Don't Hate the Player...Hate the Game(48)

I wanted to say more, but I didn’t know what. “If you ever need to talk, I’m here.”

She gave me a weak smile. “That’s sweet of you, Noah. I appreciate it.”

I nodded, but my heart ached for her at that moment. I wanted so much to help her—to take the worry and burden off of her, but I didn’t know how. More than anything, I wanted to draw her into my arms—to somehow physically shield her from all the sorrow surrounding her. But I didn’t. Instead, I shoved my hands in my pockets to keep from touching her.

“Well, I guess I better go. Tell your mom and dad I said hello, okay?”

“I will. Thanks again for everything.” She handed me the bag with my puke clothes that were utterly reeking.

As I headed out to my Jeep, my mind was whirling. Josh’s face flashed before my mind, then Maddie’s, and then the Parker’s. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to do something for Josh. I wanted to be his personal Make a Wish Foundation. I tried thinking of something that would blow him away, and then it hit me.

He was a baseball fanatic, and there was nothing more he would want than to meet his idol. The more my mind raced with emotions, I thought about the cash strapped Parker’s, and I wanted to do something for them. In the end, all roads led to Mr. Baseball himself, Joe Preston.

The last time I’d seen my father I was seven. He was on a four-day game stint in Atlanta and staying at a friend’s house on Lake Lanier. He’d asked Mom if he could have me come and stay with him. It was the longest I’d ever been with him. Up until that point in my life, he’d drop in for a couple of hours at a time, play with me a little, and then bail.

I remember being absolutely beside myself with excitement as Mom packed up my clothes in my Power Rangers suitcase. Even Jake was pumped about my dad’s visit. “Will you get me his autograph?” he’d asked.

But as bouncing off the walls as I was, I didn’t notice that Mom wasn’t sharing in my excitement. I would never forget the look on her face when my dad came to pick me up in a BMW convertible with a curvy blonde in the front seat. I might’ve been a kid, but I did appreciate the fact Tiffany wore low cut shirts and short skirts the entire weekend!

It was a whirlwind four days that would’ve been any kids dream—going to the baseball park every day, staying up late, going to the zoo, the movies, getting to swim in the lake, and riding through the city with the top down.

My dad took me to meet the team, and I even got to hang out in the dugout during batting practice. It was the first time in my life someone said, “Damn, Joe, he’s the spitting image of you!” I did look like my father, but it was something no one in my family would ever acknowledge. Poor Mom—it must’ve been a double edged sword to love someone so much who looked like someone you hated.

I ate my weight in junk food. Unlike Mom, my dad never harped on me to eat vegetables, and I got ice cream at every meal—even if I didn’t clean my plate. It was absolute heaven, and I didn’t want it to end. When it was time to go, I pitched a fit and cried like a spoiled little brat.

My dad knelt down beside me. “Hey kid, don’t cry. We’ll do this again real soon, I promise.”

I nodded my head, but I was unsure if I really believed him. Mom came to pick me up at the lake house. Dad leaned over and kissed her on the cheek and told her how beautiful she looked. He said something about the two of them getting together the next time he was in town, but Mom didn’t reply. Now that I’m older, I realize what the douche bag was alluding to about getting together. Yeah, nothing like a booty call with the mother of your child.

On the way home, I talked ninety miles a minute, filling my mom in on every detail—well, everything that wouldn’t get me in trouble like the ice cream and staying up late. She would smile and nod as I described every moment of the four days. Finally, when I was finished, I looked over at her. Huge, silent tears dripped off her face.

And then something turned over in me. I wasn’t mad at Mom for crying at all my excitement. Somehow even at seven, I realized how much he’d hurt her. She wasn’t trying to be selfish—she was just a twenty-three year old girl still desperately in love with the prick who’d knocked her up and dumped her.

The more I thought about it, I realized she’d been the one who’d gotten up with me during the night, who’d rocked me for hours when I was sick or cranky, who’d sing to me when I was scared, and kiss the bruises to make them go away. She’d sacrificed everything for me—her friends, her dating life, stretch marks…the whole nine yards.

So I vowed then and there that unless my father wanted both of us, I’d never speak to him again. Mom argued with me over and over again. “Noah, Mommy is okay with you going to see your daddy, I promise. Please don’t do this!” she’d beg when I’d refuse his phone calls. She even forced me to talk to him a few times, but Granddaddy told her it wasn’t a good idea to do that to me.

Finally, my dad stopped calling me. He would talk to Mom occasionally. So, like I did with everything else, I pushed the pain deep inside. I turned to my Granddaddy and to my uncles, and they became everything I needed—for a while. But I couldn’t run anymore. I was almost a man, and I needed to face the skeletons of my past.

When I got home, I found the house dark. I breathed a sigh of relief to find the cheek pincher gone. There was a note on the counter.