Left Field Love
: Chapter 4

There’s already a figure sitting on the bleachers when I hop over the gate onto the far edge of the baseball field.

My stomach sinks as I walk across the brown grass. I was confident—certain—he wouldn’t show.

“You’re early.” I state the obvious as I take a seat one row below Caleb on the hard metal. I’m not sure what else to say to him.

The metal bleachers are the same temperature as the early morning air. I shiver as I sit, glad I bundled up in extra layers. The first streaks of sunrise are only just beginning to creep across the horizon; nowhere near powerful enough to warm the metal.

“So are you,” Caleb observes. His words are casual, just like his stance. He’s slouched between two of the risers, and the brim of his baseball cap is pulled low, masking most of his face. “Hoping to wrap this up early so you can leave for your Arctic expedition?”

I roll my eyes, and he gives me one of his rare, genuine grins.

Maybe it’s the time. I’m not used to interacting with other people this early, and I haven’t had time to raise the protective shield that’s fully in place by the time I arrive at school. I’m uncharacteristically honest with him. “I was going to leave at 5:31,” I admit.

Caleb chuckles. “Why do you think I showed up early, Matthews?”

“I’m offended you think so little of me.” I’m not; I’m surprised he predicted I’d try to get out of this again, and that he made certain I wouldn’t be able to.

“You already admitted to it, Lennon. No need for the fake indignation.”

Ordinarily, it’s a comment I’d bristle in response to, but Caleb’s voice isn’t mocking. It’s matter-of-fact.

“Let’s get started,” I say, biting back the sarcastic comment I have ready.

Despite the chilly temperature and early hour, Caleb actually seems to be in a decent mood. Pissing him off is probably not the best way to get this over with quickly and painlessly.

Caleb doesn’t say anything, which I take as an agreement. “Where do you want to play next year?”

“Pass.”

“You can’t pass on an interview question.”

“I just did,” Caleb retorts.

I grit my teeth. So much for a decent mood. “I can’t write an article about ‘pass,’ Caleb.”

“Then ask a different question.”

I exhale, loudly enough for him to hear. “Fine. What’s your favorite thing about playing baseball?”

Caleb’s blue eyes swim with humor. “That’s your second question?”

“I’m not the freaking sportswriter. I don’t know anything about baseball. What do you want me to ask you?”

Caleb scoffs, but the exasperated sound doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s still amused. “I’m good,” he states.

“What?”

“You asked me what my favorite thing about playing is. I’m good.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Between that answer and “pass,” I’m picturing this article stretching about two lines.

“It’s the one thing I never have to think about,” Caleb continues. “When I’m out on the mound, everything is simple and straightforward. Throw the ball as fast as I can to the spot where it needs to go. Yeah, we practice a ton, and I’ve had great coaches, but I’ve always been good at it. Technically, baseball is a team sport. But when I’m pitching, it’s all on me. It’s the one thing that clicks, you know?”

A snarky response is waiting on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t voice it. Maybe I have some sense of what he’s talking about. There are moments, when I see an A on a paper or am galloping around the practice track, that I feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be, doing what I’m supposed to be doing. But more often than not, I feel like I’m too busy doing exactly what’s expected to explore anything else. To replace that sense of belonging Caleb’s describing.

Maybe because I’ve grown up in this town that’s intent on driving my family out.

I clear my throat and move on to the next question on the list. I’ve read all of Simon’s past sports articles. Almost every one of the athlete interviews he’s done have been verbatim retellings of the conversation, printed in question-and-answer format.

That’s not going to work for my conversation with Caleb, for obvious reasons. My best bet is to keep Caleb talking and hope he gives me enough information I can cobble together for a decent story. Commenting about how, of course, throwing a baseball seems simple and straightforward probably won’t help.

I ask Caleb about his first baseball game (he won), his pregame rituals (according to him, he has none), and his favorite game he’s played in (quarterfinal junior year).

I sigh. “I’m out of questions,” I admit.

Rather than look irritated, Caleb appears entertained. “I’m flattered you over-prepared.”

My eyes narrow. “This was kind of short notice. I’ve never covered sports, and Simon and Julie didn’t exactly have helpful suggestions.”

