Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

RYLAND

“You look like hell for someone about to go watch one of his players play their first ever big-league game,” Aubree says as she comes up to me in Mac’s bedroom, where I’m packing Mac an overnight bag.

“I feel like hell,” I say as I throw in a few extra pairs of underwear for Mac because you never fucking know.

“Why?” Aubree asks as she takes a seat on Mac’s bed. I glance out the door to see if Mac’s around. “She’s with Wyatt at the swing.”

Knowing she’s not in hearing distance, I lean against the dresser, taking a seat on the floor, and let my body relax for one second. “I need to talk to you, Aubree, but I don’t need the snarky side of you. Okay? It’s serious, and I’m not in the mood to deal with your annoying sister tendencies.”

“What a way to open a conversation,” she says. “But I get it. I promise I won’t be snarky.”

“Okay, because this is something I would have talked to Cassidy about, and she’s not here . . .”

I see the seriousness cross her face, Aubree knowing exactly what I’m talking about. “I can do that for you. What’s going on?”

I drag my hands over my face. “I like her. I like Gabby. I tried to keep my distance. I tried to push her away. I tried to forget about this almost nauseous feeling I get when I see her talk to other men, but I can’t fucking shake it. It just keeps growing and growing, and now it’s all I can think about.”

“She’s a great person, Ryland. I’m surprised you lasted this long.”

“Lasted is a loose term, more like survived.” I lean my head against the dresser, looking up at the glow-in-the-dark stars we stuck to Mac’s ceiling and the one she claims is Cassidy, watching over her. As I talk to Aubree, I almost feel like I’m talking to Cassidy at the same time. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to be sucked into these feelings. I’m already passing off Mac to you guys more than I should.”

“What do you mean?” Aubree says. “You’re not passing her off. We’re a family unit, Ryland. You might have custody, but we’re all in charge of her. It’s in Cassidy’s letters that she left us. She wanted us to help you, to watch over you while you watched over Mac. You’re not passing her off. You’re letting us be a part of her life.”

“I know, but I should be doing more with her. It feels like ever since Gabby came into my life, I’m not spending the kind of time with Mac that I should be.”

“That’s not true. You spend every evening with her. Just when we arrived, she showed me the fort you made for her with the boxes and how you spent the other night painting the sides so there were vines on the fort. The swing on the tree that she loves was your idea. This room full of horses and stars, that was you. This freaking house, Ryland. This is all you. You’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing for her. You’re going above and beyond. It’s okay to want to have some time for yourself and a life of your own. We encourage it.”

I shake my head. “Cassidy was better at this.”

“Of course she was. She was Cassidy,” Aubree says. “And we’ve talked about this. You can’t compare yourself to her. She was Mac’s mom. You are her uncle who’s slipping into the parent role, and, if you ask me, you’re doing a better fucking job than I think I could have ever done. You cann ot feel guilty about liking someone because you think it’s distracting.”

“It is a distraction. Gabby is a huge distraction, Aubree. Last night, when she found out about Bennett, at first, I didn’t know what she was crying about. All I saw were tears and I went into protective mode. Everything else around me went black and all I could focus on was her. What if . . . what if Mac needed me at that moment, I’m not sure I would have responded, I was so focused on Gabby.”

“I don’t believe that for a second. I think you can care for more than one person. You did it for us when we were growing up. You took care of all of us girls, shielded us from Dad, and took the brunt of his abuse so not one of us had to suffer through it. That was all you.”

I run my hand over my mouth. “This feels different, Aubree.”

“Because Gabby is different. She could very much be your person. I know that might freak you out, that hearing such a thing might be too soon for you, but there’s a strong bond there that all of us saw. There’s something different between the two of you, but there is one thing I know for certain. No matter how strong that bond is between you and Gabby, it won’t get in the way of you and Mac. Because I know you won’t allow it and I know for certain that Gabby won’t allow it.”

She’s right. Gabby would never let anything come between me and Mac, because I know she has the same sort of feelings about her relationship with Bennett.

“I know you’re right.”

“Then what’s holding you up?”

