Page 62 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
I want to ask my father how he reconciles this life, this home, this second chance he has to be a good father.
I want to say so many things.
How could you cheat on your wife? How do you feel about having a kid at fifty-six? How do you feel about the fact that you’ve been unfaithful many times over? How do you feel about the fact that you moved out of our home? That you left me when I was in middle school? That I had to figure everything out without you?
But when I look at the man I used to depend on, the man I looked up to, the man I revered, my throat tightens.
Words don’t come.
I’m voiceless.
Once again, I’m thirteen, and I’ve found him at the ballpark kissing another woman, and I don’t know what to say.
When we move to the table, and Dad serves up a simple breakfast of bagels and fruit, I focus entirely on Becky.
We banter about science, research, future remedies.
As I take a bite of blueberries, Becky spreads a hand across her belly. “Oh!”
Concern paints my father’s face. “Everything okay, sweetheart?”
She’s glowing. “He’s enjoying breakfast too.”
He’s.
I choke down the blueberries.
I’m going to have a little brother.
Tears prick the back of my eyes.
Becky waves a hand. “Where was I?” She collects her thoughts and returns to the topic of genomes.
As I finish the fruit, I’m grateful for her because she gives me an excuse not to talk to my father again.
I still don’t know what to say to him. He’s still the part of my life that doesn’t make sense.
But he’s also the thing that stands in the way of the romance I want to have.
And I can’t wait to leave. On the way out, Becky mentions the shower. “I’d love to have you attend, but if you don’t want to, I understand,” she says, gentle and kind.
A knot rises in my throat. She’ll be a good mom. Already she’s sharing her heart but giving space too.
“Thanks. I’ll let you know.”
Once I shut the door behind me, I let out a shaky, shuddery breath.
There is so much I should say to my father.
But right now, I want to talk to Holden.
He’s the one I want to turn to. He’s the one I want to call, to curl up with, to talk to about my awkward morning.
But I can’t say a word to him.
That hurts more than the breakfast with my father.
So much more.
24
Holden
With a clutch RBI in one game and a blowout in the next, we finish off the Aces, winning the home stand 2 to 1.
I knock fists with Dante, who started the game on the mound, and with John, who finished it, as well as Gunnar, our third baseman, who clobbered a homer in the seventh. He’s new this year too, but his half brother played for the Dragons at the height of the sign-stealing. “Good work, guys,” I say as we walk off the diamond. “Let’s keep this shit up when we go to New York.”
Tomorrow’s a travel day, and we play the Comets on Wednesday.
Gunnar wiggles his fingers. “Ooh, intel time. Need you to give up all the goods, man. Isn’t the closer there your former teammate? Shane Walker?”
“I call him Shakespeare. And yeah, we were both traded at the end of last season,” I say as we head to the dugout.
Gunnar gives me bummer for you eyes, coupled with a ridiculous sympathetic nod. “Sucks, man. When they have to get rid of the dead weight.”
“Did I say, ‘Good work’? I was referring to Dante and John.”
“Fine, fine. You’re decent at the plate. Now tell me everything.” He rubs his palms together. “I want all the dirt on their closer. That guy is insane on the mound. Did he strike a deal with the devil for that fastball?”
“I do believe Shakespeare did.”
“And so—to swing at his fastball or not to swing at his fastball? That is the question,” Gunnar asks in a most Bard-like tone, stroking his bearded jaw.
Chuckling, I clap him on the back. “All the world’s a baseball game. And in this case, the answer depends on whether you want to strike out swinging or looking.”
“Ouch,” Gunnar says with a wince.
“Yeah, the dude has fire in his pitches. Actual fire. I kid you not.”
“Then the answer is swinging, then. Always go down swinging,” Gunnar declares. “Go big or go home, right?”
“Only way to play.”
Before we hit the dugout, a confident young voice calls out, “Hello, Holden? Got a minute for KRGO?”
Tension shoots down my spine as I recognize Erin Madison, a TV reporter. My fists clench. But then I remember Reese’s insight.
Give them some of the truth, not all of it.
I turn around, flash a smile to the local sports journalist who’s been making a name for herself, then answer a few simple questions about the game.
