26. Boston

TWENTY-SIX

boston

Exhaustion had seeped into my bones, the same kind that weeks of two-a-days plus game days did to me. Coach had been brutal with us lately, and even though we were on a winning streak, he hadn’t lightened up—not for a second. Muscles aching, I slid onto my bed and sent Chandler my habitual goodnight text. I'd barely seen her lately, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t thinking about her.

As soon as the message was sent my phone was ringing, and I was hardly able to keep my eyes to answer.

"Hey, Mom. What's up?"

"Boston, I know things have been... strained between us, but can you hear me out for a second?"

"Sure," I sighed, the weight of my exhaustion pulling me back against the pillows as I closed my eyes, bracing for whatever was coming.

"Every game this season, I let Reese know I'd be at Maria's Diner afterwards. Whether I could make it to the game in time from work or not, I'd go there, hoping he'd show up eventually." Her confession caught me off guard. “I know tomorrow is the championship, Boston. It's the last one, and I don't think he'll come, which is okay, I get it. But... would you come sit with me after the game and wait with me? Maybe share a milkshake?"

Despite the frustration she sometimes inspired, I couldn’t say no to the vulnerability in her tone. "Yeah, Mom, I'll be there."

"Thank you, Boston. I'll see you then. Good luck tomorrow. I know you'll win."

"Thanks, Mom."

Morning came too early, my dream of playing in the World Series ruined by an unexpected soundtrack—Parker, singing some awful song. Groaning, I rolled out of bed and shuffled to the door, which creaked open just enough for me to squint at him.

"Why are you so happy? It's too early," I asked, barely able to keep my eyes open.

"Man, it's a good day!" Parker beamed. "It's championship day. We're bringing home the W, then it's all celebrations and no more stupid practice."

I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms as a thought occurred to me. "And you sneaking someone out early this morning doesn’t have anything to do with your good mood? I swore I heard giggles and the front door close at like three a.m."

Parker's grin held steady, but a flicker in his eyes gave him away. "No, that was me," he insisted.

"Oh, you were giggling like a girl?" I raised an eyebrow, not buying it.

"Yeah, man, I had a really funny dream," he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck.

“And the pink lipstick I found in the bathroom last night. That was yours too?”

“Yeah, just trying something new,” he said, trying to hide a smirk.

"Uh huh," I knew full well those giggles belonged to Willow. With a shake of my head, I retreated back to my room to gear up for the day.

The clubhouse was buzzing with nerves and anxious energy. We shuffled in, our cleats clicking against the concrete, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Coach was already there, pacing like a caged lion. His eyes were sharp as he checked his watch, and when he finally spoke, his voice silenced the room.

"Boys," he began, stopping to look at each of us. "We've had a hell of a season." His hands gripped his hips. "You've pushed through double practices, you've battled every inning, and you've earned your spot here today."

We paused, waiting for him to continue.

"Today's the day—the championship. Everything we've worked for all summer comes down to this. But remember," he said, softening ever so slightly, "it's still a game. Let's go out there, have some fun, and show 'em what we're made of."

Nods and hoots rippled through the team.

"Alright then," Coach gave a nod. "Let's do this."

We poured out of the clubhouse and stepped onto the field. I jogged between second and third base, taking my position as shortstop and readying for first pitch.

As the stands filled and the noise grew louder, I stole a moment to scan the crowd. I needed to see her—to know she was there. And then my gaze landed on Chandler. Even from a distance, I could see her smile under the stadium lights.

Beside her was my mom. They were both here—the two people I needed to see.

"Come on, Reese! Bring the heat!" Someone shouted from the stands as he took his place on the mound.

Reese nodded subtly, his gaze locked onto Parker behind the plate. With a fluid motion, he wound up and unleashed a bullet straight into Parker’s mitt. "Strike!" the umpire bellowed.

"95!" someone yelled from the crowd, holding a speed gun, and a collective gasp followed. We may not have been on the best terms, but damn if I didn't respect his arm.

Reese didn’t acknowledge the chatter about the speed or the awe. He narrowed his eyes, zeroing in on his target again. This time, he switched tactics. A changeup threw off the batter. The swing came too early, hopelessly out of sync with the ball’s lazy arc into Parker’s glove.

