2. It’s Not Dessa

TWO

IT'S NOT DESSA

THREE DAYS EARLIER

Garrett

My eyelids shoot open, and I'm met with inky darkness. My heart thunders in my chest. Cold sweats spread across my body, sending a shiver down my spine. I blink a few more times and twist my head to face the alarm clock. It's 2:52 a.m. Fuck. It was a dream.

I'm standing behind home plate. Abbott is running down the baseline toward me, a sinister grin on his face. My gaze drifts to the shortstop. His arm rolls back and sling shots forward. The ball barrels toward me, the red stitching almost hypnotizing as it rotates through the air. All I need to do is lift my glove and catch the ball. That will send us into another inning to fight for the championship. I glance at Abbott, who's now only a few steps away. I slide my foot to touch the edge of the plate and lift my arm, preparing to catch the ball, except I don't have a glove. In fact, my entire hand is missing. The ball soars past me, and Abbott crosses home plate, scoring the winning run. The entire Minnesota team runs out on the field and congregates at the pitcher's mound to celebrate. I'm rooted in place as fans throw hats, jerseys with my number, and trash at me until I'm standing in a knee-deep pile. From the opposing team's dugout, Dessa runs out onto the field. Her long, honey-colored hair flows behind her until she reaches the pitcher's mound and wraps her arms around a faceless Minnesota player.

Swinging my legs over to the side of the bed, I sit up, and rest my elbows on my knees. I exhale a deep breath and scrub my hands down my face. This is the third time I've had this dream or something similar in the past week, but it's the first time Dessa's appeared. I climb to my feet and amble through the darkness, across my bedroom, and into the hallway.

Once in the living room, I flop onto the couch and turn on the TV. As soon as the replay of my missed catch comes on the screen, I immediately hit the power button on the remote. The TV goes black. You'd think they'd find something else to play by now. Baseball players miss catches all the time, but they certainly like to torture me by showing mine at every opportunity. Twist the dagger in my gut a little more. It's fine. I should be celebrating a victory. It was mine to win. Inches from my fingertips, or in my case, glove. But instead, I'm sitting on my couch in my condo in a city that hates me. Most would say I'm overreacting, but I've seen the social media posts, the GIFs, and the memes. Fans are not subtle about it either.

Home Run Playboy… more like Chokes Behind the Plate.

His glove works better without a hole in it.

The ball must need to hit him in the face for him to catch it.

Dawson sucks.

We need a new catcher .

Trade him.

He's already past his prime.

He better not be back next year.

This is just in the last two days. I've been subject to their hatred for a little over two weeks. While I can brush most of the comments away, this time hits particularly hard. Maybe because I know I won't have too many more years left playing professionally. My contract expires in three years. Then it's either negotiate a new one or go wherever the trade is.

All season, everyone expected us to make it to the world championship and win, so it sucks that I'm the reason the entire team went home empty-handed. My missed catch can only be attributed to one thing, and that thing is missing. I searched the clubhouse, the dugout, my condo, everywhere, and it's nowhere to be found. It's the only logical explanation.

I shove the coffee table away and stand. A newspaper and a stack of magazines tumbles to the ground. "Fuck," I mumble. Bending over, I grab the fallen mail from the floor when a white envelope with gold embellishments catches my attention. My eyes widen in terror when I read my brother's name in black calligraphy. This has to be a wedding invitation—it's too fancy for anything else, especially coming from Tony. That means only one thing. Just my fucking luck. Apparently, the universe wants to kick me when I'm at rock bottom.

When I left Harbor Highlands, my brother was with the one girl who should have been mine. The heaviness in my chest intensifies. Add another dagger to my heart to match the one in my gut. My brother is getting married… to my girl. My gaze shoots to the left. Georgia LaBelle. Wait. It's not Dessa. He's not marrying Dessa .

