Unforgettable (Cloverleigh Farms #5)(79)

Turned out I couldn’t get on a flight until Tuesday, but I checked in with David each day, relieved to hear there was no turn for the worse.

Seated in first class, ignoring the woman next to me trying to flirt, I put on some headphones and watched a few TED talks, then gave in and watched Bull Durham for probably the five hundredth time. The funny thing was, it’s my favorite baseball movie ever, but I hadn’t seen it in a long time—maybe ten years. In the past, I’d always identified with Nuke, the hotshot minor-league rookie pitcher who needs to learn discipline and control before he’s called up to the majors. But this time around, I saw myself in Crash, the mentor. He’s a catcher, not a pitcher, but he sees the game differently than Nuke does, because he’s been around it so long. And when he’s let go because the team wants to bring up “some young catcher,” I felt the sad punch to the gut as much as Crash did. I knew what it was like to feel you weren’t worth anything anymore.

Even funnier, I used to hate the ending—the cheesy porch scene with the stupid eighties background music, the fucking dancing in the living room—but now I found myself watching with new eyes, listening with new ears. When Crash says, “I just want to be,” I fucking got it.

But the dancing still made me cringe.

I hadn’t checked a bag, so once my flight landed, I went straight to the rental car desk.

“Shaw!” Steve said happily. “You’re back!”

“I’m back.” And I was actually kind of glad to see him.

What the hell was happening to me?





I called David, and he said the sooner I could get to the hospital, the better, because visiting hours were nearly over. He texted me the room number as soon as we hung up, and I went straight there.

I’d been expecting Coach to look weak, but he was even frailer than I’d imagined. He looked shriveled and pale, and his breathing was labored. His eyes were closed. He wore a hospital gown, which was embarrassing, but the covers were pulled up high on his chest. David was sitting in a chair by the side of the bed and stood when I entered the room.

“Hey,” he said, extending his hand.

“Hey.” I shook it and glanced at his father. “How’s he doing?”

David shrugged. “He’s okay today. A little confused here and there, but physically okay. My mom finally left to get some decent food and rest.”

“Tell her to bring me some decent food,” grumbled Virgil. His eyes were open now but a little unfocused. “The food is awful here. I’m not confused about that.”

“Hey, Coach,” I said, glad to see some of his spirit was intact.

“That you, Shaw?”

“It’s me.”

“You been skipping practice.”

“Sorry, Coach. I’m here now.”

“Good. I need a word.”

“I’ll give you guys some time,” David said. “Tyler, want anything from the coffee shop?”

“No, thanks.” I gave him a wave and sat down in the chair he’d vacated. “What can I do for you, Coach?”

“Can you spring me?”

I grinned. “Nope.”

He sighed heavily, closing his eyes. “Figures.”

“You doing okay?”

One eye popped open again. “I look okay to you?”

“I’ve seen you look better,” I admitted.

“Yuh.” His eyes closed again, and he was silent for so long that I thought he might have fallen asleep. I was almost about to doze off myself when he spoke. “I was talking to your dad about you.”

I was about to ask when, but realized A, he might not even be able to answer that, and B, it really didn’t matter. “Oh yeah? What did he have to say?”

“He’s worried.”

Present tense. Interesting. I shifted in my chair. “About what?”

“He thinks maybe he pushed you too hard to be the best.”

“Nah.”

That one eye opened again. “You gonna let me talk?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“He said he didn’t want you to feel like baseball was the only thing that mattered. Because even the best careers only last so long. There are things that matter more and last longer.”

“Yeah, we never really got a chance to have that conversation.”

“We’re having it now, aren’t we?”

“I guess.”

He appeared to go back to sleep, and I felt restless. A couple minutes later he spoke again. “You asked me why you got the chance to prove yourself and he didn’t.”

“Huh?”

“The last time you came to practice. You asked me that. About your dad.”

“Oh. Right.”

“But he did prove himself, didn’t he?”

My first thought was that Virgil was confused again. What I’d meant was that my father had loved baseball like I did, but he hadn’t gotten the chance to prove himself where it really mattered—on the field, in front of thousands of screaming fans and television cameras and the best players in the game. But before I opened my mouth, I realized what he meant.

My dad had proved himself where it really mattered—as a dad.

On his own, with two children. Working his fingers to the bone. Making sure we were housed and fed and clothed, and beyond that, loved. I’d always felt loved. It had given me the confidence to chase my dreams.