There is no crying in baseball. Or so I’ve heard. But I’ve felt like crying all day and now I’m about to play baseball—technically, softball—but I think the same rules apply. My irritability hasn’t improved since the Hill City team arrived at the diamond for only our second, and last, practice before our first game.
The group huddles in and around the dugout, shivering and studying the sky. The cloud ceiling looks close enough to touch and full enough that if I did, it would spill water all over Boston. An unseasonably cold wind throws dust at us, getting past my sunglasses and stinging my eyes. At least if I start to cry I’ll have an excuse.
Despite the sunless sky, every time I try to take off my sunglasses I have to squint against a glare that only seems to affect me. But the glasses also serve as a second barrier for Richard, who showed up five minutes ago, pulling Wesley aside and further delaying the start of practice.
They make it easy to stare, to sit here and let the fear fester, watching Wesley’s face get paler and paler as Richard talks at him, the back of one hand smacking the palm of the other every so often.
“He asked me this morning how my evening was.” Emily’s voice makes me jump high enough my butt leaves the seat.
“I told him we hung out at your house and got Chinese from that place with the orange chicken.”
My whole body slumps against the cold cement wall behind me. “Thank you, Emily.”
Richard smiles at Wesley, says one last thing to make Wesley’s head wobble like a bobblehead, and starts to head our way. I stand so fast I get dizzy, swaying toward Emily like I’ve been pushed over by the wind.
“Whoa,” Emily says, grabbing my forearm. Her eyes are wide and I feel like she can read too much of my face even with my sunglasses on.
“Practice is starting,” I say, breathless.
By the time Richard takes a seat just where I was sitting, I’m jogging around the diamond, trying to get my limbs moving. Every step rattles my brain.
Wesley wants to start practice fielding grounders and pop-ups, which elicits a number of blank stares from most of the team and smirks from Mark and his crony, a short white guy with a buzz cut. But first he takes the group through a set of stretches that everyone complains about, mostly because they involve lying down on the dirt and opening our hips, leaving everyone in awkward positions in front of coworkers.
I skipped interval training for this.
Richard watches me the whole time. His stare is like the diamond dirt, coating my backside in a thick layer I can’t brush off no matter how hard I try.
We break off into pairs to warm up, throwing balls back and forth. Emily stands about fifty feet away and we lob the ball at each other. With each pass my mood tanks so that by the time Wesley approaches, it takes everything I have not to throw the ball at him and demand he tell me what he and Richard were talking about.
“Don’t rush your throw, Ms. Blunt,” Wesley says too loudly. I wince. His voice echoes through my head.
“Why are you yelling?” I ask quietly as Emily retrieves the ball. My throw went wide.
“I’m trying to make it seem like I’m giving you advice,” he says through the side of his mouth. “Did you know that Richard bet his parking spot over this tournament?”
I turn to him, anxious relief tingling in my hands and feet. “Is that what he was talking to you about?”
“Heads up.” He nods toward Emily and I turn just in time to get my glove up.
“Nice catch.”
I want to smack myself for the silly little thrill I get at impressing him. I am both a grown woman and his boss. Yet I add a little extra oomph into my next throw.
“Yes, that’s what he was telling me about. Basically, if we don’t win it will be my fault he loses the best spot in the parking garage.” Wesley’s voice quickly spirals into panic.
I bite my tongue until my eyes water. I will not speak poorly of my superior in front of my intern. I won’t.
“How am I supposed to create a winning team in two practices?” Wesley’s voice is thready. He stares into the midground, his eyes wide.
The thwack of balls hitting gloves over and over fills the silence between us. The paranoia prickling at my neck has subsided. Of course Richard wasn’t following up with Wesley earlier. He would have no reason to suspect that Wesley was at my home last night.
But I still feel the sting of tears, a tightness in my chest that I can’t place.
“Is your mom okay?”
The ball falls from my hand before I can catch it. We both chase after it but Wesley gets it first.
“What? Why did you ask me that?”
He searches my face. It feels like he’s trying to see behind my sunglasses but I don’t want to let him see me right now and glimpse the fear at the mention of my mother, the discomfort Richard’s presence brings. It’s all raw skin and I can’t handle the sting of exposure.
He shrugs, handing me back the ball. “You just seem really quiet.”
The ball is heavier than it was just moments before, and warmer, too. But I can’t tell if it’s the warmth from Wesley’s skin or if my own hand is just that cold.
“I’m just...” It’s too much to tell him this. To show him I’m not as tough as I want him to think I am. That I can turn into a weak, scared girl because of one man. “I’m not in the best mood.”
“So...” His pause is filled with the sound of snide laughter coming from Mark and his friend. “You probably don’t want me to come over tonight, then?”
I throw the ball to Emily.
“No. You should come over tonight.”
His smile makes me feel a little better. He starts to walk but turns around. “I’ve been sort of a bad brother,” he says, his voice low. “So later later?”
“You should probably go coach someone else.” I nod to the other players and the movement sends a shooting pain down my neck. I gasp, pushing my fingers against a tender spot.
“You okay?” He takes a step toward me, hand raised, but I step back, shooing him away.
“Fine. I’m fine.”
Light dances in front of my eyes. I close them to the pink, yellow, and green orbs. My stomach sinks, both with realization and regret. The irritability, my mood, the sensitivity to light. I’m getting another migraine.
The next time I open my eyes Wesley is across the field getting Abila and Marisol started on fielding grounders, but Emily is suddenly, blessedly beside me. I sag against her.
“Migraine?” she asks.
I nod.
“Let’s get you home.”
She follows my gaze across the field as she leads me toward the parking lot. “Do you need me to...tell anyone?”
I trip on a divot and pull up short to keep from falling over. “No,” I say with too much force.
Emily takes a step back, hurt in her eyes.
I keep walking toward my car. My home is calling me. All the lights on dimmer switches. The soaker tub. The pharmacy’s worth of drugs.
“There’s no one to tell.”