I rip open the flap and check the date. December third. My brother is getting married in a little over a week. Most importantly, he's not marrying Dessa. It's been ten years since I've been back home. It's been just as long since I've spoken to her, but no matter how hard I fight it, she's always a recurring presence in my dreams, especially as of late. While I couldn't catch the ball to win the championship, maybe I can finally catch the girl. The one who should have been mine all those years ago. Time to go back to Harbor Highlands. Alright universe, it's one-one. Tied game.

After booking my flight, I spend the next two days ignoring everyone outside my condo. The entire city is still upset, or a lot upset, with me. Perhaps getting out of Seattle is exactly what I need. It will give everyone time to cool off. In the meantime, maybe there will be a football scandal to take the heat off me. I can only hope.

I pull into the driveway of my parents' house, the tires leaving tread impressions in the light dusting of snow before I park my rental car. Winter is ready to make her appearance. It may have been ten years since I've been back here, but not that long since I've seen my parents. Every year I send them round-trip tickets to visit me in Seattle. At least I don't have the guilt trip of never seeing them hanging over my head.

As soon as I push through the front door, voices echo down the hallway from the kitchen. Memories of my childhood flood through my mind. No matter how long I've been gone, the sweet scent of lavender will always remind me of home. I toe off my shoes and stroll toward the sound, not fully prepared for what I'm getting myself into since no one knows I'm coming.

My brother, Tony, comes into view first. We both have a similar build: broad shoulders, over six feet, though I have a few inches on him. But that's where the similarities end. His hair is lighter than my dark brown and instead of green eyes like mine, he has brown.

"Holy shit! Look what the cat dragged in." Tony rounds the corner of the kitchen island and wraps his arms around me in a half hug, half back pat. "What are you doing here?"

"I hear there's a wedding." I wrap an arm around his shoulder and return the back pat. Growing up, we were close not only in age, with him being a year older than me, but our relationship. We played all the same sports, so we were constantly either practicing or playing with each other. We were competitive, but that only drove us to be better, to try harder. At least, it did for me. All that changed the summer leading into my senior year of high school, when it was no longer about the sport.

"You're a little early. There's still a week to go," Tony says.

"I needed to get out of Seattle for a while." But mostly I want to see Dessa.

"Truth be told, I never actually thought you'd show." He laughs, then glances around the empty room. "Alright, who had Garrett coming to the wedding on their BINGO card?" When his gaze falls to me, his smile falters. "Just joking. We didn't place bets. But I'm glad we didn't because I would've lost." He nudges me with his elbow.

"If my team had won the championship, it might be a different story." I shrug.

"I saw that." He clasps my shoulder. "That's rough. You win some. You lose some. I'm sure you'll get them next year." He flashes me a half smile. It's cocky and condescending and I wonder if he's even referring to the game anymore.

Losing that game was a tough pill to swallow. Even after three weeks, it still stings as if it happened yesterday. The replay constantly runs on a time loop in my head without the added help from the replays on TV.

The runner was rounding third, coming straight at me. I took my eye off the ball for a fraction of a second. The ball was soaring in the air straight toward my glove but tipped the edge, ricocheting off to the side, and Minnesota scored the winning run.

"Either way, I'm glad you could make it. It's good to see you."

I'd like to think he's telling the truth, but the wretched stench of bullshit wafts around from a mile away, especially his.

"Likewise." Mostly because I know he's not marrying Dessa. If it was her name on that invite, there's no way in hell I'd subject myself to that kind of torture.

"Since I didn't know you were actually going to show, I don't really have a spot for you in the bridal party." Tony shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels.

"Is that my baby boy?!" My mom's voice carries through the entire house until she comes into view through the arched doorway between the living room and the kitchen. There's a possibility the neighbors down the street heard her as well. "I knew eventually you'd come home."

Her voice is like a ray of sunshine, and her smile is just as bright. She wraps her arms around me in a big hug. It's the type of hug that engulfs you, reminds you of home, and lets you know everything is right in the world. I rest my chin on the top of her head as I wrap my arms around her shoulders .

