She smiled. Her hand fell from her hip, and her body shifted to relax her weight from one side. “Your bed.”
I barely remembered going to my room, but as my alarm blasted, I was certainly there… alone. I showered, dressed, and met the guys in the lobby to eat breakfast before catching the shuttle.
Katrina was sitting on a large white sofa in the main lobby, scribbling something in her notepad. “You hungry?” I asked, stopping before passing her by.
Her eyes looked tired, exhausted really. I hated that I was to blame for her stress. “No,” she replied.
“You gotta eat.”
She shook her head. “You go ahead. I have to finish the plans for the day.”
Shot down. Again.
As I walked away, I wondered if she was looking at me, checking me out. I quickly turned back, looking over my shoulder. Her eyes dropped hastily toward the paper in front of her once I caught them on me. Yeah, she was still interested.
I needed to work double time to make all this right. No more trouble from me. From any of us if I could help it. It was obvious that when Katrina’s job was hard, she avoided me like the plague, but when it was easy, she flocked to me like a tourist to Disney World.
The kids were already on the field when we arrived. Katrina was rounding them up, assigning them players to work, that Lana bitch right by her side. The sight of her made me cringe. Her bright red hair, stiff stature, but mostly, the way she hovered over Kat.
The guys were all amazing, letting the kids take turns pitching, swinging the bat, and even running by their side as they made their way around the bases.
Katrina was beautiful, more so than usual as she seemed to be in her element with the kids on the field. She snapped pictures, talked to the press, and interacted like a true professional. Even Rhett seemed to take notice. In my mind, a little too much so.
Lana glared at them as they posed for press photos together with the kids. My thoughts ran wild, thinking about everything she’d said that day. Was Rhett trying to fuck Katrina?
The way he touched her made me wonder if there was merit to Lana’s accusations. His hand rested softly on her arm, slowly caressing the sleeve of her blouse as they spoke. No. Kat is a good girl. There’s no way anything is going on between them. Is there?
“Kyle would like a picture with his favorite player,” Katrina said cheerfully as she approached me for the first time that day.
The boy standing beside her was tall, wore thick glasses, and looked much older than the other kids in the group. His smile was crooked, and his eyes unfocused, but he spoke without hesitation. “Todd Morris. That’s my favorite player. That’s you. I want to be a catcher,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.
“Well, today’s your lucky day. We need another catcher,” I said, wrapping my arm around him for a quick picture.
“Now, this stuff’s heavy. Can you handle it?” I asked, pulling off my gear.
He laughed. His eyes widened, and the smile he gave me sent a squeeze directly to my heart.
Katrina’s eyes were soft and warm as she helped me dress Kyle in my gear. He squatted behind home plate, with me behind him while Blake tossed a few pitches his way.
After we got him unloaded from the gear, he never once complained about its weight. “Thank you. I’m a catcher now. I’m a Beast,” he said proudly.
“Yes, you are, Kyle.” I patted him on the back.
Lana showed up, tapping her wristwatch to warn Katrina that she’d gone over time. “We have to get the bus back to the school,” she said.
What could have been a moment between Kat and me quickly turned back to work. My phone buzzed in my pocket, vibrating against my leg. I turned away from Kat and Lana while I checked to see who was calling me during practice.
Teresa’s name flashed across the screen. I swiped to answer and held the phone to my ear, fearing the worst as I said hello to my sister.
“I’m sorry to bother you. Are you free for a moment?”
She didn’t sound too anxious, so my heart slowed its racing. “Yes. Is everything okay?” I asked, still wondering why she was calling.
“It’s Mom,” she said, sounding exhausted. “She’s fallen again.”
Shit.
We’d put Mom in an independent living facility to ensure her needs were taken care of and to also ease the burden from both of us. It had been a difficult decision and one of us kids visited her nearly every day. When I was out of town, the burden fell on Teresa’s shoulders alone. Marcus, our younger brother, couldn’t take care of himself, let alone anyone else. So it was me and Teresa doing the best we could.
“Did she break anything?” I asked.
“No. Luckily, nothing is broken. Her hip is bruised pretty badly though. The independent living coordinator has insisted that she be moved to an Alzheimer’s unit.” I cringed at her words.
“No way.”
“Todd, it may be for the best at this point,” she said softly.
“You know what those places are like,” I snapped and immediately regretted my harsh tone.
“Yes. Safe.”
I kicked the dirt under my feet as I paced back and forth in a small square. “When?” I asked, not thinking I wanted to hear the answer.
“Right away. They have her in a rehabilitation unit now. Since nothing is broken, they don’t see the point in keeping her. The nursing home doesn’t want the liability of putting her back into her room. She’s fallen four times in the last six months. I can see their point.” She sighed as she spoke.
This wasn’t a decision I wanted to make, not now. Not ever. This was my mother. I didn’t want to see her fade away. In the last few years, I found I couldn’t control that. She had faded far away. She didn’t even know who I was anymore. Most times, she called me Marcus.
“I can handle the move. I just wanted you to know what was happening,” she insisted.
“No. I’ll be there,” I said sternly.
My sister, the do-it-all-yourselfer. She was the chief of surgery, a mother of three, a wife, the lead in the church choir, and our mother’s caretaker, well, co-caretaker. I couldn’t leave all of this on her. I had to get home. This was my responsibility, just as much as it was hers.
“Have you heard from Marcus?” I asked, knowing it was a topic neither of us enjoyed.
Teresa and I were only eighteen months apart. We’d grown up together, always had each other’s backs. Marcus was born when I was eight, and Teresa barely ten. He was the baby, the brat actually.
He'd always screamed that no one loved him, that Mom didn’t even love him enough to give him a "T" name. He was ridiculous, and even so, our mother always babied him. She even tried to change his name to Terrance, and he went by that through most of middle school until changing back to Marcus in a fit of rage.
She sighed into the phone. “He came by the hospital last week.”
“How much?” I asked, knowing exactly why he’d shown his face.
There was only one thing you could count on from Marcus. If he showed up, ever, it was for money.
“I gave him a fifty,” she said.
“A fifty?”