I look Aubree in the eyes and say, “I’m too . . . I’m too damaged. Between Dad and Samantha, I don’t think I can open myself up to someone else. I don’t think I have it in me. I’m not strong enough and need to save my strength for Mac. But, fuck, I can’t seem to let her go.”

“Then don’t, Ryland. Figure out a way to open up to her. Take baby steps.”

“But what if those baby steps don’t amount to anything? What am I going to do? Should I just lead her on? That’s not fair to her. And then we have to fucking work together? This is so messed up.”

Aubree moves down to the ground and sits next to me, shoulder to shoulder. “I get where your head is at. There are a lot of what-ifs rolling around in there. I had the same fear when I started to fall for Wyatt because we were in a different situation. I didn’t want to have feelings for a man who planned on leaving after a year, but I couldn’t stop them from developing, no matter how hard I tried. When it came to that point, the one when I couldn’t take it anymore, I just . . . I jumped. Feet first, with no parachute, and hoped that he was there to catch me at the bottom. I think with Gabby, you have to do the same thing. Trust that she’s going to be there to catch you, to hold your hand, to help you. She’s a good person, Ryland.”

“She’s a really good person,” I say. “That’s why I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Then don’t.” Aubree takes my hand in hers. “Take it slow, discuss your fears, and you never know, you might very well be surprised with how she responds.”

Take it slow.

Discuss your fears.

Of those two things, the last one is the most terrifying. What if I discuss my fears, and she bolts? Because who would want to take on someone who had a monster as a father...who might have his same anger inside him?

I get what Aubree’s saying. And I’m thankful again for Wyatt, who has helped my sister be this open. This wise about relationships.

But I’m not ready to explore the what-ifs. Not yet. Not when Bennett deserves all of her attention and focus.

I let out a deep sigh. “Not today. Today is her day with Bennett, but after that, I’ll have the conversation with her.”

“What are you going to do tonight?”

“What do you mean?”

Aubree wiggles her brows at me. “Hayes only has one bed and a shitshow for a couch in that apartment.”

My body grows warm. “I guess that’s something we’ll have to deal with when the time comes.”

“Uh-huh.” She smiles and stands to her feet. She takes my hand and helps me up. Then to my surprise, she wraps her arms around me and gives me a hug. Aubree’s not the hugging kind, or the touching kind, but it seems as though Wyatt has worn off on her, so I hug her back. “I really hope that you give this a shot. You deserve to be happy. You deserve more than a life of being the uncle who has custody. You’re more than that, Ryland, and you can excel at many things. Multiple things. You did when you were younger, so you can now.”

“Thank you, Aubree,” I say as I squeeze her. “I appreciate the talk and the hug.”

She steps away. “Cassidy would have done it.”

“Yes . . . yes, she would have.”

“Picking up tickets under Gabby Brinkman,” Gabby says as she shifts on her feet next to the will call office, looking nervous and excited at the same time.

The entire drive from Almond Bay to the stadium was filled with podcasts. Yup, we didn’t talk. Not a single word. I saw it the minute she got in the truck—she was not in the talking mood. She’s bottled up with nerves, so I put on one of my favorite podcasts, Smartless, and we just listened.

It was probably for the best because I know if I spoke, I would have said something stupid like . . . I like you and I don’t know how to deal with the feelings, but I’d like to deal with the feelings with you, and what are your thoughts on the matter?

Really not the time.

So I kept my mouth shut.

“Can I see ID?” the attendant asks.

Gabby digs her ID out of her purse while I take in the gray stone-encased ballpark. One of the prettiest, in my opinion. Right off the bay so you can smell the salt water, and near bars and restaurants where music plays and pre-gaming occurs. There’s a rich history within the walls, and you can almost feel the electricity in the air, knowing that the Bombers are close to clinching the wild card slot for the playoffs.

“Great. Here you go, sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” Gabby says, taking her ID and the tickets from the attendant.

“Enjoy the game.”

Gabby waves to her, then stares down at the tickets. “Do you mind if I keep both of these?”

