It whizzes toward home plate, the angle on it too good for the batter not to swing. He does, and with a crack, I see it go flying.
The ball is driven in a line straight for me, and it’s one of those tricky bat plays where it could zoom right past my ear if I wasn’t a more experienced shortstop. But my reflexes are honed from years of playing and drills, preparing for this exact moment. I shoot out, my glove extended, and it’s like the world comes to a halt. The red stitches on the white ball tumble in slow motion, and my fingers tingle with anticipation.
Force, hard and stinging, hits my glove as I try to hang onto the ball and make the last out. I topple over my feet, rolling into a backward roll awkwardly on the infield. But when I finally come to a sitting stop, I hold my glove up, the baseball securely in it.
A roar goes up from the crowd, some of it celebratory but most of it pissed off and frustrated. After all, we’re in New York territory. It’s close enough that there are Packton fans here, but the majority of the people in the stands wish we’d have lost. Which is why we don’t stay on the field long, and huddle together as we head for the dugout.
“Good game, dude.” Jimenez high fives me. “That catch was epic! And the triple in the fourth? Crucial for us, bro.”
“Thanks, man. You weren’t so shabby yourself.” I give him a congratulatory nod. “A homer in the eighth? You’re batting average is pretty damn good.”
“Just trying to set records, my brother.” He flexes a bicep.
The team shakes hands with New York, and then heads for the visitor locker room. We shower, a lot of whoops and big egos all in the same space. Coach gives us a wrap up pep talk, since we swept this series, and then tells us to go enjoy ourselves, albeit responsibly.
“You staying here for the night? A couple of guys were going to go to the cigar bar down the street,” Clark offers as we dress in our suits and ties after the showers.
I shake my head. “Have to get back for one of Sin’s meetings.”
I never stay on the road anymore if I don’t have to. Since the drive is only about three hours home to Packton, I drive myself, leaving the team to their spoils and celebrations in the Big Apple.
“You’ve got a savior complex, that’s for sure.” Clark snorts under his breath.
My temper spikes, and I want to get defensive, but I’m too tired to argue. None of these players understand the pressure on me. Yes, they’re in the same boat when it comes to expectations about the game and their conduct, the way they handle fame. But they just get to worry about their playing careers. I have the freaking owner, who just happens to be my father, on my back about my next chapter, and I’m not even halfway through my first one.
Plus, it’s been three months since Sinclair’s accident, and I still don’t feel like my head is on straight. My brother has had some lingering problem from the accident; an infection when his ribs didn’t heal correctly, and his stubbornness about seeking treatment for his alcoholism. I’ve had to be on him for weeks now, but my conscience won’t allow me to do anything else. My inattentiveness is what landed us in this situation, and I won’t let myself slip again.
It’s also been three months since I’ve seen Hannah, or the girls. After what happened with Shane the night of Sinclair’s accident, he was sent to jail for twenty-something days for violating the restraining order. More charges were added to his case, and his lawyers advised him to end up taking the deal the prosecutor originally offered.
Therefore, I never had to testify at the trial, because there wasn’t one. On one hand, I was glad Hannah didn’t have to go through that. Even from a distance, I’d heard from Colleen that she was relieved. But it would have been my first opportunity to see her.
Yes, I’m the one who ended it. And I hate myself for it every single day. But with how well my brother is doing, I can’t say it wasn’t for a good reason. The trial would have been my excuse to assess how she’s doing, to possibly talk to her. To apologize.
My date for testifying would have been a few weeks after that fucking horrible night, and I thought that maybe I could … I don’t know. Talk to Hannah, tell her how much of an idiot I was. Tell her how badly I fucking miss her, and that my heart is broken beyond repair.
But the date never came. And I chickened out. It’s easier to keep my distance, to convince myself that this is what is best for both of us. Inside, I’m dying, a rotting mess of heartbreak and patheticness.
What I said to Hannah was what I feel, though. How am I supposed to take care of her, and her daughters, if I can’t even get a handle on my own family? There is so much more delicacy with her and the girls, so much more to lose. I’ve never been one to shy away from risk or danger, but something snapped that night I saw Sinclair in a coma.
And I’m not sure I’ll ever be the same.
I drive home from the game in the shroud of a dark night, at least getting some solitude on the empty roads with nothing but my windows down and the radio on. Tomorrow it’s back to the grind; my day starts with an Al-Anon meeting with my mom, brother, and father. We’ve been attending them together, trying to be there for Sinclair.
Other than that, I’ve been bending to my father’s will. Board meetings, corporate events, sponsorship opportunities; if there is a place for me at a conference room table, you better believe Daniel Callahan is adding me to the list. And I haven’t exactly been telling him no. What else am I supposed to do?
I shucked duty and responsibility once, tried to pass off the buck and take my own happiness into account. That almost ended with my brother dying.
So it’s back to the status quo of things. I would be the best damn Callahan I could be.
Even if I have to give up everything I want to do so.
31
Hannah
“To bastards being in jail!”
Dahlia holds up her wineglass, clinking it to ours.
“To divorces being almost finalized!” Colleen looks at me with glee.
I clink my glass, but shake my head with humor on my tongue. “Let’s not jinx this, please! And these are kind of morbid things to celebrate, no? The end of my marriage, and my husband in jail? Seems a bit tacky to party about those outcomes.”
My sister shrugs. “You’ve been through hell and back, I think that should be fucking written up on billboards and shouted from the rooftops.”
I take a sip of my Cabernet. “Hmm, maybe you’re right. It doesn’t quite feel like the chains are off, but they are definitely unlocked.”
The three of us sit on the living room carpet of my condo, which Colleen is still helping to foot the bill for, so technically I guess it’s her rental. That won’t be for long, though, if everything goes off without a hitch.
It does feel strange, celebrating that my soon-to-be ex-husband is sitting in a prison right now. But I can’t feel anything but relief or something close to contentment about it. For close to six years, Shane Giraldi abused me. He hit me, slapped me, pinched my skin, and left welts. He broke fingers, destroyed my self-esteem, and made love a toxic thing. And now, finally, he’s getting the karma he deserves.
Shane originally got twenty-six days in jail for violating the restraining order I initially filed for, and for harming one of our children. Breanna is a minor, and charges of child battery and child endangerment were added to the criminal trial, along with the original domestic violence charges. With all of those odds stacked against him, a guilty verdict is pretty much insurmountable. Or at least Laurel, the prosecutor, assumes that because Shane’s lawyers ended up taking the plea deal she offered.