Jamie had no choice but to sit on the time-out mat and grab Drew’s hands, restraining him. She didn’t look up but heard the front door click shut.
Her heart echoed the same final click, and she let the tears fall while holding onto Drew. She’d cheated on him by paying so much attention to Ryan.
From now on, she’d devote every spare hour she had to her boys—starting with swimming lessons. Ryan was right, she’d depended too much on him during their short time together, as if he were a magic genie from a lamp who’d solve all her problems and make up for everything she and the boys lacked.
A genie who’d said he loved her.
How could she throw that away?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
At the ballpark, Ryan’s teammates warmed up with their morning drills. Ryan held Hershey close to his heart as he climbed the empty bleachers and took a seat. The pitchers and catchers were in the bullpen, and Ryan studied each of their windups and delivery—the mechanics which were so important for both speed and accuracy.
His buddies spotted him in the bleachers and waved. He waved back, but felt like sinking into a hole and disappearing. Sitting up at the top watching the action below underscored how he was no longer part of the team.
This was probably how dead people or angels felt, sitting high up among the clouds and looking down at the life they’d left behind.
The puppy squirmed in Ryan’s arms, so he put him down. The dog fearfully peeked between the slats of the bleacher steps, not sure where he should put his paws. It would be a long way down for a little puppy.
Ryan picked him up again and said, “I bet you need to go potty.”
He jogged down the bleachers and out to the park, setting the dog under a tree across from the outfield fence. Little Hershey scouted out a place to do his thing, and Ryan looked wistfully back at the ballpark.
The next activity was live batting practice with a pitcher and catcher. The pitchers pitched from behind an L-shaped screen to avoid injury during practice. Two years ago, when Timmy was a rookie, he’d refused to practice from behind an L-screen. Somehow, Ryan had been put in to show Timmy how to do the drill, and when Ryan threw his pitch, Brock had hit a line drive into his face.
That injury had put him out for half the season. Then, last year, he’d torn his rotator cuff, and this year, he lost his spleen.
Crack.
A long ball sailed over the outfield fence. A baseball in the air was a beautiful thing in the eyes of a slugger, but for a pitcher, it was utter despair.
Ryan watched the ball arc against the clear blue desert sky. Something in him made him run for it, even though he wasn’t supposed to.
He leaped and put his big palm up, snatching the ball before it dropped to the grass. A twinge of pain poked at his side, but when he landed with the ball, he couldn’t help grinning.
Baseball was his life, and every year, spring training made his blood flow and his heart pump. There was no need to stay away because of his surgery.
Ryan found an empty plastic bag and cleaned up after Hershey.
“Come on, Hershey, I’ve got a lot of friends for you to meet.” He let the puppy sniff the ball and jogged toward the ballpark.
The team was taking a water break when Ryan sauntered through the gates.
“Hey, dude, good to see you up and walking around,” Jay Pak said. “Saw you caught that homerun.”
“That was not a homerun,” Timmy, who’d given up the hit, said. “It was an out-of-the-outfield pop fly.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Jay gave Timmy a punch on the bicep. “You gave it up like a fifty-five-year-old virgin.”
The new relief pitcher, Hideo, stood off to the side drinking his water quietly. Ryan knew what it was like being the new guy on the team, so he left Jay and Timmy to their banter and filled up a plastic cup near Hideo.
“How’s everything going?” he asked Hideo. “How many saves?”
“Three saves out of six,” the Japanese man said in a staccato voice. “It’ll be better when you get back.”
“It looks like I won’t be called back until June at the earliest,” Ryan said. “Have you looked at your videos? Analyzed your mechanics?”
“Yeah, everything’s great there, but when I get tired, I get wild.”
“Then it’s a mental game,” Ryan said, pointing to his head. “Care if I give you a couple of tips?”
“I’ve done all of the visualizations, and I meditate daily,” Hideo said, shrugging. “Do yoga and I sleep like a baby.”
“That’s good background,” Ryan said. “But what happens in the bottom of the ninth? You have runners at first and third, and the count is two-zero.”