“You can do whatever you want with them,” I say, my voice sounding weird, probably because I haven’t used it for the past three hours. “Are you sure you want me to go in with you? I know I said I want to see his first at bat, but I can sit in one of the bars across from the stadium and wait.”

She shakes her head, and then, to my surprise, she takes my hand. “I need you here, next to me.”

A lump builds in my throat because fuck, is that something I wanted to hear. “Sure, anything you need.”

Together, hand in hand, we walk up to the large gates and go through the metal detector before showing our tickets to the attendant, who scans them and waves us in. Immediately, we’re thrust into the hustle and bustle of the stadium. Since we have early access, we’re not swarmed by crowds, but vendors are still setting up their kiosks, carts are being wheeled around, and a few people mill about, deciding what they want to get for food.

“What do you want to do first?”

“I need Bombers gear,” she says. “Right away.”

“You got it,” I say. “Follow me.”

Since I’ve been to the stadium quite a few times, I know exactly where the team store is—right past the main stairs that lead to the higher decks. Thankfully, because of our early access, the store’s pretty empty, so we have time to look around. One of the things I love about the Bombers is their untraditional colors. You think baseball, and you think blue, red, and white. A high percentage of the teams have those colors, but not the Bombers. They went with teal for the ocean and yellow for the lighthouses around the bay.

When we reach the store, I take her straight to the women’s section, where she starts pawing through the different shirts.

“What are you looking for?” I ask, wanting to help.

“I want something traditional. Nothing like this.” She holds up a pink shirt with the Bombers logo in white.

“Yeah, I get you,” I say. “Want a jersey like mine?”

I’m wearing the teal jersey with the yellow Bomber logo. It’s their best seller and the colors everyone wears during playoff games when the team is home because the entire stadium lights up in teal.

“I think so. I like that a lot.”

“Over here,” I say and lead her to the jerseys. “What’s your size?”

“Medium.”

I grab one for her and hold it out. She slides it on over her tank top and buttons it up. The female cut fits her perfectly.

“How does it feel?”

“Great. I think this is the one.” She slides it off and then looks at the price tag, her eyes widening. “Or I can get a regular T-shirt.”

She goes to hang it back up, but I take it from her. “My treat.”

She shakes her head. “No, I can’t let you do that.”

“You can, and you will.” I loop my finger under her chin and have her look me right in the eyes. “I planned on getting you whatever you wanted in here anyway. This is a special moment, so you’re doing it right.”

I can see her mind wavering, trying to figure out what she should do, but I don’t give her a chance to change her mind. I lead her to the hats and ask her which one she wants.

She eyes me, looking like she wants to tell me no, but then she turns back to the hats and picks the classic Bombers hat.

Since it’s adjustable, she doesn’t need to try it on.

We move through the store, looking through the other shirts, the sweatshirts, and the blankets. I attempt to grab them all, but she pushes my hand away. When she sees a bracelet that she likes, I snag that, and when she finds a foam finger, I grab two of those.

Once we’re done, I guide her to the register, where I see some cheap Bombers bead necklaces. I grab those as well.

“Ryland, I can buy?—”

“Nothing,” I say. “You can buy nothing.”

The attendant rings us up, and when he asks if we want a bag, I shake him off, knowing we’re ready to put everything on. We move out of the store into a side hallway, and I help remove tags and watch her as she transforms into a diehard Bombers supporter. And fuck does she look good.

She’s wearing cut-off jean shorts and a white tank top. She has the jersey on over the tank top but has left it open. Her Bombers hat is secured over her long, curled hair, and her necklaces and bracelets give her the good-time vibe . . . along with the foam finger that I put on as well.

I grab my phone from my pocket. “Follow me.” I take her hand again and move her out toward the field. I place her right behind the lower seats leading to home plate and hold up my phone for a picture. “Pose for me so we can send a picture to Bennett.”

She holds up her foam finger and does a few poses, smiling large. Then I turn the camera to selfie mode, wrap my arm around her, and say, “Smile.”

She leans her head into my shoulder, and we both smile into the camera, capturing a moment I know will live in my mind for a very long time. I like this. It feels so right...finally having a woman by my side to enjoy baseball. Her.

