This Is Falling(92)

I called Cass from the airport and left her a message, knowing she was probably already on her flight. She texted back later that night, giving me Ty’s number. And I sent Ty a text, begging him not to let Nate know. He was the only one who could help. I hoped he would have that same sense of obligation Cass had when she helped Nate.

I had two weeks. Nate would be in Arizona right before Christmas for the Pac 12 invitational baseball tournament—an official kick-off for the season. The games were played all over Arizona at various ballparks. But I would drive—I didn’t care how far it was. I would come see him. And when I did, I would give him everything he asked for, I’d give him my heart. I loved that he was selfish for me, but I also loved that he was willing to share my heart with Josh. And as crazy as it sounds, part of me can’t help but feel that somehow Josh sent Nate to me.

There really wasn’t a way to practice putting myself out there. I was just going to have to leap. Just like I did when I stepped out of my parents’ car months ago and hauled my things up to a dorm room a thousand miles away. I’d have to find that courage, and more, for what I wanted to do. But for Nate…for Nate, I think I can do it.





Nate





I’m sure she’s read the letter. Cass told Ty she gave it to her, and Ty’s been reassuring, oddly reassuring. He likes Rowe, though, so I hope he’s not just willing it all to work out. I hope he really truly believes.

I was hoping she’d text by now though. I wanted to let her know I would be in Arizona. Maybe she found out. Maybe she’ll see it somewhere. Maybe she’s here? That’s stupid. But maybe…maybe?

“Come on, Preet. Warm-up time,” Cash says, slapping the top of my helmet while he passes me in the locker room. I shut the locker on the rest of my gear and grab my bag of equipment, heading out through the long hallway to the field. These tournaments are the real deal, and there’s something cool about playing on a spring-training field. I can’t help but imagine being here—for real—sometime down the road.

There’s a decent crowd outside, and the air is cold for Arizona. I guess it’s nighttime, and winter. I just always thought of Arizona as hot and dry. I pull the sleeves snug on my undershirt and pull my mask down while I drop my gear in the bullpen and then start throwing with Cash.

I love playing catch. It sounds stupid, but this is the best part of this game. This simple act—throwing a ball back and forth with someone—it’s so numbing, and wonderful. Of course, all I can think about is Rowe, and how she’s only miles away. I should text her. No pressure, just to let her know I’m in town. Maybe she’ll want to come to a game, bring her dad. I hope he’s not angry that I told her. He seemed to understand when I called to tell him she was coming home. Okay, maybe playing catch sucks—because all it does is give you time to think.

Cash and I are warm after about fifteen minutes, and then I pull the spare gear from my bag for the bullpen catcher and head back to the dugout with him. Ty’s coming, but not until tomorrow, and it feels weird to play a game completely on my own. My brother hasn’t missed many, and I like it when he’s here.

We’re playing Washington. They’re good. But we’re better. There are a lot of scouts in the stands. They come early, before spring training, and they like watching these tournaments. I’m not expecting anything, but I just hope I make an impression. I’d like to be on their list, someone they’ll remember when they come to watch next year or the year after.

“Mister, mister,” I hear a kid’s voice say, and when I look down, I see him pulling on the leg of my pants. He has curly blond hair and a McConnell baseball hat is mashing most of it down. I kneel down and pull my mask off to look at him, and he’s holding a pen and a ball. “Can I get your autograph?”

“Sure,” I say, unable to hide the smile this puts on my face. This is the first time anyone has ever asked for me to sign a ball. This is awesome. I write my name, clearly, and my number and hand the pen and ball back to the kid. He tucks it in his back pocket so it sticks out, and it makes me chuckle. He hangs around our dugout for a few minutes until someone official-looking comes to get him and leads him over to the home plate area. He must be throwing out the first pitch, or yelling “Play ball!” or something.

The rest of the team finishes warming, and soon the dugout is crowded. Gum is popping and seed shells are being spit everywhere. The announcer goes through the lineups, and there’s enough of a crowd here that there’s actually applause. I wonder if anyone travelled from McConnell for this? I bet it’s mostly boosters or alumni. Once they get through the announcements, everyone climbs the steps, and we all take our spot on the third base line, caps held to our chests, my mask held to mine.

The music fires up, and I expect the same recording of the Star Spangled Banner that I hear every game. But tournaments must be special, because after the flowery intro, someone starts to sing.

She starts to sing. I know it the minute the first word leaves her lips. I would know that voice anywhere. It’s the voice I imagine when I’m going to sleep every night, and the one I listened to silently, hiding in the dark, while she sang in the shower when she thought no one was there to hear her.

Rowe is singing. In front of at least two thousand people…maybe three. And she’s not missing a beat. She’s hitting every note, and it’s perfect and beautiful…and she’s here, within reach—touchable. The longer the song goes, the more I can hear her nerves coming through, but she keeps going, her voice just as pretty as the first note, just not as strong. If I knew I wouldn’t get booed for interrupting the ultimate act of patriotism, I would break formation and run to her right now, but I wait.