“That’s high pressure.” Hideo took off his cap and ran the back of his hand across his forehead.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking of all the ways that guy can get a hit. Or the runner on first steals second, whether I can pick him off.”
“Those are all distractions,” Ryan said. “When you’re facing a crucial out, there should be nothing but you and the catcher. Nothing. Pretend the batter’s not even there.”
Hideo raised both eyebrows. “You’re supposed to be pitching at the batter. How can you act as if he’s not there?”
“Because he’s not going to hit my pitch.” Ryan set the puppy down and took up the pre-pitch position. “So, I don’t need to think about him. The catcher makes the call. All I need to do is agree with the call.”
“You don’t look at the batter at all?”
“Oh, I see him, but I don’t let him or all his practice swings distract me. I focus on the strike zone and how my pitch will break across it.”
“Interesting,” Hideo said. “How do you deal with the crowds and all the noise?”
“I zone it out.” Ryan took the step back, pivoted, lifted his leg and stepped into a mock pitch. “It’s me and the catcher inside a tunnel. You’ve got to trust the catcher. That’s key.”
By then, several of the minor league pitchers who’d been invited to spring training had gathered around Ryan. They peppered him with questions.
“What if you don’t agree with a call?”
“Do you adjust your pitch depending on who’s at bat?”
“What if you’re having a bad day for a particular pitch?”
Ryan scooped up his puppy who was in danger of getting stepped on. “You let the catcher know and you talk about it, but he makes the calls, and your job is to deliver the very best pitch you can, each and every time.”
Just then, the head coach walked by.
“Good to see you up and about,” Coach Thomas said. “Patterson’s out sick. Do you mind working with the rookies and minors in the bullpen?”
“I’ll be glad to,” Ryan said. “As long as I can leave my dog in the clubhouse.”
“Sure thing,” the coach said. “Suit up and be back in fifteen.”
How could one little chocolate Labrador make such a mess?
After an all-morning pitching session where Ryan coached the pitchers and catchers, he retired to the clubhouse for lunch.
As soon as he and his teammates stepped in, they were greeted by Hershey, who had wrapped himself up with toilet paper. He’d torn off towels which had been left hanging on racks and scattered them between the lounge furniture and worst of all, he was chewing on a catcher’s mitt.
Catchers were especially possessive of their mitts, and as Ryan removed the mitt from Hershey’s mouth, catcher Josh Johnson rushed over.
“Holy crap! What’s he done to my mitt?” Josh snatched it from Ryan.
“Nothing but a few teeth marks,” Ryan said. “I’ll pay for it.”
“No way. This is my mitt from high school.” He slipped it on his hand and flexed it. “What’s your dog’s name again?”
“Hershey, like in the chocolate.”
“Ah, he’s cute all right, but dang. He needs to stay out of our stuff.”
The players gathered up t
he towels, and some headed for the showers, but most went to the lunch room. They had a game later in the evening and were due back for warmups in the afternoon.
“Sorry about the puppy,” Ryan said. “If anyone sees any mess, I’ll clean it up.”
“He’s not housebroken, is he?” Brock asked, clamping Ryan on the shoulder. “I better not find a turd in front of my stuff.”
Ryan was sure the puppy had relieved himself somewhere, and sure enough, someone shouted from the shower. At least it was an easy cleanup.
Brock followed him as he scooped up Hershey’s mess.
“Heard you’ve been seeing a lot of Jamie and her kids,” Brock drawled “How’s it going over there?”
“Doing okay, I guess.” Ryan scratched the back of his neck. He wasn’t the kind of guy to gossip, especially about the woman he had feelings for. “I got this puppy for Ben and Drew.”
“I noticed,” Brock said. “What did Jamie think about him?”
“Actually, the puppy’s mine. I’m not sure Jamie has time to take care of him.”
“Must be tough, her dealing with the autism and being a single mom and all that,” Brock commented. “Bet he’s hungry.”
“Bet he is,” Ryan said as they made their way to the lunch room. Even though it was good to be back with his teammates, Ryan wondered about Jamie and whether he’d ever see her again.
