by Holly Kerr
It’s so easy for Clay and M.K. They have no baggage, no doubts. They want to be together, and so they are. They made it happen, despite Clay’s former non-committal ways, and M.K’s critical analysis of every one of her relationships.
I’ve had more than a few conversations with M.K. about both those things.
With a wave, I leave them alone and go and find Dean.
With his height and hair, it’s usually not hard to find him in a crowd, but this time it takes me a few minutes to see him beyond the bleachers with two little boys.
Once I notice him, it’s impossible for me to see anyone else.
His white baseball pants make his legs look endless.
“Hey, Flora,” he says with a wide smile. “These are Imad’s guys.”
I love the way he says my name.
“Imad—baseball game.” The memory clicks into place. “Hey, guys.”
“They made rep teams and looks like Asher wants to pitch, so I’m showing him some moves.”
“Dad only plays third,” the older boy explains.
“Third is good, too,” I say, trying not to laugh at his dismissal. “But everyone wants to pitch, don’t they?”
“Did you guys know Flora used to be a catcher?” Dean asks. “She almost got to the Olympics.”
“Really?” the youngest boy asks with eyes full of admiration. “For playing baseball? You’re a—”
“Girls play too,” she retorts firmly.
“Hey, Asher, toss Flora your glove,” Dean instructs.
“No.” I back away. “I haven’t played in years.”
“It’s not something you forget,” he teases. “Give it a try.”
I take the glove, looking at it like it’s a foreign object, before shoving it on my hand. “I can’t catch your pitches,” I warn Dean, backing up a few feet.
“I’ll go easy,” he promises. “Besides, I’ve seen the way those girls throw those windmill pitches. If you can grab those, you can catch anything.”
I crouch, feeling the unused muscles straining in the position; glove held up in the middle of the strike zone, tucking the other hand behind my back.
There’s a moment of fear about facing a former major league pitcher without padding before Dean throws the ball. It’s an easy toss, straight down the middle.
The ball hits the leather of the glove with a nice thwack sound.
“See?” Dean’s smile is as wide as mine. “You’ve still got it.”
He throws half a dozen pitches and I catch them all. Then he hands the ball to Asher to give him a turn.
Catching for the young boy is more of a struggle, but I manage, with only a few flying out of my reach.
“Look at you!”
I turn to see Clay and M.K watching and get to my feet with an embarrassed smile.
“I haven’t seen you play in so long,” M.K enthuses.
“It was just catch,” I mutter.
“You should be playing,” Dean says as they walk back to the bench. “It’s a shame to waste the talent.”
“You saw me catch a few balls.” I laugh. “It’s been too long for me.”
But I can’t erase the smile as I climb the bleachers with M.K., settling among the wives and girlfriends of the players.
Clay stands at the bottom. “Ladies? This is M.K. and Flora. They’re going to cheer really loud for me.”
“You think you’re going to give them something to cheer about, Clay?” a sharp-featured woman laughs.
“Oh, Ingrid, you know you love me.” Blowing M.K. a kiss, Clay saunters to the bench, fully aware that the women are watching him.
“He’s never brought anyone to a game before,” Ingrid says under her breath.
I turn in my seat. “Well, he won’t be bringing anyone else if M.K. has anything to say about it.”
It’s fun chatting with the women, bringing the more reserved M.K. into the conversation as much as I can. But once the game starts, I focus on the field.
Dean plays first base and his height and reach gives him a huge advantage. Plus being in the infield means he won’t tax his arm with hard throws. I looked up his injury when we met, and talked about his rehab with him. He looks healthy and fully healed, especially when he’s at bat.
“Look at his stance,” I say with awe. “Technically, it’s perfect.”
“You mean how he looks in those baseball pants?” Imad’s wife, Kaisa throws over her shoulder. “I love my husband, but I really wish he had a better butt for the pants.”
“Dean’s one of the main reasons I come to the games,” Ingrid says. “He’s so long and lean and with that ass…”
I laugh at their comments so no one notices how I’m staring at him. Drooling, my sixteen-year-old self would have pointed out.
The crack of the bat connecting with the ball draws everyone’s attention.
“Wow,” M.K. says admiringly as the ball flies high over left field. “He’s really good.”
The group of women falls silent as we watch Dean lope around the bases.
“So pretty,” Ingrid sighs. As he rounds third, she turned to me. “So what’s going on with the two of you?”
“We’re friends.” My voice isn’t as firm as it usually is. “Just friends.”
Ingrid turns back to the game. “That’s really too bad for you.”
Dean catches my eye as he returns to the bench, his grin making my stomach flutter in a decidedly more-than-friend way.
“You’re smiling,” M.K. whispers.
“I can’t seem to stop,” I confess.
“Why isn’t he playing ball professionally?” M.K. asks.
Ingrid overhears the question. “So even more people could watch him run around the bases?” She laughs. “I agree. It should be shared for all.”
“I’ve always wondered why he didn’t go back,” another wife says. I think her name is Molly. “I know he did the surgery and the rehab, but I’m an occupational therapist and there’s no reason he can’t play. Maybe not pitch like he did, but he’s great on third or first and the way he hits…” Molly trails off with a shrug. “I’ve always wondered what happened. It was obvious Evelyn didn’t want him to play. Probably couldn’t handle the competition.”