"Strike!" The umpire called out after the last pitch, the stands erupting as the batter slunk back to the dugout, shoulders slumped. Reese tipped his cap as the next batter stepped up to the plate.

"Alright, let’s keep holding them off," Parker yelled, trying to keep spirits high.

The innings flew by, each team's defense refusing to give in. Third inning, nothing. Fourth, zip. The fifth rolled around, and suddenly we found our rhythm. A double here, a stolen base there, and before the other team knew what hit them, we’d racked up two runs.

"Keep it up, boys!" Coach commanded. "Don't let up!"

We couldn’t hold them off, though, and they evened the score in the sixth. Our advantage slipped through our fingers, and the pressure began to mount. Heading into the ninth inning, we were deadlocked.

"Last chance," Coach said as we gathered our batting gear. "This is where legends are made. Let's make sure they remember us."

Bailey was up. He hit a ground ball and just barely made it to first base.

"Reese, let’s go," someone yelled, as I fidgeted with my glove and bat in the on-deck circle. Reese stepped up to the plate, taking position. Everyone was on edge. Reese kicked the dirt, eyeing the pitcher with that cocky tilt to his head that said he wasn’t worried for a second. His swing connected and the ball soared high and deep, right past the outstretched glove of the right fielder.

"Run, damn it, run!" The cheers erupted from our dugout as Reese tagged first and rounded towards second base, sliding in with a cloud of dust. Bailey rocketed to third.

"Alright, Boston,” Coach shouted from the dugout. “You're up." I looked back and caught his gaze before stepping up to the plate.

"Make it count," Parker added.

"Always do," I shot back, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

I stepped up to the plate, the weight of the game bearing down on me. My first swing sent the ball foul. Taking a deep breath, I pictured Chandler's smile, her unwavering belief in me, and swung with all the pent-up frustration of the past few weeks.

"Come on, baby, come on," I whispered as the bat connected, sending a line drive zipping past the shortstop and deep into left field. Bailey, then Reese, then I sprinted home and scored before the other team could get the ball back to the catcher.

"THAT'S IT, BOSTON! THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT!" Parker cheered across the field.

Fireworks erupted overhead as the inning finished, but I could only think about one thing—seeing her. When my eyes locked with Chandler’s, the shit going on between us didn’t matter for a moment, and I could see the excitement and pride in her eyes. It meant a lot to have her there, and I knew she could see it reflected back in my gaze. Right then there were no complications, no thoughts about the situation between us—just her, there with me, and the fucking victory.

The field buzzed with excitement around me, pulling me back to reality—teammates rushed in, fans waved banners. It felt like a dream come true. The game, the field, this feeling—I wanted to soak in every moment. We shook hands with the other team, picked up our equipment, and walked off the field for the last time that summer.

The roar of the departing crowd was fading as something caught my attention—an out-of-place tone mixed with the excitement. It was my mom's voice, sharp and unyielding. I turned, my heart pounding unevenly. I saw her standing toe-to-toe with Reese's dad.

Her hands were balled into fists at her side, and even from this distance, I could see the fire in her eyes—I knew when her angry side came out it wasn’t good, and it didn’t happen often.

"Stay away from my son and continue on with your pathetic little life," Mr. Carrington spat out. His demeanor was always so composed, so untouchable. He was a pillar of control, but the strain behind his narrowed eyes betrayed him. There was fear there, too, the kind that men like him tried to hide beneath layers of power and prestige.

Reese stood at his dad's side, a spitting image of the man. He was motionless, his gaze fixed on the confrontation, an unreadable expression etched across his features.

As my mom held her ground, I couldn't help but admire her strength, she was no longer hiding—and I think it even took Reese’s dad by surprise. "It's been a long time. I'm not scared of you anymore," she hissed.

My hands clenched involuntarily as I inched closer.

Reese’s dad cut in, his tone sharp and smug. "I would advise you to take your lies and allegations elsewhere."

“He’s an adult now,” my mom shot back. “He can make his own choices, and he deserves to know the truth.” Her eyes, filled with pain, locked onto Reese’s, pleading for him to understand.

“That’s right. He’s an adult. And you missed his entire life because you walked out,” Ben Carrington said with a bitter laugh.

"Did you tell him?" She stepped closer, her hands trembling at her side. "How many times I tried? Did you let him see the letters, the gifts? Every birthday, every holiday..."

