“I’ve been offered the chance at a college scholarship—to play ball.”
Dad stares at me and the dishwasher enters the rinse cycle. “Have you been talking to college scouts behind my back?”
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Yes. No. “The recruiter made sense. He
said their pitch coach can help me with my placement issues and teach me to break the tell on my pitches. They’ll pay for me to go to school and I can get free coaching. I can train with them for four years and then go for the pros.”
Beer sloshes from the bottle when Dad
throws out his arms. “What happens if you get injured? What happens if instead of improving, you lose your edge? You’re a pitcher. There is no better time for you to go after your dreams than now.”
“What if…”
He stalks across the kitchen and slams the beer down in front of me. “Do I need to remind you how much money we’ve pumped into you? Do you think the coaching we’ve paid for over the years is cheap? Do you think the equipment, the Jeep we bought you were free?”
My gut aches as if he punched me. “No. I
don’t think they were free. I’ve offered to get a job.”
“I’m not looking for you to get a job, Ryan.
I’m looking for you to do something with your HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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talent. I’m looking for you to make a name for this family. I want to know that the years your mother and I have sacrificed financially, emotionally, with our time are not in vain.”
Mom calmly folds her hands on the table.
“He does have talent, Andrew. You’re angry he doesn’t want what you want. You’re angry he’s choosing something different.”
“Baseball is what he wants!” Dad’s knuckles turn white as he grips the back of the chair.
“You have no idea what anyone in this
family wants.”
His voice shakes as he talks. “What do you want, Miriam? What will finally make you happy? You always wanted me to run for
mayor and I’ve agreed to it. You wanted me to expand the business and I am. I have done everything to make you happy. Just tell me what you want.”
“I want my family back!” Mom screams.
Over the past months, my mother has been
sarcastic and rude to my father. But in
seventeen years, I’ve never known her to
scream.
The shock wears off Dad’s face. “You can’t have it all! Do you want your friends to know HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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that your son is gay? Do you want your
church to know your son is gay?”
“But we could talk to Mark. Maybe if he
agreed to keep it a secret—”
“No!” my father roars.
I lean back in my chair, disgusted with them.
Disgusted with myself. Since Mark walked
away, I’ve been so obsessed with the fact that he left that I never really listened to what my parents were saying. It makes me realize that I probably never really listened to Mark either.
No wonder he left. How could anyone live
with so much hate?
A sickening nausea strikes and I grow dizzy.
Does Mark believe I feel the same way as my parents?
Dad rams the chair into the table, then stalks away. “Mark made his choice. You wanted to talk to Ryan tonight—talk to him. I’ll be in my office.”
Mom stands. “He should hear it from you.”
In the door frame, he pauses and looks back at me. “I’ll be running for my party’s nomination for mayor in the spring. Your
mother and I don’t want you dating Beth Risk.
Be her friend at school, but we can’t risk the HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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bad publicity if she’s trouble. Do you
understand?”
My mind races to process. Dad’s running for mayor. Mom wants Mark back in the house.
I’ve let down my brother. They both want me to dump Beth. “You said that you never wanted to be mayor.”
But Mom has wanted him to. Her dad was
mayor. Her grandfather was mayor. It’s a
tradition she’s always craved to continue.
Neither Mom nor Dad will look at me or at each other, and neither appears to want to discuss his nomination. “About Beth…” I say.
Dad cuts me off. “The girl is off-limits.”
“You should date Gwen again,” Mom says.
“Her father is going to back your father.”
The seat jerks under me when I stand and
my sudden movement causes Mom to flinch. I stare at them both, waiting for one of them to make sense of anything they’ve said. When they remain silent, I finally understand why Mark left.
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Beth
I DON’T OWN A JACKET. Never have. I always told Isaiah and Noah my body temperature runs hot when actually it runs low. In
Kentucky, autumn weather can be a bitch. Hot in the afternoons. Cold at night. This morning, the slick dew covering Ryan’s pasture permeates past my worn shoes to my socks.
Few things suck more than cold, wet feet.