Page 8 of Make My Heart Malt

By the third inning, we’re down three to one. Garrett steps out from the dugout wearing white baseball pants and a red jersey with a white number seven stitched below the Trojans name. He casually swings the bat back and forth, loosening up. I scream his name and clap. He glances up and flashes me a half smirk.

“Hit a tater!” I yell.

Before he reaches the batter’s box, he halts in his tracks, tilts his head, and shrugs. I laugh and shrug mine as well. He steps up to the plate and gets into position. The pitcher winds up and throws a curveball to the outside. Garrett holds his swing. He has a knack for gauging the perfect pitch. The umpire calls a ball. Garrett takes a step back, rolling his shoulders before stepping to the plate again. A cloud of dust floats through the air as he plants his foot. With his concentration aimed at the pitch he waits like a cat stalking their prey. The pitcher winds up and throws the ball. He swings. A crack resonates across the field as the ball sails to center field and drops outside the fence. I jump to my feet, screaming and clapping, while Garrett rounds the bases. The Trojans came back to win eight to five.

After the game, I meet him outside the dugout to congratulate him on the win. I throw my arms around his neck and without missing a beat, he wraps an arm around my waist. “Congrats! And you got a home run!”

“Thanks.” He pulls off his sunglasses. His piercing green eyes stare back at mine. “What was the tater thing?”

I giggle. “I overheard some people talking about home runs being called taters and bases are sacks. I don’t know. I went with it.”

I drop my arms to my sides, but instead of letting me go Garrett wraps his arm around my shoulder. “I guess I’ll have to call you my Little Tater. Tates for short.”

My nostrils flare. “You don’t get to call me that anymore. You lost that privilege.” Anger roars through me like an EF-5 tornado. He can’t storm back into my life and expect everything to be rainbows and butterflies. Using my nickname from when we were kids doesn’t instantly make things better. What he did hurt. A lot. Maybe one day I can forgive him, but that day is not today.

I reach over to a customer’s table and, in a calm, hushed voice, I ask, “Can I borrow this? You can get a new one at the bar. Tell them it’s on Dessa.”

Before they can respond, I grab the glass of beer and hurl the liquid at Garrett. “No. It’s exactly what I think.”

He ducks, the bulk of the beer narrowly missing him, but a few droplets wet his shirt. His gaze drifts to mine. Amusement, not anger that I threw a beer at him, etches his features. “I see you haven’t been practicing your throw.”

Steam billows out as I flare my nostrils. I grab another customer’s glass and throw the beer at him. This time hitting him in the face. The golden liquid drips down, soaking into his white shirt. “The first is always practice.”

He wipes a hand over his face. “I deserve that one.”

I huff, spin around, and storm out of Porter’s. What happens when your hot as sin, former best friend, baseball-playing, ex-boyfriend’s brother barges back into your life, wanting to talk? You’re screwed. Royally and utterly screwed.

FIVE

YOU SMELL LIKE A BREWERY

Garrett

That could have gone better. On the plus side, it could have gone a lot worse. A beer to the face is a first for me so I can now happily cross that off my bucket list. In all actuality, I was expecting a fist instead of the beer. I haven’t said her nickname in years. I don’t know why I said it. The name tumbled out of my mouth faster than I was able to swallow the letters down. The real punch in the gut was her throwing my own words back at me. She once asked me why I rarely swing at the first pitch and I told her, “The first is always practice.” I’m glad after all these years, she never forgot. Perhaps all the hatred she has for me is a ruse. At least that's what I’m holding onto with both hands. Despite her venomous tone, she did talk to me. I’ll take that as a small victory. She has every right to hate me right now. What I did was shitty, but at the time I was hurting.The best thing for me to do was to cut ties and leave. All I ask is she give me a few minutes so I can explain everything to her. Preferably without glasses of beer present.

“Um. I’m not exactly sure what happened and how you know Dessa, but I’m a big fan. And not because of the missed ball or anything. You’re still an amazing player.” A guy with short brown hair and a Porter’s t-shirt holds out a white towel.

“Thanks.” I pluck it from his grasp and run it down my face and over my chest, absorbing what beer I can from my shirt.

“I take it she’s not thrilled to see you.” He takes the towel once I’m finished.

“Did the beer in the face give it away?”

“A little bit.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Lach.”

I grip his hand with mine. “Garrett. Thanks for the towel and sorry for the beer on the floor.”

“No problem. Not the first time. Can I get Seattle’s most hated guy a beer? I promise I won’t throw it in your face. I’m sure every person here will also happily buy you a beer since you gave Minnesota their first championship win.”

I exhale a bitter laugh because it’s all true. Seattle does hate me, and I did give Minnesota their first championship. The last one is the silver lining, I guess. As much as I would love to drown my sorrows in a cold pint of beer, I need to remain level-headed so I can draw up a game plan on how I’m going to get Dessa to talk to me since my first attempt failed. Truth be told, I didn’t have a plan, anyway. But what was I expecting, a hug and a hand job? Instead, I got a face full of beer, and it wasn’t even good beer. “Thanks, but maybe another time.”

After leaving Porter’s, I drive back to my parents’,mostly because I don’t have anywhere else to go. When I walk through the rear door that leads into the kitchen, my mom is at the counter plopping a spoonful of cookie dough onto a cookie sheet. As I pass by, I press a kiss to her cheek.

Her nose crinkles. “You smell like a brewery! Have you been drinking?” Her hands slap the table as she swivels to face me. “Please tell me you didn’t drive home.”

“No, and it’s a long story. Apparently, Dessa wasn’t as excited to see me as I was hoping.” I yank open the fridge door and pull out a bottle of water. Twisting off the cap, I swallow a big gulp. The sweet aroma of melted chocolate chips lingering in the air makes my stomach rumble.

Her shoulders sag before her eyes soften, a small smile gracing her lips. “She’ll come around. Just give her time.”

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