back then, but it still feels the same.

  Knowing he’s still there soothes me.

  He saves me yet again from the things I don’t want to face.

  “Hey, Scout.”

  My back’s up immediately at the sound of his voice. “What can I do for you, Santiago?” I ask as I turn to face him, not one to ever leave my back to him for more than a beat.

  “I hear it’s a big night for that boyfriend of yours. He’s gonna try and make himself useful.”

  In my periphery I see some of the other guys stop what they’re doing at their lockers and turn our way.

  “So you need nothing, then?” I ask, face a picture of innocence. I’m not giving the prick what he wants—to get under my skin.

  “I bet Daddy set this up for him. Don’t you? With all those connections of his, I bet he set up his wonder-boy-son nice and pretty just to keep that precious Wylder name in the spotlight.”

  “You have a good night then.” I give him a sickeningly sweet smile as I turn on my heel and head toward my office. By the time I round my desk and sit down, Tino is standing in the doorway.

  “You okay?”

  “For the life of me, I don’t know how you handle sharing the same uniform with him every night, let alone the same damn field,” I say.

  “It’s a job.” He shrugs. “There will always be coworkers you hate and you just have to deal. There’s nothing else you can do.”

  “Talk about team morale. Go Aces!” With sarcasm lacing my tone, I pump my fist in mock support

  “Believe me, most of us feel the same way. Our only hope is that Boseman ousts Tillman and then pushes Santiago out after him.”

  “Fingers crossed he does because it sure as hell would make my job that much easier.”

  He looks over his shoulder when one of the guys laughs out loud before looking back to me. “How’s he doing?” he asks, voice lowered.

  “He won’t admit it, but I think he’s nervous.”

  “Why? He’s done it a hundred times before with the local channel here.”

  “I know.” I think back to the murmured words of encouragement I gave him when he kissed me goodbye on the way to his flight this morning. “But he is.”

  “A bunch of us are heading down to Slugger’s to watch the broadcast and drink a few in silent support for him before we fly out tonight. You’re welcome to come if you want.”

  My smile is automatic. “Thanks, but I’ve got some work to do here and then I’ll probably catch it at home.”

  “Can’t handle all this testosterone, huh?” he teases.

  “Some days, no.”

  My knee jogs up and down as the familiar notes of the Fox Sports jingle plays. It’s not often I actually watch a game on television for the hell of it. I’m typically studying a player I’m rehabbing to see how they are faring and what I need to work on with them. I’ve never purposely tuned in just to watch the broadcasters.

  But today is different.

  Today Easton is taking a huge step out of his comfort zone, and like the text I sent him an hour ago said, I am so very proud of him for doing so.

  The camera pans across the field—the green grass, stark white lines, and players milling about—before the lead broadcaster begins to speak.

  “Welcome to another summer night of baseball here on Fox, ladies and gentlemen. The sky is clear, the popcorn is popping, and the bats are swinging here in Amco Park for America’s favorite national past time,” he says as the camera switches to them sitting in the broadcast booth. I squeal like a schoolgirl when I see Easton. I know I’m biased but he’s so handsome with his headset on and a smile that only those closest to him can tell hints at his nervousness. “Thank you for tuning in. I’m Bud Richman and tonight we have special guest, Easton Wylder, of the Austin Aces and more recently the Dallas Wranglers to talk with us during the pregame show. Thanks for joining us. How’s the shoulder coming along?”

  “Good. Healing,” he says eyes flicking back and forth from the camera to Bud.

  “Are you ready for a good battle of the bats tonight?”

  Easton smiles. “That’s definitely what one would expect of tonight’s match-up.”

  “Tell us, Easton, as a player, how would you size up either team if you were to play them?”

  Easton talks for a few minutes about the pitching and the fielding, and I can see him physically start to relax. There’s easy camaraderie between him and Bud that’s likeable and not over the top. Easton comes off as personable and knowledgeable and I’m sure his insight is attractive to the male viewers while his looks are more than pleasing for the female viewers.

  “We’re minutes away from the first pitch, ladies and gentlemen, so without further ado, I’ll let Easton have the honor of announcing the starting line-ups.”

  The camera pans from Bud to Easton and there’s total silence as Easton’s face looks like he’s a deer in the headlights. His eyes widen and then become panicked as he says “uh” a couple times before looking over to Bud for help.

