Epilogue
Hayes
Three Years Later
A cool fall breeze ruffles through my hair as the orange and red leaves flutter on their branches above our heads.
Colleen and I walk hand in hand through the park, one we often frequent because it’s just around the corner from the four-bedroom colonial we bought. The house is a bit of a fixer-upper, but with all the time on my hands, I promised her I’d fix it up just the way she wants. Plus, we’re not much for the McMansions on the outskirts of town. So far, I’ve tackled the kitchen, master bath, and wrap-around porch by myself, and I have to say my handiwork is pretty damn good. Sports Illustrated even called and asked if they could do a feature on my DIY career after retirement.
Re-gripping her left hand so that I can hold it better, I feel the brush of her diamond against the skin of my fingers. Every time that happens, my heart gives a little tug. I still can’t believe this woman is my wife, that out of the drama and scandal our relationship started with, we made it down the aisle.
As I study her side profile, my stomach drops in the exact same way it did all those years ago, when I saw her for the first time. She’s every bit as gorgeous, as elegant, but there is a confidence in her now that just does it for me. With a couple more years’ experience under her belt as general manager of the Pistons, she’s grown into an even more dominant professional powerhouse. The team is headed for the playoffs for the fourth year in a row, much in part to Colleen.
Right now, however, she looks like she might throw up or run back to the car.
“Remember, this is just a meet and greet. No pressure, we just talk to some of the children. This is as much an interview for us as it is for them. You don’t have to be nervous, babe.”
I try to give Colleen a reassuring smile, but I’m walking on eggshells myself. I’ve been on the other side of this, these picnics in the park that the social workers make seem like they’re supposed to be fun. When really, it’s a buffet for foster and adoptive parents to select the most prized pig. Or at least that’s how I saw it back then.
Before we got married six months ago, the woman I love admitted to me that she wasn’t sure she wanted kids. That the idea of a family felt nice in her head, but she hadn’t had a traditional one. Neither had I, and we both worried that we couldn’t properly love or assimilate to what a nuclear family should be. With that in mind, on both of our ends, we decided to hold off on kids. We could enjoy our marriage, we’re both relatively young. If we decided that one day, having a baby was what we wanted, then we could figure it out together at that point.
But it struck me after we got back from our two-week honeymoon in Bora Bora; the reason I personally wasn’t one hundred percent on board to make a baby was that I’d grown up my whole life seeing kids who desperately needed a home. Colleen attended one of my foster charity events with me, and in the car afterward, I’d expressed how much I thought we should adopt.
Even though I could sense her nerves every time we talked about it, she agreed to start the process. And now, we were at a match day to see if there were any children we could bring into our home and care for. Then, later down the line, possibly adopt.
“I just … this is all so new. It feels like a huge step. I’m excited, but it’s a lot, Hayes,” she says quietly, biting at her lip.
Stopping our progress, I turn her to face me. “No matter what you might believe, you’re going to be an excellent mother. If we find a child who matches well and who we could see loving and caring for. Like I said, there is no pressure. I’m scared, too, of course this is a huge leap for both of us. But we have a lot to offer, and I think we could really do some good for a child in need.”
She nods emphatically, because that part I know she’s on board for. I also know, because she’s whispered it to me in the dark of the night, that she doesn’t want to become her mother. I’m not sure how else I can tell her that there is no way she’ll ever become that woman, that she never was her, except to let her actions with a foster child speak for themselves. When this next chapter of our life begins, I know she’ll be even better at it than I am.
“I love you. Thanks for always talking me down.” She smiles, and I pull her in for a hug. “I’m glad we’re trying to become parents this way, though. It feels so much … more, if that makes sense.”
To a lot of other people it might not, but it does to me. “I feel the same way.”
We keep walking, the sound of children running and playing getting louder as we near a bunch of picnic tables with balloons and food. Most of the park-goers wear puffed vests or heavy sweaters. Chunky boots abound, and my own Timberlands feel foreign on my feet. Even after living in Packton, Pennsylvania for the majority of four years, I haven’t quite adjusted to the cooler months. But I’m coming around to it, especially when Colleen has a free day and we head to the mountains to ski. As a California boy, I still drag her there whenever I can, and we kept the house in Malibu as a landing spot on the West Coast.
There were more than a fair share of articles that came out after I retired claiming the rumors were correct all along; that I wouldn’t settle down or have a family until my baseball career was done. I guess they were technically right, but they didn’t have the whole story. I chose this woman over a sport, over anything, and that’s why my career came to an end. I would make the same decision a million times over, given the chance again.
Especially since it’s led me to where I am now. Married, in love, looking to start a family, remodeling a house and working with my hands. It feels good to build something and watch that hard work come to life. But it’s not all I’m doing. I also volunteer way more than I used to, something that fills me with immense joy and pride. And Walker and I have started a youth baseball clinic in the area, now that he’s a father. Getting back to the basics of the sport I love, watching the glee fill those kids at catching a ball or hitting it down the line, that’s better than any championship I’ve won.
As I said, Colleen is killing the game, too. She’s been highly touted as one of the most progressive and innovative general managers in a long time. Her team is prospering, the organization itself is making more money than they ever have, and she’s managed to, finally, gain the respect of her uncle and the rest of her family … even if it is grudgingly so.
Her father got out of prison a year after my retirement and has been banned by the league and his family. He’s tried, in vain, to contact Colleen a couple of times. She’s never broken on her vow not to see or communicate with him. It would do her no good, and a man that narcissistic would only bring more pain and doubt to her mental health. Jimmy Callahan had a few interviews and paid spreads after his release, but has since faded off into nothingness. He’s barely even mentioned in baseball circles anymore. I’m sure that fucks with him more than anything, so he’s getting what he deserves.
Colleen begins to giggle just before we can walk up to the organizers and check in.
“What is it?” I say, amused.
She turns to me, her eyes twinkling. “I just thought of what a DILF you’re going to be.”