I send the photos to her so she can send them to Bennett, and then we flash our tickets to the section monitor of our seats. Somehow, Bennett was able to secure us lower-level tickets, which I know is not where they usually stick first time family members. Hopefully, he didn’t pay for them because they’d cost a lot.

And just as we move down toward the netting, the Bombers take the field.

“What number is he?” I ask.

“Twenty-two.”

“Why twenty-two?”

She smiles up at me. “June twenty-second, the day that we moved out on our own.”

Well . . . fuck.

“Fuck, that’s cool,” I say, feeling my emotions get the best of me. Maybe it’s the day, the meaning behind all of it, seeing someone’s dreams come true, but I feel like I’m going to be an emotional wreck the whole goddamn day.

“When he told me, I cried for an hour.”

“I can imagine,” I say, seeing twenty-two out on the field. “There he is.” I point at Bennett, who’s currently stretching with his bat in hand.

Gabby follows my hand and immediately bursts into tears when she spots him. “Wooooo,” she shouts over her tears. “Go, Bennett!”

And it’s the fucking sweetest thing to witness as Bennett turns around after hearing his sister’s voice. He scans the crowd, and when he sees us, his face lights up with a huge smile.

“You got this,” Gabby shouts, not even caring about everyone else around us or that we’re on the biggest stage for baseball.

He nods to us. I offer a wave, and then he gets back to business, concentrating on what he should focus on.

Gabby and I stay silent, watching, entranced with the entire process as batter after batter takes their swings out on the field, and when Bennett steps up to the plate, she takes my hand, holding it tight.

He gets into his relaxed stance that I grew to know so well. His bat taps his back and then he lifts it up just as the pitch is delivered. He loads up on his back leg, and with all the power from his lower half, he drives through the ball, sending it right over the left field fence.

“Holy shit,” I quietly say as Gabby stares in awe.

His teammates razz him from behind the portable backstop, but he remains locked in and focused.

Hit after hit, he sends them sailing to the outfield, mainly line drives, exactly what I’d tell him I’d want to see from him. Don’t shoot for the fences. Just make solid contact, as solid contact will bring home runs.

When he’s done, Gabby claps next to me, the sound muffled by the foam hand, and when he turns toward us, I give him a thumbs-up, and Gabby blows him a kiss.

He holds up his hand, offering her the sign for “love you,” and Gabby returns it before he heads out on the field with his glove to get some grounders.

“Wow,” I say softly. “He’s sharp.”

“He looked so good, right? I’m not just in some starry haze. He really looked good?”

“He looked incredible. And that boy has stacked some muscle on him. When did that happen?”

She laughs. “He’s focused on putting more and more muscle on his bones every year.”

“Yeah, because he was a skinny fuck when he was with me.”

She smiles, clearly remembering those days. “When he came home, we’d do pushups together because he knew that he had to keep building muscle, and it was a free way to do that. Clearly, having access to a weight room has leveled him up.”

“Big time, but without you doing those pushups with him, I bet he wouldn’t have leveled up as quickly.”

“Now you’re just trying to feed me with compliments.”

“Am I? Or am I recognizing one of the reasons that boy is out on the field about to play his first major league game?”

She smirks. “Feeding compliments.”

“Okay.” I roll my eyes and then drape my arm over her shoulder as we finish watching batting practice. When the visitors take the field, I ask, “Want to grab something to eat before the game?”

“Yes,” she says. “I don’t think I can eat much because I’m a ball of nerves, but I know if I don’t eat something, I might pass out.”

“I have the perfect idea,” I say. “Follow me.”

“How many pictures did you take of me eating that hot dog?”

I give her the side-eye. “Two, because the first one I took, you looked like you had one eyeball, and your tooth was in carnage mode. Didn’t think you’d like it.”

She wipes her mouth and then her hands. For someone who couldn’t eat because she was too nervous, she devoured that hot dog pretty quickly. I was impressed.

“Okay, because it seemed like you took twenty.”

“What the hell am I going to do with twenty pictures of you eating a hot dog?”

