by Cathy Bryant
The wooden bleachers groaned beneath the burgeoning crowd, and jabbering little boys threatened to climb the chain link fence around the dugout. “Hate to cut this short, Matt, but the game’s about to start. Do me a favor. Don’t propose ‘til I’ve at least had a chance to meet the girl.”
Matt laughed, short and forced. “Got it, bro. Hope y’all win. Talk to you later.”
Andy hit the end call button on his cell phone just as Brody Clark swaggered into the dugout. It took every ounce of willpower he had to be civil to the kid. He’d missed more practices than the rest of the kids combined. Figured that he’d show up for the first game. Lord, give me patience and wisdom.
Trish rounded the gate of the dugout lugging a tall cooler. Her sleek pony tail poked through the back of her purple Legal Eagles baseball cap.
Something about her seemed . . . mended. “Here. Let me get that.” He grabbed the heavy cooler and set it on the end of the bench. Something sloshed. “What’s in it?”
“Water for the kids.” She flashed a brilliant smile.
Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of it? As the summer heat and humidity escalated, he’d need to bring drinks to practice as well. “Have any cups?”
“No, but I’ll head to the concession stand to see if they have some we can borrow.”
Andy reached for his wallet and handed her a five. “If not, maybe they’ll let us buy some.”
She took the money and pivoted, looking back over her shoulder with a grin. “Yeah, leave me to do all the grunt work.”
He laughed, his heart suddenly light.
Bo perched on the bench away from Brody. “Hey, buddy, how was school today?”
Bo glanced at Brody with wary eyes. “Fine.”
Yeah, right. Knowing Brody, he was probably still causing playground problems. “Sorry we didn’t get to go horse-back riding earlier this week.”
“It’s okay. You can’t help it when it rains.”
Andy grinned and pushed the bill of Bo’s hat down to his nose. “True. How ‘bout tomorrow?”
Bo giggled. “You’ll have to ask Mom. If I ask, she’ll say no.” He craned his head way back to view Andy from underneath his cap.
“Mmm, good point.” Andy scratched his chin. “She’ll probably tell me no, too, come to think of it. We’ll have to put our heads together to figure that one out.”
“Figure what out?” Trish tapped him on the shoulder.
He rotated, and she deposited the change in his hands, a sleeve of cups under one arm. “I . . . I mean we, well, uh . . . Bo and I want to go horseback riding tomorrow. Wanna come?”
Her eyes lost a bit of spark. She pressed her lips together, and her shoulders rose as she inhaled a deep breath. “Okay, but only . . .” Trish stared at Bo with mock sternness. “. . . only if he finishes his homework.”
“Aw, Mom.”
“Hey, bud, she’s right. Homework comes first.”
“Yeah, but it’s hard. It’s gonna take me fifty one-hundred million years.”
Laughter exploded from him. “Sounds like we need to work on your numbers.” Andy squatted in front of him. “Tell you what. In the morning I’ll bring donuts. We’ll do your homework, then go for a ride. How’s that sound?”
Bo brightened. His whole body shook like a puppy with his tail a-wag. “All right! Homework help, donuts, and horseback riding!”
Trish sent Andy a smile that warmed him from the inside out. Did she have any idea how gorgeous she was? Stop it, Andy. He repositioned his cap. She still loved her husband. The sketch she’d drawn at Dr. Wyse’s office—a man with an arm wrapped protectively around her and Bo—proved it. He had no right to intrude on the memories of her dead husband. She needed time. Time to grieve. Time to heal.
He rubbed a hand across his mouth. Why did it always come down to more waiting?
The kids’ excitement was contagious, and Andy soon forgot his earlier bad mood. He sauntered to the field, hands on hips, and took it all in. Nothing like a baseball game, especially opening night—a pleasant spring night, the tantalizing aroma of buttered popcorn, happy laughter.
Families.
The ache in his heart intensified. How long before he had a family? He heaved a heavy sigh. Better just face facts. It might never happen.