His mother had taught him not to intrude when a woman didn’t want his attentions, and Jamie had made it clear that she didn’t want him interfering with her sons.
Ryan picked Hershey up and held him close to his face. The puppy’s licks didn’t quite make up for the big lump in his throat and the hollowness in his heart, but it was better than nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
After lunch, Jamie sat with Drew in the living room and showed him how to talk through an app on her phone. He could choose an image of Ben, her, himself, Nana, his teacher, or Andrew, as well as generic pronouns, I, you, we, he, she, they. After picking a subject, he could pick a verb, and then an object.
“Where Ryan?” Drew poked at the pictures.
“Ryan isn’t in our family,” Jamie explained.
Drew went to the category for animals and picked the image for a dog. Then he selected “I” and “want” and “dog.”
“Ryan,” Drew repeated and again selected “want” and “dog.”
“Why don’t we spell dog?” Jamie asked. “Find the letters that spell dog.”
Drew quickly found the correct letters. “Spell Ryan.”
“R. Y. A. N.” Jamie pointed to the letters on the alphabet strip. “That spells Ryan.”
“R, Y.” Drew screwed his face in concentration. “R. Y.”
“R. Y. A. N.” Jamie pointed to the letters on the virtual keyboard.
Drew punched in R, Y, A, N, followed by the picture of a dog.
“Ryan wants a dog. You’re right,” Jamie said.
“No, Drew want dog.” Drew pointed to himself. “Drew want Ryan bring me puppy.”
“I understand,” Jamie said. “You want Ryan to give you the puppy.”
Drew nodded emphatically. “Drew want Ryan here.”
Okay, okay, she got the message. Rather than argue with him, Jamie turned to a “name the emotion” game.
Drew promptly tapped in sad followed by the universal negate symbol, the red circle with the line through it.
“You’re sad? Why?” Jamie asked.
“Sad.” Drew hugged himself and rocked back and forth, making a frown. “Puppy not here.”
“Why don’t we look for pictures of dogs on the internet?” Jamie suggested. She turned the browser to an image search and typed in “chocolate Labrador.”
Thankfully, looking at the images kept Drew happy and busy until it was time to pick up Ben from school.
“Ben and Ryan,” Drew said, pointing to a picture on her tablet. “Where’s Ben and Ryan?”
“Ben’s at school, and we’re going to pick him up.”
“With a car?”
“Yes. Let’s get in the car.” Jamie was pleased with Drew’s progress. What a contrast to the night before when he was uncommunicative.
The entire way over, Drew asked after Ben, as if he’d found a new toy in playing with the words.
“Where’s Ben?”
“Ben’s at school and we’re picking him up,” Jamie said, repeating the answer he wanted to hear.
“I want to tell Ben,” Drew said, watching his fingers open and close. One foot kicked her seat back. “Tell Ben about puppy.”
“Okay, we’ll tell Ben,” she echoed, amazed at how chatty he was. Maybe wanting the dog had given him the motivation to talk. She suspected he was able to speak, but he oftentimes didn’t see a need to communicate.
She’d called the doctor back soon after Ryan left and told him that Drew was talking again. She neglected to mention the puppy or the fact that Drew ran from room to room looking for Ryan and the puppy.
Frankly, she was surprised Drew responded so well to the dog, who licked him all over his face and arms. Drew was hypersensitive to stimuli, and she would have thought he couldn’t tolerate the hyperactive puppy.
Jamie pulled the SUV into the pickup zone of the elementary school. Parent volunteers opened the doors and helped the children put their backpacks into the trunk.
“Ben, Ben.” Drew kicked his foot harder. He actually turned and looked at his brother. “Ryan gave me a puppy. His name is Hershey.”
“A puppy!” Ben’s mouth gaped open and his eyes danced, looking in the cargo area. “Where?”
“Ryan gave me a puppy. His name is Hershey,” Drew repeated.
Okay, so maybe he was only repeating phrases and not joining in a conversation, but the fact that he had initiated a conversation had to be significant.