“I assumed playing professionally wasn’t an option.” I turn to M.K. “Has Clay ever said anything?”
“Unlike you, we don’t spend all that much time discussing Dean,” she teases. “But I think he was on the same wavelength as you. He thinks the shoulder ended his career.”
“What if it didn’t?” I say with excitement. “What if Dean could get another chance?”
“That would be great for Dean,” M.K. says carefully. “But maybe not for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I may not understand what’s going on, but I have to admit that he’s really good for you. You’re pretty much over Thomas, back to the way you were, and Dean helped with that. But if he got a second chance to play, you’d lose him. You, more than anyone, know what that life is like, Flora. Travelling all the time, never around…”
I sit quietly through the rest of the game.
~
Clay insists that we join the team after the game. Because it’s the last game of the season, the wives and girlfriends are invited.
It was a good game, but they lost, which puts a damper on the team’s spirits.
“What are you so happy about?” Pete, the team captain, elbows Dean, almost spilling his beer.
“There’s no reason to be miserable. We played well. Most of us, anyway.” He shoots a mock glare across the table to Clay, who grimaces.
“Yeah, yeah, bro. That was my fault.”
“You were showing off to your new girl,” Pete teases.
“Maybe a little,” Clay admits, to the howls of the team.
“He really likes her,” Dean says in a low voice to me, the team distracted by the arrival of plates of nachos.
“I think they’re in looove,” I whisper with a g
rin.
“Really? Clay didn’t say—not that we talk about that. M.K.’s cool. She’s good for him.”
“He’s good for her.”
“Do you—I don’t know, do you talk about stuff like that a lot?” Dean asks hesitantly.
I make a face. “Uh—yeah. We’re women. That’s all we talk about, feelings and emotions and stuff. That’s why men call us emotional.” I shake my head.
“Do you talk about me?”
He looks uneasy. And I feel caught. I take a deep breath and drop my chin. “Maybe?”
“Really? What do you talk about?”
“I don’t know. Stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Hey, Deano, catch!”
I heave a sigh of relief as Dean looks to the end of the table.
“So, are you guys together?” Trev asks as he pours me a glass from the jug of beer on the table.
I glance across the table at M.K. “They’re together,” I say, pointing at M.K. and Clay. “But Dean and I—”
“Just friends,” Dean quickly cuts in.
Is it my imagination, or does Dean look resentful with his answer?
“So you’re not with anyone?” Trev asks, snaking his arm around the back of my chair, not touching, but close enough for me to smell his sweat.
It’s not too bad, but it’s enough of a scent for me to lean away.
“I have a dog,” I say. “He’s enough for me.”
“You can’t be happy with just a dog.”
“I can. Cappie lets me cry on his shoulder, farts when I give him meat and lets me drag him all over the place. Anything else, I can take care of myself.” I smile at the expression on Trev’s face and turn to another one of the players beside me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dean frown.
Dean
“Did you have fun?” I ask as I unlock my car. Part of me—the part that’s still pissed at Trev flirting with Flora—hope she says no.
“I did,” Flora says. “I like your friends. You’re a good team.”
“We’re usually better than that.” I open the car door for her. Clay has gone to M.K.’s so I’m driving Flora home.
She waits until I climb into the Jeep before continuing. “It wasn’t bad. Clay getting called out at home kind of wrecked things. I think you could have pulled it off if it hadn’t been for that. I don’t know what he was thinking.”
“He was thinking about M.K.,” I say ruefully, starting the car.
“Probably. Hasn’t he brought girls to watch him before?”
“Nope. He’s never had a girlfriend he’s been so into. The other girls barely lasted a week or so.” Flora turns on the radio as I pull out of the parking lot. One of the first things I found out about Flora was that she loves music and needs to have it playing at all times, in the car, at the store, and at home. Her headphones are her most prized possession.
“Did Evelyn come to your games?” she asks, trying to sound casual like she always does when the subject of Evelyn came up.
“No. I don’t think she’s ever seen me play. Oh, once. She came when we were in the playoffs, but that’s it.”
“Really?”
“You don’t have to sound so polite. Yes, I know it was a shitty girlfriend move for her not to come to my games. She should have come to at least a few of them. I know that now.” Admitting things like that don’t bother me anymore.
“I would have come to all your games,” Flora says staunchly.
“You would have made a much better girlfriend.”
The word falls between us like a chunk of cement dropped into the water.
Flora is my girlfriend in every way but the name. We spend most of our spare time together, we talk and text constantly. I look after her dog when she can’t get home to walk him. She invites me over whenever she attempts to cook a meal, which isn’t often and never my favourite thing to do.
There’s still nothing physical.
I want to. I think about kissing her constantly; about how soft her lips are, how she fits against my body. I want her fingers in my hair, like she plays with my beard.
Flora fiddles with the radio, switching stations until she finds a song. Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect.” “I love this song.”
“It’s a good song.” The silence stretches between us.
