really needed was a calculator.
He kept walking around the backside of the stadium, where undeveloped land stretched out for miles. Why couldn’t the Reeds use this? Add a right-field entrance? Or hell, just make people use the legs God had given them to walk to the nearest gate. That sounded reasonable. Cutting down half an acre of trees so you could lay another two acres of parking lot, which may or may not be used on a regular basis, didn’t.
Buoyed, Sam headed back into the stadium to tell Ian to pack it up. They could work on parking lot-focused word problems over a beer at Foley’s. But when he reached the field, Ian wasn’t there. Maybe he’d gone back to the truck.
Sam pulled his phone from his pocket and was about to text Ian when he was startled by a distinctive crack. He spun around in time to see a ground ball racing toward him in an erratic pattern over the shitty grass.
“Fielder’s choice!” Ian yelled, and that’s when Sam saw him down the third-base line almost in the dugout.
Sam locked eyes on the ball again, and despite his body’s natural inclination to scoop it, he hesitated and wound up trapping it with his foot instead.
“What the hell was that?” Ian asked. “Garbage.” Then he looked behind him into the dugout and added, “I would give you another shot, but that’s the only ball I could find.”
“Forget about it. We have things to do.”
“Oh, come on! One time. Give it here.” He held up his outstretched left hand.
Sam froze.
Go on. Humor the man. It’s not a big deal.
At least it wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. But he stood there, looking at the ball as if it were a foreign object. Finally, slowly, he bent over and grabbed it. Soft and gritty. Maybe a little waterlogged, too. Nothing like the snow-white, silky smooth baseballs from his past. God, how he’d loved to scuff the hell out of those with one swing. He squeezed the ball over and over again as he wandered a few steps forward.
“Are you going to throw it or kiss it?” Ian asked, and that’s when Sam realized he was standing at first base. There was no bag, but the angle was spot-on. A first baseman never forgot this view.
Sam’s breathing shuttered. How big of a mistake would it be to finally admit how much he missed this game?
A noisy flock of birds attracted attention overhead.
“They’d better not unload!” Ian yelled with a laugh. And all Sam could do was look skyward, remembering how his mother had encouraged him to race flocks just like that when he’d been a kid. He’d never had a chance of beating them, but there’d been no better early training for the sixty-yard dash. So long ago. Another lifetime.
He dropped the ball, motioned for Ian, and walked off the field. The only thing he was going to admit was what he’d been admitting for the last ten years: he’d let his mother down because he’d put baseball first. He wasn’t going to let her down again.
When Ian caught up with him, Sam said, “You up for a beer?”
“Hell yeah. And can I add you’re a lot more fun to work with than your brother—even if you won’t pick up a ball.”
“I picked up a ball.”
“Okay. Then maybe next time we can get you to throw it.”
Fat chance. “No time to be messing around, man. We need to put our thick heads together and hash out some numbers.”
“There’s way too much math involved in landscaping,” Ian said, laughing. “Who knew?”
Sam would’ve laughed, too, if he wasn’t staring at those damn trees again. They needed to be his driving purpose, now. He couldn’t afford to let baseball distract him.
Chapter Four
At eight o’clock on Friday morning, Rachel’s last day in Arlington—
thank God
—Mark Olean called her mobile phone, which connected through her BMW’s hands-free calling.
“I’ve been trying to get a hold of your father,” he said. “I’ve left multiple voicemails with no response. Today, I called his office, and they referred me to you.”
Rachel
He kept walking around the backside of the stadium, where undeveloped land stretched out for miles. Why couldn’t the Reeds use this? Add a right-field entrance? Or hell, just make people use the legs God had given them to walk to the nearest gate. That sounded reasonable. Cutting down half an acre of trees so you could lay another two acres of parking lot, which may or may not be used on a regular basis, didn’t.
Buoyed, Sam headed back into the stadium to tell Ian to pack it up. They could work on parking lot-focused word problems over a beer at Foley’s. But when he reached the field, Ian wasn’t there. Maybe he’d gone back to the truck.
Sam pulled his phone from his pocket and was about to text Ian when he was startled by a distinctive crack. He spun around in time to see a ground ball racing toward him in an erratic pattern over the shitty grass.
“Fielder’s choice!” Ian yelled, and that’s when Sam saw him down the third-base line almost in the dugout.
Sam locked eyes on the ball again, and despite his body’s natural inclination to scoop it, he hesitated and wound up trapping it with his foot instead.
“What the hell was that?” Ian asked. “Garbage.” Then he looked behind him into the dugout and added, “I would give you another shot, but that’s the only ball I could find.”
“Forget about it. We have things to do.”
“Oh, come on! One time. Give it here.” He held up his outstretched left hand.
Sam froze.
Go on. Humor the man. It’s not a big deal.
At least it wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. But he stood there, looking at the ball as if it were a foreign object. Finally, slowly, he bent over and grabbed it. Soft and gritty. Maybe a little waterlogged, too. Nothing like the snow-white, silky smooth baseballs from his past. God, how he’d loved to scuff the hell out of those with one swing. He squeezed the ball over and over again as he wandered a few steps forward.
“Are you going to throw it or kiss it?” Ian asked, and that’s when Sam realized he was standing at first base. There was no bag, but the angle was spot-on. A first baseman never forgot this view.
Sam’s breathing shuttered. How big of a mistake would it be to finally admit how much he missed this game?
A noisy flock of birds attracted attention overhead.
“They’d better not unload!” Ian yelled with a laugh. And all Sam could do was look skyward, remembering how his mother had encouraged him to race flocks just like that when he’d been a kid. He’d never had a chance of beating them, but there’d been no better early training for the sixty-yard dash. So long ago. Another lifetime.
He dropped the ball, motioned for Ian, and walked off the field. The only thing he was going to admit was what he’d been admitting for the last ten years: he’d let his mother down because he’d put baseball first. He wasn’t going to let her down again.
When Ian caught up with him, Sam said, “You up for a beer?”
“Hell yeah. And can I add you’re a lot more fun to work with than your brother—even if you won’t pick up a ball.”
“I picked up a ball.”
“Okay. Then maybe next time we can get you to throw it.”
Fat chance. “No time to be messing around, man. We need to put our thick heads together and hash out some numbers.”
“There’s way too much math involved in landscaping,” Ian said, laughing. “Who knew?”
Sam would’ve laughed, too, if he wasn’t staring at those damn trees again. They needed to be his driving purpose, now. He couldn’t afford to let baseball distract him.
Chapter Four
At eight o’clock on Friday morning, Rachel’s last day in Arlington—
thank God
—Mark Olean called her mobile phone, which connected through her BMW’s hands-free calling.
“I’ve been trying to get a hold of your father,” he said. “I’ve left multiple voicemails with no response. Today, I called his office, and they referred me to you.”
Rachel
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