Page 33 of Fair Ball

“I have to stay in. I have to finish it.”

My teammates remain quiet, but I can feel their tension. I’m losing this game for them. They want Yadi in.

But I can’t.

Not yet.

I need the chance to strike out my brother.

I need to.

“I can tell you’re going through it, but it can’t be out here anymore. You’re going to have to find a different way to sort it out.” Bettina holds out his hand, waiting for me to hand the ball over to him.

I rotate it over and over. “I can do it.”

“I know you can, but you won’t be doing it tonight.”

My throat clogs. My stomach churns. Chest aches.

“Fuck,” I mumble and slap the ball into his hand and then push past the circle. “Fuck!” I throw my mitt into the dugout and rip my hat off my head. “Goddamn it!”

But just like the other day, I search for Millie in the crowd. She’s in the wheelchair-accessible section higher up, but I can see that she’s wearing my jersey again. I think she mouths something to me, though I can’t be sure.

My heart is in my stomach, my adrenaline somewhere in the nosebleeds.

I’m about to lift my hand to her in acknowledgment when some asshole shouts, “Hey, ya fuckin’ jabroni! This isn’t softball! Get off the field!”

Ignoring him and everyone else, I duck into the dugout and slump on the bench, putting a towel over my head, signaling that I don’t want to talk.

Again, Yadi brings it home. We don’t win, but he at least helps us stay in the game. It’s an embarrassment for me from all sides. Falling apart against my brother and being shown up by a rookie.

I spend a long time in the showers so I’m one of the last ones out of the locker room, but Millie waited for me. She stands in the middle of Noah and her mom, smiling tenderly when she sees me, as if I’m an abused animal.

“Hey, thanks for coming.”

“Of course.” Though she can’t say any more because Noah steps toward me.

“I know you already signed a ball for me at the clinic and my mom works for you or whatever, but could you sign my shirt?”

I take the marker he holds out to me. “Sure, kid.” I sign my chicken scratch then tap the brim of his Thunder ball cap with the marker. “How’s it going? How’s baseball?”

“Good. Awesome. We have a game tomorrow.”

“In New Jersey,” Millie says. “First one of the season.”

“Keep your head. Don’t be like me,” I tell him. “Good pitchers stay cool.”

“Why didn’t you stay cool?” Noah asks, and I blow out a noisy breath.

“Because…sometimes it’s easier to let it out than keep it in.”

Millie arches a brow in challenge. The irony of my admitting I need to release the pressure valve at some point or do what I did today is not lost on me.

She doesn’t press, only motions to the older woman on her right in a wheelchair. “Austin, this is my mom, Shannon.”

She lifts her hand, her fingers so light and delicate I’m afraid I might accidentally break them in my grip and gently release her. “Very nice to meet you.”

“You too.” She adjusts the knit cap she wears, a few wisps of hair sticking out, as if she’s lost a lot of it. An oxygen tank hangs off the side of her wheelchair, with tubes fitted around her ears to end in her nose. Aside from the obvious health issues, I can see the resemblance between the two women. Big eyes and heart-shaped faces, though Shannon’s cheeks are sunken in.