“Tell me about your injury,” Flora asks suddenly. “We were talking about it during the game.”
“Let me guess. Molly thinks I’m fine. Good enough to jump back in.”
“Well, actually she said—”
“I don’t care,” I say. Flora looks surprised at the anger in my voice. “It’s over. That part of my life is gone.”
“I don’t believe that. You’re still young, you’re in great shape…wouldn’t you want to try again?” Flora asks, the eagerness in her voice wearing down my bitterness.
My shoulders slump. “There are so many players out there, all pushing for their chance, and I just threw mine away.”
“Maybe you can get it back.”
“I think it’s been too long.”
“It’s only been a couple of years. You’re still young. Why don’t you get in touch with your agent, or find another one? Anyone who sees you play knows you have talent and belong in a ball field. Will you think about it, at least?” she pleads.
“I don’t know.”
“Do it for me? I never had the chances you did, because I was a girl. You owe it to me to try again.”
Doesn’t she realize I would do just about anything for her? “I’ll think about it.”
I pull up in front of Flora’s house and turn to her. Before I can say anything, Flora slides into my arms.
She smells good.
She feels even better.
I rest my chin on her head.
The position is uncomfortable, but I hold her until the blast of a car horn brings me back into the reality of being parked on the side of a busy road with a line of traffic trying to get around me.
“Sorry,” Flora says, pulling back. “The moment felt like it needed a hug.”
“I think any moment could be improved by a hug,” I say in a low voice.
“Yeah, well…” Flora unbuckles her seat belt and makes a rude gesture at the car passing us. “Thanks for the ride. I had a lot of fun. I think your friend Trev was coming on to me,” she says blithely. “He asked me three times if we were together.”
“Oh, really?”
“It was nice.” She opens the car door and hops out. “It’s been a while since a guy’s been interested in me.”
I can only stare after her as Flora runs up the walk to her front door.
What just happened?
Once Flora is inside, I pull away from the curb, causing yet another car to blare its horn at me.
I know she means well, but talking about it only makes me remember how stupid I acted. It’s the main reason I haven’t contacted my former agent, Roger Merlin; that and my pride. I don’t have Evelyn as an excuse anymore.
It takes a lot to have a chance like I did, and I was an idiot to let it slip through my fingers.
I’m still kicking myself as I pull into the shared driveway and see Mrs. Gretchen wheeling out her garbage bin.
And then I kick myself some more when I realize I drove back to the house I shared with Evelyn instead of to Clay’s place.
I put the Jeep in reverse, ready to get away before anyone sees me, but Mrs. Gretchen squints into the bright lights and waves. Cursing under my breath, I shut off the car. I can’t let her struggle with the bins again, but I hate being so close to Evelyn.
I picture her in the house, cozied up with Thomas.
I thought I’d been doing so well.
I take the handle of the garbage bin and roll it to the curb, cursing under my breath. But I calm down when Mrs. Gretchen waits for me by the front door. “Come in, let me get you something to eat,” she invites.
“Thanks, Mrs. Gretchen, some other time. I should get home. I
was just in the neighbourhood…” I trail off when she nods with a knowing expression on her wrinkled face.
“Made a little oops, did you? I forget where I’m going all the time, so you won’t get any judgment from me. Get out of here now, before she catches you.”
“It’s not—I don’t think—”
Mrs. Gretchen leans closer. “I don’t much like him. The new man. I think she made a mistake.”
“It’s none of my business,” I say stiffly. “But I don’t think she made a mistake. We…” I give a firm shake of my head. “Not meant to be.”
“So who is?”
An image of Flora flashes before my eyes. “I’m not sure.”
“And you’re not saying. That’s fine. You’ll tell me soon. Come back sometime when it’s not so dark. Come for tea one day next week,” she urges. “Bring that friend of yours if you like?”
“Flora?” I hadn’t introduced them, hadn’t even mentioned her.
“I hope that’s not his name. No, I mean that scoundrel that couldn’t handle my schnapps.”
“Oh, Clay.” I laugh. Clay’s going to love being called a scoundrel. “I’ll bring him by. But no more schnapps.”
Mrs. Gretchen gives a wave of her hand. “Oh, I’ll find something better for us.”
I’m still chuckling as I head back to the Jeep, but my laughter quiets as the door to Evelyn’s house opens.
“Dean?”
I fist my hand on the hood of the Jeep, grimacing as I step towards Evelyn’s door. The light falls on her, still impeccably dressed even after nine o’clock. Even her makeup is perfect.
Flora hardly wears makeup. And she’d never be caught dead in the slipper/shoes Evelyn is wearing. “Hey. Sorry to—” I stop, wondering why I’m apologizing. “I was just checking on Mrs. Gretchen,” I say instead.
“Who?”
“Mrs. Gretchen? Your next-door neighbour?”
“Oh, her. That’s sweet. I didn’t realize you knew her.”
“I guess there’s a lot you didn’t realize about me.”
Evelyn’s face falls at my words. “Dean…why are you here?”
“I just told you,” I say irritably. “Look, I gotta go.”
“Wait. Please?” She glances back at the door.
