Page 121 of The Spring in My Heart

Hey, is there something I should know? Ayla doesn’t seem like herself.

I asked her if something was bothering her. She says no.

Bron is also hovering over her like a mother hen. And Suzie has been super nice to her…

I scrub a hand over my face.

Me

Yeah, we had a difficult conversation.

Her reply comes through quickly.

Winter

Ah, okay. Can I help? Hate seeing her like this.

I drive back to the construction site to deliver the new tub and the additional tiles. Then, I decide to stay to lend in some elbow grease. The damage had spread, and we had to remove the plaster and reframe the ceiling. I end up sweaty and dirty. I run out at two to head home and take a quick shower so I can make it to the game this afternoon. There’s no telling if the water that fell on us was from the tub or came from the toilet tank, so I want to be safe and clean. I throw the clothes in the washer and notice Ayla’s lucky socks on top of the dryer. I take them with me and put them on the bed then go jump in the shower.

I rush to the school, but I get stuck behind three school buses. The texts from Winter and Adri about Ayla light up my phone.

Winter

I think she must also have a bug or something. She looks a little green, but she begged me not to call you.

Adri

She doesn’t have a fever or anything, but her demeanor is definitely off.

I weave my way through traffic, but by the time I make it to the field, the team is already walking in.

I pat my pocket and realize that I left her lucky socks on top of my bed. Me cago en ná.

“It’s the perfect day for a game,” the school principal calls out.

I’ll take her word for it, because even with the warming weather and the bright sun, this day is bleak at best. I go stand next to Cam, who acknowledges me with a nod.

Twenty minutes of hell later, we stare at the field and back at each other.

In front of me, Ayla’s back is ramrod straight. She hasn’t looked at me directly once. And she’s getting lit up like the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree.

My ace, who always strikes out anything moving, has allowed four runs and has loaded the bases.

She winds up, her shoulder impossibly rigid. When she steps, her back leg barely leaves the ground. The ball shoots straight down the middle, a jumbo meatball the kid at the plate somehow manages to foul back.

Next to me, Cam wheezes out a breath. We look at each other. I’ve never seen this kind of strain between his eyes. The man who pitched a no-hitter, making it look like no-sweat, is sporting his anxiety heavily on his face.

“We need to pull her. She doesn’t have it today.”

I take one look onto the field, at the way A is twisting the ball in her hand, waiting for Cam’s nod to continue. And my chest squeezes when I shake my head at her, letting her know she won’t continue to pitch today. Her eyes don’t even widen, and her shoulders barely slump. She’s been expecting it. The hand holding the ball lowers. Yet, her chin shoots up.

And my heart shatters. Because she’s ready for me to pull her. She expects me to do it.

Is it because she thinks I want to? Does she realize how bad she’s pitched today? Does she think I don’t care? Worse, does she think I take pleasure in this? Or that it’s part of her punishment.

My stomach roils. Fuck this whole week.

“I can do it,” Cam offers.

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