She shrugs and sips her Diet Coke. “I don’t know what you get your jollies from.”

“You’re demented.”

She laughs and then plucks one of the fries from the shared carton in front of us. Eyes on me, she nudges me with her foot under our high-top table. “Thank you for everything today, Ryland. In case I forget to say it later. Thank you for driving me when I know I would have been a nervous wreck doing it myself. Thank you for setting up a place to sleep tonight so I don’t have to shortchange my time with Bennett after the game. Thank you for showing me around the stadium and for my gear, for holding my hand, for feeding me, and for making me laugh.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Gabby. It’s really my pleasure. I’m just grateful I get to be a part of it.”

“Bennett loves you. Always has. You were one of the few coaches who had a huge impact on the way he played the sport. He was always good, but he developed under your teaching.”

“That means a lot, thank you.”

“It’s the truth.” She picks up another fry. “And I know he probably would have given you the extra ticket.”

That makes me laugh. “And that means even more.”

She joins me in her laughter, her face alight with so much joy that I feel like I haven’t seen in a while, maybe not ever. It makes me wonder how much of our ups and downs have affected her. I hate to think that I might have depressed her or put her in a bad mood in any way because that smile deserves to be seen by the world. It’s the type of smile that could make anyone’s day better . . . brighter. I know for damn sure it’s making mine.

But not wanting to get into any of that, I say, “What’s your favorite memory of Bennett playing the game?”

“Besides what we just witnessed?” she asks.

“Yes, besides that, before he called you and told you he was moving up.”

She brings her cup up to her mouth, staring out at the field as she thinks about it. “You know, there have been quite a few moments. Some accomplishments like his first home run over the fence, his first time batting for the cycle, his first stolen base, things like that will always sit in my memories. Still, I think one of my most prized moments was when he was in high school and had a terrible game, four errors at third, three strikeouts, just a really poor showing.

“Instead of getting down on himself, getting pissed and throwing his gear or just giving up for the day, he spent that night with a lamp from the living room lighting up the front of the apartment building we were living in, throwing balls against the pitchback, over and over again. Focused. Improving. He wanted to prove that he wasn’t the player he was that day and that he was so much better. At that moment, I knew he’d make it because he persevered.”

“I remember that game,” I say as I turn my cup on the table, reminiscing on a shit game. “I remember the look in his eyes after that game. Normally, any other player would have looked defeated.” I shake my head. “Not Bennett. He was determined. He was ready for more.”

“He’s always been ready for more. He’s always been hungry. He wants to prove to everyone around him that he deserves to be where he is because of the hard work he’s put in.”

“He deserves it for sure.”

“I just hope he has a good game. I don’t need him to get a hit. I just hope he has contact with the ball. Solid contact.”

“Same,” I agree. “And if he happens to make a killer play at third, then that would be a bonus.”

She chuckles. “Just any play works.” She picks up another fry and dips it in the ketchup this time. “Can I ask you a question that might be sensitive?”

“Yeah, ask away.”

“Did you ever get called up?”

How did I know that was coming?

I shake my head. “I left before I had the chance.”

“What do you mean, you left?”

“I dropped out. I didn’t like being away from my family. My sisters were stuck with my dad, and well . . . he was an abusive asshole. He never touched them, but the fear that he might lived with me every day. It made it hard for me to focus. I was constantly calling Cassidy to make sure everyone was okay, and then I just . . . I couldn’t take it anymore, and I quit baseball.”

“I . . . I had no clue.”

“Not a lot of people do, actually. I never made it public. A lot of people just think that I didn’t have what it takes to make it, and maybe I didn’t because my head wasn’t in the game like it should have been. But I couldn’t chase a dream, knowing that my sisters were possibly suffering at the hands of my father.”

“Ryland,” she says, reaching out and taking my hand.

“It’s fine. I don’t regret it. I was able to get my teaching degree, and now I get to coach. I love my life, even when I feel the challenges of it heavy in my chest. I’d have made the same decision over and over again because my sisters . . . and Mac, for that matter, they’re my world.”

“I know that feeling,” she says. “The sacrifice you make to help your siblings. I truly understand your decision, and I commend it. I’d have done the same thing for Bennett.”

