Page 35 of Sterling Touch
“Coach!” I turn in the direction of my brother, his voice questioning as he watches me.
I’m a mess today. While my body is relaxed, my mind is scattered. In general, I’m on edge more than I typically am.
“Yo,” I holler back at Clint.
“Pitching practice.” He tips his head toward a group of boys we’ve designated as pitcher potentials, among them is Hudson Sylver.
“Right.” I pull my thoughts from Vale as best I can. After I corral the group toward the mound, I risk a second glance in Vale’s direction, reminding us both of my promise: I’ll have an eye on her.
An hour and a half later, practice ends, and Clint calls a meeting of the parents.
“This is a reminder about the Sylver Sports Camp in two weeks.”
I hadn’t been in favor of this decision for additional team bonding and practice time, but Clint believed the olive branch toward the new sports camp, headed by none other than Ford Sylver, former centerfielder for the Chicago Anchors, was a good move. The camp’s official opening day isn’t until the last weekend in May, when a grand opening celebration is scheduled. Schools break for summer around then, and the camp will be available to individuals and teams from all over the country. Clint thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask Ford if he’d like a trial run with a local team, offering Haven Hitters as guinea pigs.
Small cabins. A new mess hall. A practice diamond bigger and better than this local field. The early spring temperatures make the lake on the property too cold for swimming, but in the summer, the water will provide extracurricular activities for campers.
“The weekend begins Friday night . . .” Clint continues, but I zone out on the details as my concentration falls on Vale. Her head is lowered, eyes averted from me. Is she angry that I slept at her place and slipped out of her bed in the early morning?I’m lucky as hell Stone hadn’t come home before I crept down the driveway in my truck.
“Right?” Clint claps my shoulder hard, and I turn my head in his direction. His wide eyes tell me to agree with him, so I nod, numbly.
“Okay. See you all Tuesday. Have permission forms filled out and deposits made on our website by then. And if any of you are willing to volunteer time at the camp, let us know.”
To our benefit, Ford isn’t charging us for more than groceries and the cleaning service needed during our short stay. If we can get a few parent-volunteers to assist, that cuts down on our costs even more. We aren’t looking to be cheap, but we are on a budget, and we accept that most of our parents are as well.
Too quickly, Vale has her back to me, walking her son away from the ball field, and an unfamiliar ache settles in my chest.
How many more times will I watch her walk away before I snap?
As if Wednesdaymorning massage therapy sessions and weekly baseball practices weren’t enough time to lay eyes on Vale, I’d returned to Milton Roadhouse on Thursday evening hoping to catch another glimpse of my new obsession. One that could hold me off from storming her house again with weak excuses like I’d done over the past weekend. When she never showed, I cursed myself for my behavior and gave in to Clint pestering me to attend a concert at a small venue in Huntington on Friday night.
I wasn’t particularly a fan of country music, being more of a classic rock kind of guy, but Clint asked, and I needed to get out of my head, and away from my sudden addiction to an unobtainable single mom.
In my truck on the way to the larger city, some forty-five minutes from Rogue River, Clint and I rehash our plan for the Haven Hitters and our time at the sports’ camp. To our surprise, most of the team is available to participate in the impromptu camp and four parents volunteered, among them Ronnie Archer and Vale Sylver.
When we arrive in Huntington, the city feels alive for an early spring evening. Parking is limited and we find a spot a few blocks away from the venue. Once inside the space with standing room only in front of a raised stage, we stake out a spot near a railing that divides the lower pit from a platform section. We nabbed a few beers before claiming this space. Scanning the crowd, I roam over couples on dates and groups of country music enthusiasts, bored by the scene. While glossing over people, my sight catches on a straw cowboy hat. One that looks well-loved and vaguely familiar. Could be one in a million such hats, but I know this one has a tear in the side of the brim, something I’ve never bothered to repair.
Becausethatis the same hat I was wearing when I crashed Vale’s house a week ago and left it behind in her bedroom.
Licking my lips, a slow smile curls my mouth.
“What?” Clint knocks into my elbow with his, lifting his beer for a sip.
“Whatwhat?” I counter, pulling my gaze from the back of Vale’s head.
“What are you smiling about?” He peers over the crowd himself. “Or better yet, who you smilin’ at?”
“No one. It’s nothing,” I argue, but my gaze flings back toward Vale who stands sideways, talking to the woman next to her, and offering me a perfect view of her profile. A silhouette of hills and valleys. Lush breasts. Tight ass. Strong legs in a short skirt and cowboy boots. She’s wearing some kind of form-fitting tank that hugs her upper body and practically matches her skin tone, making her appear almost naked.
I scrub my thumb and forefinger around my lips, and swallow back the sudden thirst I have for her.
“Is that Vale Sylver?” Clint interjects, drawing my attention to him for a second. His eyes narrow on her and the woman standing beside her. “Who is that with her?”
The woman beside Vale could be her twin. Same long blonde hair. Same height and build, and yet I could pick Vale out of a crowd. I did, actually, and I watch as the two women laugh together. Vale places her hand on her friend’s shoulder. They knock plastic cups of something against each other before Vale wraps her lips over the rim of her drink.
I’ve never been so envious of a red Solo cup.
A warmup to the warmup band starts the show, and I stand stone-still while people sway around us. The music isn’t bad, just not my scene. Clint doesn’t get out much, and he wanted to see the main act. Our mother is babysitting Ruby James tonight, and she values her grammy time, which gives Clint the opportunity for an all-nighter.
