18. Alex

18

*********

I didn't wantNikki to have to wake up at the crack of dawn again to get back to her dorm room in time, so after I made sure she knew exactly how many parts of her I loved, and there were so many, we both showered then packed me a bag to stay with her.

I've been watching her get ready for bed, the meticulous way she brushes her hair, cleans her face, and puts on those fucking sexy little shorts. She also spent some time flipping through papers I recognized on her desk, and now she's crawling into bed to rest on her side while she lets the ear drops do their thing for five minutes.

Please talk to me about it. Please.

"Does it tickle?" I ask as she dabs in a few droplets.

"A little." She giggles.

I take the bottle from her and recap it as she nestles into the pillow. I set the drops on the edge of her desk and sink in next to her so I can run my fingers through her hair. I think this might be the cure to my anxieties. I could do this every night and feel sane. Something about the silkiness of her hair, the way it slips through my fingers, is soothing. It helps that her eyelids usually get heavy, too, and then I get to watch her sleep.

"Can we talk about something?" she starts.

My chest tightens, but not in a nervous way. Maybe a little tepid, but mostly hopeful.

"Of course," I say, kissing the tip of her nose.

Her eyes scrunch up and she smiles.

"I know we said we love each other, but Alex, I mean it. I love you. I've loved you for years. You can ask Omar."

My eyes widen.

"Wow, Omar knew before me?"

She narrows her eyes and puckers her lips.

"You knew."

I shrug slightly. Maybe I did. But I didn't let myself really believe it. I kept it at arm's length. Safe. Or so I thought. Nothing was safe about that, though. It was more like torture. Think of what we've missed.

"I love you too, Nikki. And not in the rushed, horny, college guy who wants to fuck way."

"Mmm, romantic, Alex."

I laugh softly and continue stroking her hair.

"I'm bad with words sometimes. I just mean, I didn't say all that in the bar for show. I said it for you. To you. Because it's you, Nik. It's you and me. And how lucky am I?" I lean in and kiss my favorite lip again, holding on to it, letting my tongue glide across it as she hums against me.

"I'm not going anywhere," I say.

"Me neither," she adds.

An incredible sense of peace fills my body. My pulse settles into this rhythm, my lungs clear and full. I believe it. I believe in us.

I hold her gaze for almost a minute. It's a nice quiet. Comfortable, like looking out upon calm waters.

She blinks slowly and takes a deep breath.

"I have something wrong with my ear," she says.

I don't stop my hand movement. I keep running it through her hair while I think. I could let her go through the story and tell me from the beginning, or I could save her from that. At the very least.

"I know," I admit.

She sucks in her lips, and I decide that just this once, she can keep that upper lip and hold on to it for a moment.

"You saw?" Her eyes glance up, toward her desk.

I nod.

"I'm scared."

I nod slowly.

"I know," I say again.

Her timer sounds from her phone and she sits up, tipping her head the other way and pushing a small ball of cotton into her ear. She leaves it in place and folds her legs to sit up. I prop my head on my elbow.

"Have you called the surgeon yet, just to talk? It might help to actually talk to the expert and get your questions answered."

"I haven't," she admits. "And I need to get the CT scan."

I know she knows the reasons she should, but also, I get being afraid to know too much. I was afraid I tore my labrum in high school, so I put off telling anyone for days. It ended up being all right, and I spent two weeks feeling sick and terrified for no reason.

This isn't quite the same. Nikki already knows she has a neuroma. She already has some hearing loss. But maybe finding out what's available after diagnosis will help ease her fears.

"Okay, how about this," I say, reaching up and touching my fingertips to her chin. "If you make an appointment to see what your options are, I'll . . ." I take in a deep breath, giving myself one last chance to back out of this.

"You'll go with me?" Nikki says.

"Of course," I respond, lifting myself up and kissing her softly.

Her shoulders relax, but only a little.

I'm off the hook, but that wasn't what I was going to say. And because it's Nikki, omitting feels a whole lot like lying.

"What I was going to say is if you make that call, I'll go talk to my dad."

My chest fills with concrete, but in an instant, it clears as Nikki leans in and kisses me this time. Her cool hands rest on my cheeks as she holds her lips to mine. And when she pulls away, she smiles like she's proud.

"You'll see him today?" she asks.

And there's the concrete again. My mouth gets dry and my lips part despite absolutely no words at the ready.

"Alex."

"I know." I roll to my back and pinch the bridge of my nose. Nikki leans over me, folding her arms on my chest and propping her chin on her fist.

"You know what he told me at your game?" she offers.

My eyes puzzle. I forgot that I never let her finish that part. I'm fucking stubborn sometimes.

"What?" I ask.

"He said to tell you to cut the field in half. Stand quiet. Crack the whip and commit."

I blink, a little impressed that she nailed it. I'm sure that's what he said. Those exact words. And hearing them now takes me back to being ten and standing in the batter's box while a kid twice my size revs up to throw a fastball past my face.

