Page 3 of Make My Heart Malt

THREE DAYS EARLIER

Garrett

My eyelids shoot open, and I’m met with inky darkness. My heart thunders in my chest. Cold sweats spread across my body, sending a shiver down my spine. I blink a few more times and twist my head to face the alarm clock. It’s 2:52 a.m. Fuck. It was a dream.

I’m standing behind home plate. Abbott is running down the baseline toward me, a sinister grin on his face. My gaze drifts to the shortstop. His arm rolls back and sling shots forward. The ball barrels toward me, the red stitching almost hypnotizing as it rotates through the air. All I need to do is lift my glove and catch the ball. That will send us into another inning to fight for the championship. I glance at Abbott, who’s now only a few steps away. I slide my foot to touch the edge of the plate and lift my arm,preparing to catch the ball, except I don’t have a glove. In fact, my entire hand is missing. The ball soars past me, and Abbott crosses home plate, scoring the winning run. The entire Minnesota team runs out on the field and congregates at the pitcher’s mound to celebrate. I’m rooted in place as fans throw hats, jerseys with my number, and trash at me until I’m standing in a knee-deep pile. From the opposing team’s dugout, Dessa runs out onto the field. Her long, honey-colored hair flows behind her until she reaches the pitcher’s mound and wraps her arms around a faceless Minnesota player.

Swinging my legs over to the side of the bed, I sit up, and rest my elbows on my knees. I exhale a deep breath and scrub my hands down my face. This is the third time I’ve had this dream or something similar in the past week, but it’s the first time Dessa’s appeared. I climb to my feet and amble through the darkness, across my bedroom, and into the hallway.

Once in the living room, I flop onto the couch and turn on the TV. As soon as the replay of my missed catch comes on the screen, I immediately hit the power button on the remote. The TV goes black. You’d think they’d find something else to play by now. Baseball players miss catches all the time, but they certainly like to torture me by showing mine at every opportunity. Twist the dagger in my gut a little more. It’s fine. I should be celebrating a victory. It was mine to win. Inches from my fingertips, or in my case, glove. But instead, I’m sitting on my couch in my condo in a city that hates me. Most would say I’m overreacting, but I’ve seen the social media posts, the GIFs, and the memes. Fans are not subtle about it either.

Home Run Playboy… more like Chokes Behind the Plate.

His glove works better without a hole in it.

The ball must need to hit him in the face for him to catch it.

Dawson sucks.

We need a new catcher.

Trade him.

He’s already past his prime.

He better not be back next year.

This is just in the last two days. I’ve been subject to their hatred for a little over two weeks. While I can brush most of the comments away, this time hits particularly hard. Maybe because I know I won’t have too many more years left playing professionally. My contract expires in three years. Then it’s either negotiate a new one or go wherever the trade is.

All season, everyone expected us to make it to the world championship and win, so it sucks that I’m the reason the entire team went home empty-handed. My missed catch can only be attributed to one thing, and that thing is missing. I searched the clubhouse, the dugout, my condo, everywhere, and it’s nowhere to be found. It’s the only logical explanation.

I shove the coffee table away and stand. A newspaper and a stack of magazines tumbles to the ground. “Fuck,” I mumble. Bending over, I grab the fallen mail from the floor when a white envelope with gold embellishments catches my attention. My eyes widen in terror when I read my brother’s name in black calligraphy. This has to be a wedding invitation—it’s too fancy for anything else, especially coming from Tony. That means only one thing. Just my fucking luck. Apparently, the universe wants to kick me when I’m at rock bottom.

When I left Harbor Highlands, my brother was with the one girl who should have been mine. The heaviness in my chest intensifies. Add another dagger to my heart to match the one in my gut. My brother is getting married… to my girl. My gaze shoots to the left. Georgia LaBelle. Wait. It’s not Dessa. He’s not marrying Dessa.

I rip open the flap and check the date. December third. My brother is getting married in a little over a week. Most importantly, he’s not marrying Dessa. It’s been ten years since I’ve been back home. It’s been just as long since I’ve spoken to her, but no matter how hard I fight it, she’s always a recurring presence in my dreams, especially as of late. While I couldn’t catch the ball to win the championship, maybe I can finally catch the girl. The one who should have been mine all those years ago. Time to go back to Harbor Highlands. Alright universe, it’s one-one. Tied game.

After booking my flight, I spend the next two days ignoring everyone outside my condo. The entire city is still upset, or a lot upset, with me. Perhaps getting out of Seattle is exactly what I need. It will give everyone time to cool off. In the meantime, maybe there will be a football scandal to take the heat off me. I can only hope.

I pull into the driveway of my parents’ house, the tires leaving tread impressions in the light dusting of snow before I park my rental car. Winter is ready to make her appearance. It may have been ten years since I’ve been back here, but not that long since I’ve seen my parents. Every year I send them round-trip tickets to visit me in Seattle. At least I don’t have the guilt trip of never seeing them hanging over my head.

As soon as I push through the front door, voices echo down the hallway from the kitchen. Memories of my childhood flood through my mind. No matter how long I’ve been gone, the sweet scent of lavender will always remind me of home. I toe off my shoes and stroll towardthe sound, not fully prepared for what I’m getting myself into since no one knows I’m coming.

My brother, Tony, comes into view first. We both have a similar build: broad shoulders, over six feet, though I have a few inches on him. But that’s where the similarities end. His hair is lighter than my dark brown and instead of green eyes like mine, he has brown.

“Holy shit! Look what the cat dragged in.” Tony rounds the corner of the kitchen island and wraps his arms around me in a half hug, half back pat. “What are you doing here?”

“I hear there’s a wedding.” I wrap an arm around his shoulder and return the back pat. Growing up, we were close not only in age, with him being a year older than me, but our relationship. We played all the same sports, so we were constantly either practicing or playing with each other. We were competitive, but that only drove us to be better, to try harder. At least, it did for me. All that changed the summer leading into my senior year of high school, when it was no longer about the sport.

“You’re a little early. There’s still a week to go,” Tony says.

“I needed to get out of Seattle for a while.” But mostly I want to see Dessa.

“Truth be told, I never actually thought you’d show.” He laughs, then glances around the empty room. “Alright, who had Garrett coming to the wedding on their BINGO card?” When his gaze falls to me, his smile falters. “Just joking. We didn’t place bets. But I’m glad we didn’t because I would’ve lost.” He nudges me with his elbow.

“If my team had won the championship, it might be a different story.” I shrug.

“I saw that.” He clasps my shoulder. “That’s rough. You win some. You lose some. I’m sure you’ll get them nextyear.” He flashes me a half smile. It’s cocky and condescending and I wonder if he’s even referring to the game anymore.

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