"It's so good to have you here," she mumbles against my chest. "If I'd known you were coming, I would have postponed Thanksgiving a couple of days." She breaks away from our hug. Her smile even brighter than before.

Living in Seattle has been a perk for not joining in on family festive holidays. I always conjured up some excuse so I wouldn't have to see Tony and Dessa together. Do I feel like a terrible son for missing holidays? A little. But I had to do it for my own sanity. I shove my hands into my pockets.

"Now that Tony and Georgia are in town permanently, since Tony got a coaching position with the Harbor Highland Agates, maybe there can be more family holidays together." Mom's gaze dances between Tony and me, waiting for confirmation from either of us.

Instead, I deflect to avoid any more talk about family time. "The Agates… Aren't they an amateur baseball team? They play in the collegiate summer baseball league," I ask.

"They are." Tony squares is shoulders, puffing out his chest.

I nod. Tony didn't have the skills or discipline to go pro. I hope he's better at coaching, otherwise, I'll feel sorry for the players.

A few seconds later my dad and a woman who's about the same height, hair color, and figure as Dessa stroll into the kitchen. She stops next to Tony, and he wraps his arm around her shoulder. If I had to guess, this is his bride-to-be.

"Georgia, this is my brother, Garrett." His sharp gaze connects with mine. "Garrett, this is my soon-to-be-wife, Georgia LaBelle. Her family owns the LaBelle Hotel chain. "

"That's my father's business. Not mine. Plus, soon I'll be a Dawson," she corrects while smiling at Tony.

I hold out my hand. "Nice to meet you."

"It's nice to finally meet the Home Run Playboy." She winks. Her hand is soft against mine.

I inwardly cringe at the nickname the fans and tabloids have given me. "The home run part is true. I don't know so much about the playboy though."

Last year, I had my best season with sixty-two home runs, most ever by a catcher. Ever since then, the tabloids coined me the Home Run Playboy. Living my best single life aided in the nickname.

"Weren't you dating that supermodel from Brazil?" Georgia taps her chin.

"Dating" is a far stretch. More like we enjoyed each other's company on and off for six months. If I needed a date to an event, she'd come with me and vice versa. It was more of an arrangement that often included sex. "We went to a couple of events together. Nothing serious," I say.

"Oh. Okay. I hope you'll be staying for the wedding." She steals a glance at Tony, who's glaring at me.

"That's the plan." I shove my hands into my pockets. Even though it's not the entire plan. It's more like an excuse for the plan.

My mom brushes the wrinkles out of my shirt. "I wish I would have known. I could have gotten your old bedroom put together with clean sheets."

"Along with your shrine of greatness," Tony mutters, but not quite loud enough for everyone not to hear.

"Don't worry about that. I got a hotel room." I wave her off.

"Nonsense. Your bedroom is still upstairs. Cancel your room and give me five minutes. I'll get it ready for you." Without another chance to argue, my mom is out of the kitchen and halfway up the stairs.

"Good to see you, son." My dad squeezes me on the shoulder. "Sorry about the loss."

"Thanks," I answer sheepishly. Maybe I should have stayed home so I wouldn't be subject to all the pity. I've been here five minutes and I'm already over it.

"Oh! I got it!" My mom barrels into the kitchen, her face lit up brighter than the Harbor Highlands Christmas block party. "Garrett can be an usher at the wedding. There's always room for another usher. Since everyone missed Thanksgiving." Her hopeful gaze drifts between me, Tony, and Georgia.

A laugh rumbles from the back of my throat and I shake my head. Nothing like a good guilt tripping to start this wedding off on the right foot.

Tony's eyes meet mine, and I shrug. Once our mom gets an idea in her head, we all kind of have to run with it. He glances down at Georgia, and she nods.

"Yeah. We'd like to have you as an usher," Tony says with a flat tone.

Our mom claps. "This is so exciting to have both my boys here and at the wedding together." She wraps us both in a hug. She's aware of the rift between us but pretends it doesn't exist in hopes we'll go back to the way things were. Easier said than done.