"Cut the field in half. Stand quiet. Crack the whip and commit." That's what my dad said then, and I hit my first homerun over the fence. He never let up, either. That became the routine. It's how I led the division in high school batting averages. How I knocked in more runs than anyone in Odell history. It's what got me to Tiff.

"You aren't going to get out of your slump until you walk through this fire," she says.

And damn if she isn't right.

* * *

I sendthe text from the stadium parking lot. My game isn't for six hours and I got out of my business ethics class early. I honestly think Nikki went to her accounting class as a way to force my hand. It's not like I can spend these hours with her. Not all of them at least.

A few minutes pass with no response, so I start my engine with a touch of relief that I'm off the hook for now. My phone buzzes in the cup holder as soon as I shift into reverse. I slam the shifter back into park and let my head fall against the headrest while I let out a heavy laugh.

I glance down where my phone rests, the alert obvious. There's his name, SENIOR. It's always been Senior. I gnaw at my lip, a slight voice somewhere in the back of my head telling me to pretend I don't see it. To leave. To go home and take a long, hot shower and then rest for an hour.

To disappoint Nikki.

I groan as I snatch my phone and swipe to read his response. I asked if he was still in town.

SENIOR: I am. Would you like lunch? On me.

I snort out a laugh. That's the least he owes me after all this. Fucker better have five-star meals delivered to Mom for the next ten years too.

I'm not really hungry, so I come up with an alternative.

ME: Not hungry. Can you come to the field?

I prop my phone on the steering wheel and await his reply.

SENIOR: Be there in 5.

He must be close. Probably at the Hampton across the street from the campus admin building. I kill the engine and toss my phone, keys, and wallet into my duffel in the passenger seat, then grab the straps on my way out of the car. I pop the trunk and haul out my gear bag, then lug it over to the main gate.

A perk to being a senior and a team leader is keys to the kingdom. In this case, the kingdom is the stadium gate and the practice facilities. I've been using this key a lot, coming out here in the fall late at night to try to get my swing back. I haven't come as much since Nikki and I got together because, well, honestly, I'm happier with her than I am working out my failures. Maybe I was trying too hard anyway.

I lean against the wall of honor, where my dad's name is carved as one of Tiff's greats, along with about fifty other men, and wait for the familiar rumble of his pickup. I can't even fathom the gas he blew through on his drives back and forth over the years. That thing gets about eight miles to the gallon.

That thought sits in my chest for a moment, and I work through the math. Not because I want to be shocked at the outrageous expense but because it hits me exactly what he did to be here for me. I'm still computing when he rolls up next to my car. He holds up his hand, then reaches into his truck bed, pulling out the ratty old maroon bag he's carried around with his glove and a few balls since I was in junior high.

I wonder how he knew he'd need that?

He clutches the bag in his right hand while he cradles his mitt to his chest with the other.

"You got the keys?" he asks when he makes it to me.

I push the gate open and he smirks, his eyes masked behind sunglasses. He glances to his right, to the wall, but doesn't mention the fact his name is there. He's not a bragger. He's not much of a talker, really.

I close the gate behind us, then lead him through the clubhouse and out to the side yard where the batting cages are.

"You know we have our own buckets of balls," I say, pointing at his bag. He drops it at his feet and shrugs.

"I like these," he says.

I puff out a short laugh and call him a curmudgeon. He's in his mid-forties, in reality, and in incredible shape. He's a handsome man, I'll admit, and I'm thankful for his genes. But he's also a dog, and I remind myself of that before I get too comfortable with him.

I pull out my bat and lean it against the screen while I wrap my wrists. My dad scoffs, but I simply roll my eyes. He thinks the precautions my generation takes make us soft. I think it'll keep me from crackling with tendonitis and shit the way he snaps and pops around the house.

My dad stretches, rotating his arm a few times. I go through my routine, stretching my quads and flexors, then twisting side to side.

"How's the new stick?" He gestures to my bat. The team all swings the same brand, thanks to deals the school makes. I don't love this one, but I also know better than to blame the bat for my woes. They're all essentially the same.

"She's all right. I don't like the sound," I say. That's something my dad can get behind. We both like the solid click of wood. This thing? It pings. And it's obnoxious.

"Let's give her a ring," he says, moving behind the screen. I nod and take my bat in my hands as I make my way to the plate. I line myself up and twist my back foot into the mat.

"Ready?" my dad asks, holding up one ball, three others clutched in his opposite hand.

I nod.

He winds up and throws it in a little low, but I manage to get the barrel on it and it zings right back at the screen. He flinches, and I snicker.

"Yeah, you always did love telling people about the time you knocked my hat off my head," he says, winding up and throwing another. I hit this one less solid. On the field it would be a pop out. He winces because he knows it too.

"I didn't just knock your hat off. I split your hair." I tap my bat on the plate like I did when I was a kid, then swirl the bat a few times before he readies again.

I read his arm slot and know a curve is coming, so I sit back and drive this one right over his head.