Finally the game got underway, with the Legal Eagles up to bat. Joey sent a line drive up the middle, right to the pitcher, who ducked. Somehow the kid managed to knock the ball down with his glove, then bobbled it a couple of times. That gave Joey the chance he needed to make it to first.
Little Bo, second in the lineup, hit a grounder to third. He raced to first base as fast as his little legs would carry him, his face a picture of unswerving determination. Trish cheered him on from the dugout.
As Bo’s foot hit the base, pride swelled in Andy’s heart. “Atta boy, Bo!”
Bo punched a fist into the air, his face plastered with a giant grin.
The Pirate’s third baseman overthrew the ball and it rolled to the fence near the dugout. Joey had stopped on second, but instead of watching the game, now waved and chatted to his friends in the outfield. Bo stepped off first, but waited for Andy to tell him what to do.
“Joey, take third!” Andy cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. Joey raised both arms in question. “Take it to third base!”
The boy peered down at the rubber mat base, scratched his head, then yanked up the base and sprinted toward third.
Heat climbed up Andy’s chest and onto his neck and face, the crowd roaring with laughter.
Then, as if things weren’t bad enough, the Pirate’s first baseman trotted back with the ball and tagged Bo, whose foot was still off the base. Off the base!
“You’re out!” hollered the ump. He yanked a thumb over his shoulder. The crowd hooted even louder.
The Pirate’s first baseman taunted Bo, then laughed about it with the right fielder.
Bo’s little face grew red with anger. He stomped a foot and pushed the kid to the ground.
The crowd “ooh”-ed, then immediately grew quiet.
The umpire stomped down the first base line, his lips clamped. Andy fell in line behind him, his frustration mounting. The ump stopped short of Little Bo. “We won’t put up with that kind of behavior!” He pivoted and lumbered back to home plate.
Andy crossed his arms and glared at Bo. “We’re not gonna have that on this team! You’re on the bench for two innings.”
Bo gaped at him, tears flooding his eyes. “But . . .”
His heart crumpled, but he had no choice. “Sorry, Bo. We’ll talk about this later. Take the bench.”
Crying, Bo stumbled past him to the dugout, where Trish met him with open arms. “It’s okay, honey, don’t cry.” She fired Andy a mother-bear glare.
Brody started in on Bo. “Quit ‘cher cryin’, you little baby.”
“Brody!” Andy’s voice sounded sharper than he intended. “You’re up.”
The beefiest kid on the team, Brody grabbed a long bat and sauntered to the tee. He made solid contact on the first swing, the air splitting with the crack. The ball sailed into the outfield.
Much to the crowd’s delight and amusement, the center fielder for the Pirates bent to scoop up the ball and lost his cap. Instead of throwing in the ball, he removed his glove, picked up the cap and dusted it off, then put it on his head, his coach about to bust a gut near third base.
Brody easily made it around the bases, and Carla’s hoots and hollers sounded from beyond the chain link fence.
Andy gave him a high five as he passed. “Way to go, Brody! That’s how to do it.” As he turned to pat Brody on the back, a searing ache pierced his heart. Little Bo hunched over at the end of the bench, tears dripping from his chin. Trish was nowhere to be seen.
* * * * *
Two seconds earlier Trish had been happy. Happy that her life—that Little Bo’s life—had made a turn for the better.
Now this.
Trish stood under the rickety bleac
hers, empty popcorn boxes and drink cups at her feet, and swiped at angry tears. The sounds of the game—of people having fun—boomed above. Why had Andy yanked Bo from the game? Yes, Bo had shoved the kid and shouldn’t have, but Andy had come down on him way too hard. Crushed him.
Carla’s immediate hurtful words, now on auto-rewind, replayed in her mind. “If you’d quit babying him, maybe he’d stop sucking his thumb.”
A fresh round of pain sliced through her. Enough. Trish wiped tear-dampened hands on her blue jean shorts and marched to the bathroom to wash her face. She’d sit out the rest of the game in the stands.
When she returned to the bleachers ten minutes later, the scoreboard revealed a three-run lead for the Eagles, with the Pirates now at bat. Little Bo hunkered down in the dugout, arms across his chest, his bottom lip poked out in a pout. Andy knelt in front of him, his voice so low she couldn’t make out the words. She resisted the urge to scramble down the bleachers and give him a piece of her mind. Instead, she gulped in a deep breath and released it through her nose.