  It’s only seconds but my heart jumps into my throat from the look on Easton�
��s face.

  “Oops, sorry about that, Easton. It seems we forgot to show the newbie how to work the switches up here in the booth. I hate it when we do that.” He laughs like a seasoned professional while I’m screaming at the TV over how they could throw Easton into the press box and not show him the damn controls. “In the meantime, starting for the Colorado Rockies tonight, batting first and playing center field . . .”

  Bud drones on going through both sets of line-ups as I pace the living room. I’m sure Easton is livid and embarrassed and all I want to do is fix it for him. That’s a huge screw-up on Fox’s part and I’m sure Finn will give them his two cents if he’s not on the phone already.

  The station goes to a commercial break without the camera panning back to Easton, and it takes everything I have not to pick up the phone and call him, reassure him, and give him support.

  When the commercial break is over, the camera spends most of the time on the field before finally focusing on the booth. Easton’s there next to Bud, his posture a little stiffer than before, his features a bit more stoic. Bud continues to talk and this time when Easton responds, his responses lack the energy they had before. It’s almost as if he’s holding back or scared to elaborate. And his discomfort comes across loud and clear to the viewer.

  They talk about the pitchers and what to expect from each team for the night and then Bud wraps up the segment. “When we come back, baseball fans, we’re heading for the first pitch with the two teams that might end up being a preview of your National League playoffs. Easton, why don’t you take us to break and tell the nice folks at home all about our sponsors.”

  And when the attention shifts back to Easton, he’s frozen again. Almost as if once the camera focuses on him, he can’t speak. Bud looks his way and chuckles softly. “Sorry there, Easton. It seems the booth doesn’t want to function for you today. I’m giving Easton instructions here to read the teleprompter and it’s not working. We’ll take this break, and I’ll make sure to plug our sponsors when we return. Stay tuned for an exciting night of baseball, folks.”

  And when they cut to commercial, I force myself to breathe.

  This is not good.

  Not at all.

  I wait with bated breath for them to come back from commercial break and when they do, the game starts.

  Bud calls the game. He talks nonstop and any additional commentary from Easton is only added when Bud asks him. His personality is void. His engagement is forced.

  It’s a train wreck.

  As the ninth inning comes to a close and the bleeding stops, all I keep thinking is, I pushed him to do this.

  Should I have backed off? Should I not have talked him into it when he wasn’t comfortable in the first place?

  “Hey,” I say cautiously when he answers the phone.

  “Not now, Scout. I don’t want to talk right now.” His voice is nothing short of frustrated devastation.

  “Can you tell me if you’re okay?”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow when I get home.”

  And the line goes dead.

  “Can I get you another?”

  “A double, please.” I pull my hat lower and welcome the dim lighting in this hole-in-the-wall bar on the outskirts of Austin.

  He slides the amber liquid across the scarred bar top. “Thanks.”

  “Heading anywhere special?” he asks, trying to make conversation I don’t want him to make.

  “Home.”

  “That doesn’t sound like it’s a good thing.” He chuckles.

  “Not tonight it’s not,” I murmur as I take a long swallow and let the burn run its course.

  “You piss off your old lady?”

  “Something like that.”

  I glance down at my cell as another text comes through from Scout, and after staring at it for a bit and wondering how I’m going to face her, I power down the phone.

  I’m not ready to talk to her yet.

  To disappoint her again.

  To let her know this man she loves is not who she thinks he is.

  “Easton? You okay, son?”

  The question of the fucking day and I don’t even have the effort to answer it anymore. Only twenty-four hours since my broadcasting shitshow, and I’m still hiding. But Manny just waits before quietly taking a seat a row behind me while I keep staring at the empty seats around me. The pristine grass in front of me. The dirt groomed to perfection.

  “Thanks for letting me in here.”

  “Of course. Any time. This place is still your home. You’ll always be an Ace in my book.”

  I mull over his words. They might be true, but right now I don’t feel like I belong anywhere.

  “I miss the magic,” I finally say. My confession surprises me, but I’ve never spoken truer words.

  “You’ve had a rough go of it this year,” he says softly.

  “I used to sit here as a kid. Before the seats filled up for the game and the guys took the field for batting practice, I used to sit here and feel the magic in the air. It was like I knew something special was going to happen that night.”