"Woooo weee," he says with a whistle, turning around and pretending to watch the ball sail. It tangled in the net.

"That's over the batter's eye for sure," he says when he turns back around.

I'm not loving how cavalier he is all of a sudden, so I simply nod and dig my foot in again.

He throws another fastball, and while I'm on time, I top it and bounce it back to him. He manages to leap high enough to snag it with his glove, then he pretends to toss it to the invisible first baseman.

"Fuck!" I say, flipping my bat to the ground.

"You're lucky I didn't pay for that," he says, and I know he's joking and making a point at the same time. He doesn't like tantrums. But this isn't about my shitty hit. Or maybe it's partly about my shitty hit. Mostly, it's about him.

"This was a bad idea," I say, pulling the Velcro loose from my batting gloves.

I pace the batter's box while my dad stands still, tossing a ball into his own glove at an annoying synchronization. I kick at the ball he pretended to get me out with, and it rolls to the back of the cage.

"Get it all out," he says.

My gaze snaps to him, and my hands form fists at my sides. I leather of my batting gloves stretches around my fingers. I'm not going to hit him. But damn, does a part of me want to.

"How could you?" I finally let out. Hot, angry tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

"There it is," he says, dropping his glove to his feet and crossing his arms over his chest. He's so predictable, even in his posture.

"There I am?" I step toward him, stopping inches from his face.

"Let it out, Mijo."

I growl in his face, my voice echoing around the surrounding concrete.

"You fucking cheat!" I point at his face, and he flinches, but he doesn't move. "How could you do that to her? To us? And with someone I went to school with? Was it going on?—"

"No," he butts in, shaking his head. He pulls his glasses from his face and meets my stare. "It absolutely did not start when she was a student. We didn't even talk until she was student teaching."

I laugh out hard.

"Oh, good. That's good. I should give you a prize," I say, my belly burning.

"No, you shouldn't," he says.

I rush him and lunge into his face, our noses inches apart.

"I know!" He takes a step back this time, but he doesn't back down.

"You hurt her," I say, my voice lower as I talk about my mom.

"And I hate that I did."

I laugh again.

"You don't have to believe that. But it's true. I hate that I hurt both of you. I hate what this has done to our relationship. I hate that I'm divorced."

"Well, now you can go run off into the sunset and move in with your girlfriend," I toss out amid jaded cackles.

"Vanessa and I aren't together," he says.

I fall back on my heels for a beat. I didn't know that. And Brayden said they were living together. Of course, Brayden also wants my girl and would say anything to get under my skin.

"Well, I'm not sorry it didn't work out," I grumble.

My dad chuckles, but I'm not amused.

"She's moving to Florida, and I'm getting an apartment near the school. Vanessa and I were not real. We never were. We were a symptom."

"Pffft! The fuck does that mean?" He must have gone to a therapy session. Those aren't Alex Senior words.

"It's not an easy thing for me to explain. And I'm not proud of any of it. What happened to me and your mom, that was all my doing. Somewhere along the way, I quit."

Like Mom said. At least they agree on this.

"Well, I'm sorry life didn't work out the way you wanted. You should have gone pro instead and never looked back," I mumble, pulling one of my batting gloves free and tossing it at my gear bag.

"Son," he says, resting a hand on my shoulder. I shirk him off, and he holds up his palms. "I do not regret my decision to stay in Odell, to get married right out of college and start a family, to foster your passion, to get to spend my days on a field throwing a ball to you, none of it. Not for one second. I would have maybe gotten six at bats somewhere in Des Moines and then been done anyway. I'm nowhere close to the talent you are. So don't think any of this, my failures, has anything to do with my choices back then. I was a different man then. A better man. And I'm trying really hard to get back to that man. It took fucking up the love of my life to see how far I strayed."

I stare at the ground and soak in his words. They're sobering, and there's so much in them that hits a nerve.

"Was it drugs? Alcohol?" I ask, giving him a sideways glance.

He shakes his head.

"Nothing like that. I think it's just me. I think I got lazy at life. Maybe I got angry somewhere. Small towns can be that way, stifling. It's not an excuse, just the environment. But I got restless, and then I got stupid. And I will regret that for as long as I live."

I swallow the harsh lump in my throat. I don't forgive him. I might not ever. But I can live with his admission. I can accept his self-penance. And my God, I can learn from it.

"I told Nik I love her," I let out.

He's quiet for a few seconds, so I glance up and catch his crooked smile.

"Yeah?" he finally says.

I nod. Thinking about her, simply saying her name, feels good. As hard as this moment is, being here with him, just the mere mention of loving her changes it.

"Good. She's meant for you."

"I know," I say, bending down and picking up my bat. I kick a loose ball toward my dad, then walk over to my gear bag and pick my batting glove back up. I put it back on and my dad gathers up the rest of the balls, then drags in the bucket from just outside the net.

"You ready to work?" he asks.

I nod and line myself up at the plate.

"I am."

*********