The Eagles kept the Pirates from scoring during the first two innings, further proof that Andy knew how to coach. Bo’s next turn at bat rolled around and her stomach lurched. Two outs and the bases loaded.
Bo trotted to the batter’s box. He carefully lined up the bat with the ball the way Andy had showed him and swung as hard as he could. The bat hit rubber and sent the ball spiraling to the dirt.
“That’s okay, sweetie!” Trish clapped her hands. “You’ll get it next time!”
On the second swing, the bat sliced through nothing but air.
“C’mon! My grandpa can swing better than that!” Carla’s voice sounded from near the dugout.
Trish’s blood boiled as Bo’s shoulders slumped. People seated nearby craned their necks toward her, but she kept her mask in place, retreating behind the safety of her sunshades.
“Take your time, Bo!” Andy called from the dugout. “You can do it, buddy!”
On the third swing, Bo made contact, and the ball tumbled down the first base line, Bo right behind it. The pitcher for the other team scooped up the ball and tagged Bo. With a little too much force!
“Yeah, he got ‘em. That’s three!” The ump yanked a thumb over his shoulder.
Bo fell to the ground, and the other boy towered over him, his curled lips in an inaudible taunt.
She jumped to her feet and held her breath. Don’t do it, Bo.
To her relief, he stood, dusted himself off, and hurried to pick up the bat.
Trish plopped to the wooden seat, brought her hands to her face, and released a grateful sigh as Bo’s teammates scattered from the dugout to their various positions. Well, all of them except Bo.
Like a weary hunter returning empty-handed, he drug the bat in the dirt as he trudged to the dugout. Andy rushed to him. Whatever he said lit a spark in her son, and he disappeared into the dugout. A few seconds later he appeared, cap slightly askew, and hustled to first base. He slapped his glove as the first batter for the other team approached the tee, and began to chant: “Hey, batter, batter, batter, batter.”
Carla Clark’s grating voice floated to her ears from nearby, where she stood with a group of her friends. “The only reason Bo is playing first base is ‘cause Trish is Coach’s girlfriend. He’s only using her son to get to her.”
Rage crawled from the pit of her stomach, clawing its way to the surface. Was it true? Did Andy have ulterior motives?
After the comment, focusing on the game proved impossible, her gaze continually vacillating between Andy and her son. In spite of the earlier incident, Bo still thought the world of Andy, evidenced by the way he jumped through hoops to please him. Dr. Wyse had mentioned that a father figure would be good for him, but couldn’t Dad or Steve fill that role instead?
Trish shook her head. Her father’s health prevented him from doing many things little boys needed to do, and Steve was a newlywed. His responsibility was to Dani, not her. For whatever reason, Bo had chosen Andy. But how was she supposed to deal with the fact?
Familiar voices sounded from the bottom of the bleachers. Steve and Dani, with Dad and Mama Beth in tow, ascended the steps. They took up the empty seats beside her, Steve scooted close, his long legs folded at an odd angle to fit in the cramped space. “Sorry we’re late, Sis. We went out to eat and got held up at the restaurant.”
Out to eat? Why hadn’t they invited her and Bo? Her mood morphed from sour to surly. Funny how her family always had time for Mama Beth, but not her. And it was happening more and more often. Almost as if the woman had taken her place. “Mama Beth went?”
Steve nodded, his eyes shaded by his cowboy hat. “Yeah. Something wrong?”
She bit back a retort and looked back to the field.
“So how’s Bo doing?” Her brother glanced to first base, where Bo stood, hands on knees.
A snort escaped before she could contain it. “All right, if you don’t count Andy yanking him out of the game.”
Steve’s dark brows shot up his forehead. “What happened?”
“Bo barely touched the Pirate’s first baseman earlier and Andy sat him on the bench.”
“Good.”
Trish whirled her head around. “What?”