  “I remember well. Finding you out here. I used to always wonder what you were thinking about.”

  “What if I can’t ever get it back, Manny?” I itch for another drink. Anything to numb the fear robbing my courage that led me here instead of home . . . where I should be. It’s easier to keep running—hiding—than to face the truth that has finally caught up with me.

  “Sometimes things happen in life that at the time seem one way, but in reality it’s the magic recharging so you can find it again.”

  “Not this time.”

  He makes a noncommittal sound but doesn’t say anything. We sit in silence in the magic kingdom of my childhood as I try to figure out how to take the next steps I need to take.

  “Scout’s looking for you, you know. She called here worried.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s a good one.”

  “She sure is,” I sigh.

  It’s a fucking shame I’m not.

  “Where have you been? It’s been four hours since your flight landed, and I’ve been worried sick.”

  I rush out to the foyer just in time for him to brush past me without meeting my eyes or saying a word. There’s relief in seeing him safe and sound, but that slams head first into anger when I smell the stale scent of alcohol. I’ve been worrying myself sick while he was in a bar somewhere drinking?

  “Easton?” I follow him to the bedroom where he drops his bag on the floor and then walks right past me again on the way out without speaking.

  This is bad.

  He has to have seen the commentary online. The twitter storm of jerks using shitty hashtags #EastonEatsIt #DumbJockEaston, the memes already circling his wide-eyed stare into the camera. The pundits have had their say from behind their keyboards and harsh is putting it nicely.

  I scurry after him despite his obvious desire to be left alone, because that’s what you do when you love someone. You try to help them.

  “Please. Talk to me,” I say as he stops at the wall of windows and stares blankly at the view beyond. I reach my hand out, wanting to offer comfort, but hesitate.

  “Don’t.” It’s a warning. A threat. A reflection of his mindset.

  He wants a fight. It’s in the set of his shoulders. The clench of his fists. The aggression in his posture.

  The silence stretches, his anger and malcontent sucking up the air around us until it begins to eat at me too. For being worried when he couldn’t bother to be considerate and let me know he was okay. Because he’s shutting down, shutting me out instead of turning to me like one is meant to do in a relationship.

  “Do you know what it’s like to live your whole life as a lie?” When he speaks, the words are barely audible, but the resignation mixed with spite is what rings the loudest.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Tell me, oh Scout who wears the rose-colored glasses, how exactly would you rate my perf
ormance last night?” The question is so loaded there’s no way I can answer it and satisfy whatever it is he’s looking for.

  “That’s not fair to—”

  “That bad, huh?” His chuckle is self-deprecating at best. “So bad you can’t even lie to me and tell me it wasn’t horrible and that I’m not the laughingstock of baseball right now? The dumb jock who can’t manage to put two sentences together?”

  “But you did,” I say trying to figure out my phrasing so I don’t light a match to ignite his temper broiling just beneath the surface. “You started out strong. You did an incredible job giving insight and feedback. You were a natural. And then the teleprompter didn’t work and Bud didn’t teach you the controls—”

  “Do you know what it’s like being compared to Cal Wylder my whole life?”

  “No one’s comparing you to him in this situation.” I’m desperately trying to follow his sudden shifting thoughts. “You’re not your dad, Easton.”

  “You’re goddamn right I’m not,” he thunders, every syllable a combative verbal assault. “I could never be like him. The perfect fucking man who does nothing wrong and turns everything he touches to gold like Midas.”

  The doorbell chimes, alerting us that someone is coming up the elevator.

  “Ah, would you look at that? I’m sure that’s good ‘ol Cal right now coming to pat me on the back and thank me for being the fucked-up son tarnishing his perfect goddamn reputation.”

  “Easton.” It’s a plea for him to think before he opens the door and unloads his temper on his father.

  He pushes the button to open the doors and says, “Welcome to Easton’s fucked-up party!”

  But it’s not Cal standing there.

  It’s sorority-letters girl.

  Her face softens when she sees Easton, while every part of me tries to make sense of why the girl from the lobby has access to the penthouse.

  Access that only Easton can grant.

  “Easton.” Her voice is soft, sympathetic. “I wanted to make sure you were okay and didn’t need me . . .” Her words fade off when she notices me standing there.