“You did something similar, didn’t you? You gave up a lot for him to have a better life?”

“Not sure I gave up a lot.”

“Did you do all the normal teenager things like go to parties, dances, spend weekends at the mall? Or did you work your ass off?”

“Worked,” she answers.

“And in your twenties, did you get to go to college and have that experience, or did you work some more and take night classes to support you and your brother?”

“You know what I did,” she says.

“I do, and that means you sacrificed a lot. You gave up experiences that others might have had because their childhood was more stable. But you understood the importance of what getting out of a bad situation is all about. I felt the same way, wanting to get my sisters out of a bad situation.”

“I guess that makes us a lot alike.”

“It does,” I say, looking her in her stunning eyes. “I recognize your hustle, Gabby, and I’m glad I can share the moment when you can see all your hard work pay off. It’s an honor.”

“I’m going to puke,” Gabby says, sitting next to me as she rubs her hands over her thighs. “He’s on deck.”

I take a few pictures of Bennett on deck because, at this point, Gabby has done nothing to record the day. She’s so immersed in the moment that I’ve mentally taken on the responsibility of being her photographer. That way, she can look back at these pictures and remember this moment. It’s amazing.

“Trust the process,” I say. “He knows what he’s doing. He needs to go in there, trusting himself and his mechanics. The hit will come.”

“Just not a strikeout,” she says as the batter before him walks.

“Oh God, he’s up.” She slides her hand into mine and squeezes my palm tightly as she holds her foam finger high and cheers for him. I snap a picture of her as her mouth is open, her excitement evident on her face.

I have a hard time handling my phone with one hand, but I figure it out as I zoom in on Bennett in the box, his stance relaxed, his body ready to explode.

Come on, man.

Just contact.

All we need is contact.

The first pitch is a ball in the dirt, the runner steals second, and now there’s a runner in scoring position with the score zero-zero in the second inning. Fuck, it would be amazing if he’s the first one to help put a run up on the board.

At the next pitch, I hear Gabby hold her breath as Bennett swings, and he misses.

“Shit,” she whispers under her breath.

“It’s okay,” I say to her. “He’s seen it now. He knows what to expect. He’s got this.” I squeeze her hand, and we watch together as the pitcher winds up and throws a fastball just outside the strike zone.

Bennett lays off.

“That’s it. Keep a good eye on the ball,” she says, now sitting on the edge of her seat.

I join her.

She leans forward, and as the next pitch comes in, Bennett swings, but he makes contact this time, sailing the ball just over the second baseman’s head and into right field. Gabby and I both fly out of our seats, cheering and jumping, our linked hands up in the air as the runner from second scores and Bennett rounds first.

“Yesssss!” Gabby screams and then lets out a loud sob.

Tears come to my eyes as we watch Bennett take off his elbow guard and hand it to the first base coach, who taps him on the head. The other team tosses the ball that Bennett just hit into the Bombers dugout as a keepsake for Bennett.

Gabby continues to cheer and clap while I do the same. The people around us probably think we’ve lost our mind, but we don’t care. Bennett Brinkman just got his first hit in the big leagues in his first at bat.

This is magic.

The game of baseball is so great because of moments like this.

Moments when you can pause and enjoy the crowd cheering, the stands rocking, the sweet smell of stadium food coming in all different directions, all the while dreams are coming true.

When we both take a seat, I turn toward Gabby who has tears streaming down her face, her eyes filled with so much joy.

“He did it,” I say. “RBI single, your boy just got an RBI single.”

She nods, her lips trembling. “He did.”

And then she leans in, places her hand behind my head, and tugs me down to her lips where she places a gentle, sweet kiss. It’s no longer than a second, but it’s enough to ignite a flame within me.

When she pulls away, she whispers, “He did it.”

“He really did,” I say, my heart pounding a mile a minute because I know, at this moment, deep down in my soul, that this is my turning point.

I needed this to push me to what I’ve been trying to avoid.

She’s it.

She’s what I want.

And there is no way in hell I can go another day without her knowing.