Page 48 of Shades of You

“Good point.”

“You want to take some swings first?” he asked. And maybe his simple offer could end up being a bridge back to the camaraderie we once had before life tore us apart.

I nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “Sure. You can help me shrink my Grand Canyon-sized strike zone, maybe.”

Evan flashed a grin. “I’ll set up the pitching machine. Get yourself warmed up.”

I dumped my full, heavy bag on the ground next to the cage. Both aluminum and wood bats were lined up like soldiers against the netting, and I made my choice quickly. We used aluminum in the rec league, so that was all I’d worked with since joining the Stingrays. Wooden bats were for more exalted arms. Taking my stance, I gripped the bat. The familiar weight settled the nerves flying around my stomach as Evan approached at an angle.

He stopped six feet away and folded his arms as the first ball whizzed toward me. “Elbow up a bit,” Evan called out with no trace of judgment in his voice. I adjusted my stance and swung, connecting with the next pitch solidly.

“Better,” he acknowledged, and something like pride swelled in my chest. God, I had missed this—his guidance, the unspoken bond of brotherhood. With each pitch and hit, the tension unwound from my muscles, leaving room for something akin to peace.

As the pitching machine hummed, sending another ball spinning toward me, I focused on Evan’s advice. Elbow up, eyes on the ball, pivot on my foot. The next pitch flew at me, and this time, as I adjusted my stance and crouched slightly, I swung with newfound intention. The bat connected with the ball crisply, sending it soaring through the air in a satisfying arc.

Evan’s smile widened, a silent approval that spoke volumes. “Nice hit. Keep that tighter form. You should work on making contact with any pitch you’re not positive is a strike—foul it off and stay in the game. Plus, you’ll rattle the pitcher.”

It was like finding a piece of myself I had long forgotten, rediscovering the joy of simply playing the game. Pitch after pitch, I improved under Evan’s watchful eye. Each swing grew sharper, more precise, his subtle pointers and my own determination to do better fueling me.

Finally, I straightened and stepped out. “Thanks. Your turn.”

Evan’s limp was slight as he moved toward the pitching machine, but it grabbed my attention and held it tight. The shadows of that day on theBensonflickered across my mind, and heat rose on my face. I fought not to let the demons rise—to stay in this cocoon of warm happiness. Evan cranked the speed up, then hurried back to casually pick up a wooden bat. When he stepped into the batter’s box, his form was impressive. Natural. He swungeffortlessly, and the ball soared in a perfect arc against the clear sky.

I tracked its graceful movement. There were no tips I could give him—his swing didn’t need them. Instead, I let myself bask in the sight of my brother, the natural-born athlete, the man who had been on the cusp of Major League greatness when I snatched it away. A man who was now slowly, steadily finding his way forward.

I remained silent as he sprayed the ball over the field as he had at practice, words inadequate for the surge of emotion I was holding back. After several minutes of this, Evan opened up and really hit the ball. And I remembered why we’d always put the batting cage at the edge of the garden. Hit after hit soared to the very far end, yet none went over the hibiscus hedge. His control was incredible.

I whistled, shaking my head in disbelief. “Damn, Evan. You’ve still got it.”

He just twitched that half-smile of his and shrugged off the compliment as if it were nothing. But it wasn’t nothing—it was everything.

“I’ve been sneaking in some practice sessions,” he admitted with the sun glinting off his hair and turning it to molten bronze.

Too soon, Evan called time on the batting and shut down the machine, its hum dying into the coastal silence. After staring at the ground for a long moment, he raised his head to look me straight in the eye. “What do you say, Hunter? Ready to catch a few?”

A numb wave traveled from my head to my feet, and goose bumps pebbled my arms. I fought to keep my face expressionless, not to show how utterly momentous this was. So I simply nodded. “Sure. I’ve got everything I need.My catcher’s gear was already in my SUV.” That was a white lie. I’d packed my gear bag last night.

Just in case.

Strapping on my shin guards and the heavy breastplate, the rhythm of Calypso Key’s heart synced with mine—a slow, steady beat promising new beginnings. I crouched inside the cage and punched my glove as I smiled at the familiar pitcher’s mound, now tattered but still hanging in there. Evan walked to a place marked with an X that I knew without asking was sixty feet, six inches away.

Evan started easy, lobbing the ball in a gentle arc that I caught without strain. But soon his pitches came faster, harder, demanding more from both of us. We fell into our old routine with ease, a dance we hadn’t performed together in years. Yet I remembered flawlessly—the twist of his arm, the arch of my back, the satisfying smack of the ball against leather. My hand stung inside the thick mitt, but I couldn’t suppress the grin splitting my face.

“Nice one!” I called out as another pitch hit my glove dead-on.

Evan flashed me a thumbs-up, sweat beading on his brow. His pitches came at me like a whirlwind, each one the result of his talent and determination. Fastballs screamed with a fierce intensity, curveballs dipped and spun in ways that challenged my reflexes, change-ups deceived me with their subtle shifts in speed, and sliders darted away at the last moment as if mocking my attempts to catch them.

Despite the thick padding of my catcher’s gear, the impact of each pitch reverberated through my hand, sending a jolt of pain up my arm. But I gritted my teeth and refused to let it show. This moment was too precious, too rare to let something as trivial as physical discomfort mar it.Besides, I’d known pain much more profound than catching a baseball.

As Evan continued to unleash his arsenal of pitches, I crouched in awe at his form. His focus was unwavering as he delivered each one with precision and power. The deepthwackof the ball meeting my glove echoed in the still afternoon air, a symbol of mending brothers and shared passion for the game.

After half an hour of perfection, Evan’s arm whipped forward. But the ball spun out of control and veered off to the side. He bent over, hands on his knees, and let out a hearty laugh. “Man, I think we better call it,” he panted, straightening up. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes gleamed with amusement. “I’ve got the pitching endurance of an eight-year-old girl.”

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short.” I stood, chucking the ball back to him. My own muscles were singing with the effort and my hand ached like a son of a bitch, but it was a good kind of ache in my bones—the kind you get from doing something you love. “You’ve still got one hell of an arm.”

He shrugged modestly, but I caught the twinge of pride flickering across his face before it disappeared. So different than the old days, when he walked with a natural, unconscious swagger I always admired. Yet I’d just seen that it was still there. I wondered if he realized just how much he’d given me today.

I hesitated, rolling a baseball between my hands as I searched for how to ask the giant question. “So does this mean you’re going to take over pitching for Gabe?”

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