Page 4 of Make My Heart Malt

Losing that game was a tough pill to swallow. Even after three weeks, it still stings as if it happened yesterday. The replay constantly runs on a time loop in my head without the added help from the replays on TV.

The runner was rounding third, coming straight at me. I took my eye off the ball for a fraction of a second. The ball was soaring in the air straight toward my glove but tipped the edge, ricocheting off to the side, and Minnesota scored the winning run.

“Either way, I’m glad you could make it. It’s good to see you.”

I’d like to think he’s telling the truth, but the wretched stench of bullshit wafts around from a mile away, especially his.

“Likewise.” Mostly because I know he’s not marrying Dessa. If it was her name on that invite, there’s no way in hell I’d subject myself to that kind of torture.

“Since I didn’t know you were actually going to show, I don’t really have a spot for you in the bridal party.” Tony shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels.

“Is that my baby boy?!” My mom’s voice carries through the entire house until she comes into view through the arched doorway between the living room and the kitchen. There’s a possibility the neighbors down the street heard her as well. “I knew eventually you’d come home.”

Her voice is like a ray of sunshine, and her smile is just as bright. She wraps her arms around me in a big hug. It’s the type of hug that engulfs you, reminds you of home, and lets you know everything is right in the world. I rest my chin on the top of her head as I wrap my arms around her shoulders.

“It’s so good to have you here,” she mumbles against my chest. “If I’d known you were coming, I would have postponed Thanksgiving a couple of days.” She breaks away from our hug. Her smile even brighter than before.

Living in Seattle has been a perk for not joining in on family festive holidays. I always conjured up some excuse so I wouldn’t have to see Tony and Dessa together. Do I feel like a terrible son for missing holidays? A little. But I had to do it for my own sanity. I shove my hands into my pockets.

“Now that Tony and Georgia are in town permanently, since Tony got a coaching position with the Harbor Highland Agates, maybe there can be more family holidays together.” Mom’s gaze dances between Tony and me, waiting for confirmation from either of us.

Instead, I deflect to avoid any more talk about family time. “The Agates… Aren’t they an amateur baseball team? They play in the collegiate summer baseball league,” I ask.

“They are.” Tony squares is shoulders, puffing out his chest.

I nod. Tony didn’t have the skills or discipline to go pro. I hope he’s better at coaching, otherwise, I’ll feel sorry for the players.

A few seconds later my dad and a woman who’s about the same height, hair color, and figure as Dessa stroll into the kitchen. She stops next to Tony, and he wraps his arm around her shoulder. If I had to guess, this is his bride-to-be.

“Georgia, this is my brother, Garrett.” His sharp gaze connects with mine. “Garrett, this is my soon-to-be-wife, Georgia LaBelle. Her family owns the LaBelle Hotel chain.”

“That’s my father’s business. Not mine. Plus, soon I’ll be a Dawson,” she corrects while smiling at Tony.

I hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to finally meet the Home Run Playboy.” She winks. Her hand is soft against mine.

I inwardly cringe at the nickname the fans and tabloids have given me. “The home run part is true. I don’t know so much about the playboy though.”

Last year, I had my best season with sixty-two home runs, most ever by a catcher. Ever since then, the tabloids coined me the Home Run Playboy. Living my best single life aided in the nickname.

“Weren’t you dating that supermodel from Brazil?” Georgia taps her chin.

“Dating” is a far stretch. More like we enjoyed each other’s company on and off for six months. If I needed a date to an event, she’d come with me and vice versa. It was more of an arrangement that often included sex. “We went to a couple of events together. Nothing serious,” I say.

“Oh. Okay. I hope you’ll be staying for the wedding.” She steals a glance at Tony, who’s glaring at me.

“That’s the plan.” I shove my hands into my pockets. Even though it’s not the entire plan. It’s more like an excuse for the plan.

My mom brushes the wrinkles out of my shirt. “I wish I would have known. I could have gotten your old bedroom put together with clean sheets.”

“Along with your shrine of greatness,” Tony mutters, but not quite loud enough for everyone not to hear.

“Don’t worry about that. I got a hotel room.” I wave her off.

“Nonsense. Your bedroom is still upstairs. Cancel your room and give me five minutes. I’ll get it ready for you.”Without another chance to argue, my mom is out of the kitchen and halfway up the stairs.

“Good to see you, son.” My dad squeezes me on the shoulder. “Sorry about the loss.”

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