“Sis, Andy had no choice. If he let Bo get by with it, the other boys would follow suit. Not to mention what everyone would be saying about you and Andy.”
She let the words sink in and heaved a sigh. He was right. Andy did have to correct Bo, but he didn’t have to do it in anger. There would still be an after-game discussion.
Trish tried to force the incident from her mind, but thoughts and images kept wiggling their way in and sucked the enjoyment from the rest of the game. The other four, on the other hand, enjoyed themselves immensely with continued conversation and laughter. So much so, that by the time the game ended, Trish was relieved she didn’t have to be around them anymore.
She descended the steps with them and said goodbye, then watched as they ambled to the overflowing parking lot. A frown puckered her eyebrows. Was something going on between Dad and Mama Beth? Surely not. Mom had only been gone nine months. A sour taste deposited itself on her tongue.
Trish swallowed against it and made her way to the dugout to get Little Bo. He met her at the gate. “We won our first game!” Tendrils of sweaty hair framed his lit-from-within face.
“I know. Good for you!” She gave him a hug, his smell worse than a wet puppy. “Don’t forget you get a free snow cone.”
“First I have to help Andy clean the dugout.”
Trish stiffened. “Why do you have to clean it?”
“’Cause I shoved a boy.”
She forcefully straightened her fingers to keep them from curling into fists. “I see.”
Andy glanced up at her terse words. “Something wrong?”
“We’ll discuss it when Bo goes for his snow cone.” And then some.
Bo attacked the trash strewn around the dugout, and two minutes later the area sparkled.
Andy patted his back and smiled. “Thanks, buddy. You did a great job. Better hustle after that snow cone.” He faced Trish with crossed arms, his expression grim. “Ready for that discussion?”
Trish waited until Little Bo moved out of ear shot. “You had no right to jump on him earlier. What he did was wrong, but you responded in anger. He trusted you, and you hurt his feelings.”
“I wasn’t angry. I was frustrated and probably came across a little harsher than I intended. I already apologized.”
Like an apology was enough. “And then you made him sit the bench and clean the dugout?”
He nodded, his jaw muscle pulsing.
“Overkill, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think.” Andy hesitated, then released a sigh. “Look, I can’t let the guys get away with that kind of behavior. I didn’t want to come down on him, but I had no choice. I would’ve done the same with any of them, and I couldn’t show Bo any favoritism.”
&n
bsp; Trish shifted her weight to her right leg. “In case you’ve forgotten, a few months ago he lost his father. And you, of all people, should know how fragile he is right now. Don’t you think you could’ve given him a little bit of a break?”
“Not when it comes to his behavior.” He picked up the bat bag and swung it over his shoulder. “Don’t make excuses for him, Trish. You’re not doing him any favors.”
“I’m not making excuses for him. You have no idea what it’s like not to have a father.”
His expression grew stone cold, and he moved close. Too close. In his eyes a storm brewed. “You know nothin’ about me, lady. Nothin’.”
The chill in his words pierced like icicles.
He stepped around her and stalked off toward his car.
Chapter 15
Trish padded from her bedroom the next morning, bleary-eyed. That settled it. No more evening arguments with Andy. Had she slept at all? She raised a hand to rub her forehead while she traveled down the hall toward the sound of way-too-cheery-for-this-early-in-the-morning music. Curled up with his blanket, Bo lay on the couch entranced by a kid video. She lifted his shoulders and eased down on the sofa, cradling his head on her lap. His eyes never left the TV.
His sleepy-little-boy look, complete with rosy cheeks and mussed hair, roused motherly warmth inside her. If only she could keep him from growing up so fast.
“Did you sleep okay, sweetie?”
“Uh-huh.” He droned the words.
She could’ve asked if he’d climbed Mount Everest and his answer would’ve been the same. Trish picked up the remote and paused the DVD. “Good.”
Bo frowned up at her, now fully alert. “What’d you do that for?” he groused.
Trish tweaked his button nose. “’Cause we need to talk. I’ll turn it back on later.”
“’kay.” He flopped on his back and peered up at her with trusting eyes.
“You know you shouldn’t have pushed the first-baseman from the other team, right?”