Maybe she shouldn’t have kicked out Ryan and his puppy.
“Wow, a puppy. I’ve always wanted one. Mrs. Udelhoven was going to help me get one.” Ben clambered into the SUV and fastened his seatbelt. “Let’s go home and see him.”
“He’s not there,” Drew said. “Ryan took him.”
“Ryan took him? Where?” A worried look crossed Ben’s face. “Did Ryan go somewhere? He said he was going to pick me up after school.”
“Ryan went back to his own home,” Jamie said. “He was only visiting this weekend, and he’s very busy.”
“Oh.”
Jamie peeked back in the rearview mirror and saw how crestfallen Ben appeared.
“No puppy. Ryan’s gone,” Drew yelled. “Mommy told Ryan to leave.”
“You did?” Ben shook Jamie’s seatback. “Why?”
Jamie swallowed the ever-present lump in her throat. “Ryan’s not your daddy. He has a lot of things to do, and he’s too busy to stay at our house all the time.”
“But he said he likes us,” Ben whined. “He said he’ll always be my buddy. Did he lie like Daddy?”
Jamie closed her eyes and almost missed a stop sign. She slammed on the brakes.
“He’s not lying, Ben. He does like you.”
“Then he doesn’t like Drew,” Ben said. “Because Drew had a meltdown and cried all night.”
“Ryan like me. Ryan like me.” Drew kicked both feet. “He give me a puppy. His name is Hershey.”
This big mess was all her fault. She’d let Ryan get close to the boys and now both of them were getting hurt.
“He likes both of you,” Jamie said. “He likes you so much, but your daddy might not like him.”
“Daddy doesn’t like anyone.” Ben crossed his arms and pouted. “He doesn’t like Drew. He doesn’t like Nana. He doesn’t like me, and he doesn’t like you.”
Honk! A horn blared and Jamie swerved back into her lane. What could she say to Ben? Andrew liked Ben better than Drew, but she could never say that to either of them. It wasn’t fair that a father would like one child and despise the other.
“I’m sure Daddy likes all of us,” Jamie said. “He’s just a bus
y man.”
“Ryan like Drew,” Drew declared. “Ryan like Ben, and Ryan like Mommy.”
“Right,” Ben agreed. “Ryan likes all of us. Can we call him when we get home and ask him to come back? For a visit?”
Uncertainty plagued Jamie. Had she done the right thing in letting Ryan go? But how could she call him back after telling him it was better he was gone? Was she being selfish having Ryan or being selfish telling him to leave?
Was she hurting her boys by trying to protect them or protecting them for when Ryan left on his own?
By the time she got home, pinpricks of anxiety skittered over her skin. The house felt empty without Ryan’s presence, and everywhere she looked held memories of Ryan. He’d played video games with the boys. He’d read them bedtimes stories, served their breakfast, helped Drew with his bath, and she peeked at the empty swing out back—he’d told her he loved her.
Tears threatened as she watched Ben race from room to room, looking for Ryan. He finally came back from the bedroom with a baseball Ryan had left behind.
“I forgot to ask him to autograph it.” Ben showed Jamie the ball and burst into tears. “He’s not coming back, is he?”
She folded Ben into her arms and hugged him tight. “He’s not your father, Ben. He’s just a superstar who we won a day at the park with.”
“But I thought he was my friend. I thought he liked me.” Ben wept, his little shoulders shuddering. “What if he won’t come to the school assembly now? What if he forgets who I am?”
“He won’t forget you.” Jamie’s voice trembled as she tried to comfort her boy. “But he’s a busy man.”
Jamie lay awake, alone in her queen-sized bed, and watched the red numbers change on her alarm clock. The worst thing about being a single parent of a disabled child was the loneliness that crept up in the dark of the night.
Most of the time, she was too busy and exhausted to feel the curling despair of the isolation she lived in. After all, she was surrounded by two demanding boys. She had appointments to keep, teachers and therapists to talk to, forms to fill out, emails to answer, and housework to do.
Playing for the Save (Men of Spring Baseball Book 3) Page 17