"Reese, do you remember a stuffed green dinosaur?" The question hung between them. "That was from me. It came with a letter, telling you how much I loved you."

I watched Reese take a step back, clearly shaken by the impact of my mom’s words.

"Wait, Dad—the dinosaur?" Reese's voice held an edge, not an accusation, but a hint of betrayal. "That was from her? I thought that was from you. You know, the one I used to take everywhere—the one I have tattooed on my fucking arm."

His father, the epitome of tailored control, didn't so much as blink. His response was smooth, practiced. "Son, don't let her lies corrode your brain."

But Reese wasn't listening, not really. "But how would she know? And what letters?" he asked, angrily.

"Let's go, Mom," I said, the words barely escaping through clenched teeth. My hand found her quivering shoulder, guiding her away.

I glared at Reese's dad, letting the contempt I felt for him sear through my gaze. He stared back, his face an impenetrable mask. But beneath the surface, I sensed his unease. It was as though he could feel the shift in power.

We turned our backs to him, to the lies that had built walls around our lives. I walked her to her car. She was shaking slightly, whether from rage or relief, I couldn’t tell. "I did it, hunny," she declared, "I finally stood up to him. I did it."

I saw her then not just as my mother, but as a warrior who had fought silently for every inch of ground, even when that ground seemed to crumble beneath her feet.

I shut the door and leaned in through the open driver's side window. "I’m proud of you, Mom. I'll meet you at the diner."

She nodded, eyes glistening with unshed tears. The corner of her mouth twitched upward, a fragile attempt at a smile. "Okay, hunny."

Pulling into the parking lot of the diner, I could already see the warm glow of the neon sign shimmer in the dark evening. Through the big glass window, I could see my mom sitting alone in a booth with a cup of coffee, her eyes scanning the menu.

I pushed open the door and the bell jingled, announcing my arrival. The smell of fried food and fresh coffee hit me. She looked up, then, her face lighting up as I slid into the seat across from her.

"Oh hunny, you were all so good tonight. I'm so proud," she squealed.

"Thanks, mom. Still feels unreal," I said.

She reached across the table, squeezing my hand. "Well, you've earned it. I saw those scouts in the stands."

"I know," I nodded. "The Cubs are flying me out this weekend. They want to get to know me, see if I might be a good fit for them."

"That's so exciting! Oh, Boston, they will love you," she said with unwavering confidence. "Everyone who meets you falls in love with you."

I cleared my throat, steering the conversation away from me. "So, he never shows, huh?"

Her expression faltered slightly. "No, but it's okay. I understand. All I can do is keep letting him know I'm here." She sighed, picking at the edge of a napkin.

I swirled the straw in my water, ice clinking against the glass, and let out a slow breath. "He may never be ready. This is a lot for anyone to process."

"Sweetheart, it's just..." she trailed off, her eyes searching mine.

The neon lights from outside flickered, pulling my attention away. I leaned back against the red vinyl seat, lost in thought about what family gatherings would look like—holidays, birthdays. The thought twisted like a knife. Holidays growing up were usually just my mom and me. She did her best to make up for the father-shaped void in my life, unspoken yet ever-present. Luckily, he left when she was pregnant, so I never had a chance to miss him.

How could Chandler ever fit into this broken picture? It was sad and pathetic. If Reese ever entered it, that would be an even worse shit show.

"What are you going to order, Boston?," she asked, nose in her menu.

Before I could respond, an unexpected voice interrupted me. "You gonna scoot over? Or you want me to sit at my own booth?"

I turned to see Reese standing there, hands tucked in the pockets of his leather jacket. We still hadn’t talked since our last argument, and things were still rocky and unsettled. But at that moment, none of that mattered. Him showing up was far more important.

My mom's mouth fell open, a tear escaping the corner of her eye and falling down her cheek. Without hesitation, I slid closer to the window, making room for him in our booth. He slid in opposite of my mom, his presence filling the entire restaurant with an undeniable energy. The waitresses all paused, turning their attention to us, as if they knew my mom had been sitting alone here for weeks. But not tonight—tonight was different.

"So what's good at this place?" Reese asked, picking up a laminated menu and glancing over it, casually.

"Try the apple pie," my mom could hardly say, her voice quivering slightly as if the simple act of speaking to him held a crushing weight she'd carried for too long.