Caleb leans back against the bleachers again, looking intrigued. “What were their suggestions?”

“Simon sent me some bullet points with a lot of abbreviations in them. Julie wants to know if you’re single.”

“Did you look up the abbreviations?” Caleb asks, disregarding my second sentence.

“Of course. His questions still didn’t make any sense.” I sniff. Although I did research them while trying to both tie my sneakers and eat breakfast.

“To you,” Caleb surmises with a smirk.

“To me,” I concede. “Plus, I figured anyone who truly cares about an RBI or a WHIP would know where to look that up.”

Caleb laughs, and the husky warmth of it somehow infiltrates the three layers I’m wearing. “Probably true.” He stands and pulls on his backpack. “You coming?”

“What? Where?”

“To the library. I can’t sit on these bleachers anymore. It’s a miracle anyone watches our entire games.”

I stand and stretch. “Uh, yeah, I guess.” That’s exactly where I was planning to go, but I’m wary of spending any more time with Caleb alone. I doubt anyone but Mr. Gibbs will be there this early. I don’t have a better option, though, so I climb down after him.

We walk side by side along the deserted sidewalk, and it’s incredibly bizarre. I’m hyperaware of everything: the thump of my heavy backpack, the slap of my sneakers against the pavement, the rapid pounding of my heart. The back of my hand brushes Caleb’s once, accidentally. I snatch it back, cheeks burning as I keep my eyes aimed straight ahead.

We’re almost to the front doors when Caleb speaks. “I am, by the way.”

“What?” I glance at him. He’s focused on the brick building we’re approaching. It’s an imposing facade better suited for a university than a public high school, complete with columns and framed windows. Landry doesn’t do anything in half-measures.

“Single.” Caleb glances over at me, his indifferent expression becoming a smirk, probably in response to the confused expression I can feel wrinkling my brow. “You said someone asked.”

“Someone?” For whatever reason, that’s the word I focus on. Maybe because I’m weirdly…relieved that’s his answer. “I just told you her name is Julie.”

Caleb looks amused by my response. “Fine, Julie asked.”

“You only bother to learn girls’ names if they’re popular?” I snap.

Suddenly, I feel like I’m witnessing this conversation from a distance, watching what will come next but unable to stop it. Around most people I think, then react. Around Caleb I react, then double down.

Caleb reaches out and pulls open one of the four front doors, gesturing for me to walk in first. I stalk through the opening, annoyed at him for being nice to me when I’m not being nice to him for essentially no reason. This is the worst possible time for him to try being a gentleman.

He catches up to me easily. “I know your name. And popular isn’t exactly the first adjective that comes to mind.”

I should probably be affronted, but I know he’s right. I doubt a single person in Landry would consider me popular. I’m being ridiculous but am too stubborn to admit it. And wondering what adjective does come to mind.

“What an honor,” I mutter before marching into the front office to sign the early arrival sheet.

The school secretary blinks sleepily as she looks up from her steaming mug of coffee.

“Good morning,” she greets us.

“Good morning.”

I wonder if I’d be standing here with Caleb if I’d showed up to this office the first day of freshman year after he’d already left. I quickly block the thought. Too many tiny moments have determined major parts of my life. It’s easier to think we were destined to spend high school arguing no matter what.

I lean over the desk to sign my name, then step back so Caleb can do the same. The secretary’s eyes bounce back and forth between the two of us. I’ve never shown up this early to school. I’m usually running late after rushing through the morning chores. Maybe she doesn’t even recognize me, since I’m no longer a gangly freshman. Maybe she’s staring because she’s as enamored with Caleb as the rest of the town.

The only sound in the small office is the pen scratching against paper as Caleb signs his name. As soon as I hear the sound stop, I head toward the door that leads into the school hallway, pushing the metal bar to fling the glass door open. Unlike the last time I left this room with Caleb Winters behind me, I don’t drop the door on him. But as soon as I feel him start to hold the weight, I lower my hand.

“You think she remembers us?”

I glance at Caleb, surprised and somewhat alarmed to realize we were both thinking the same thing. It suggests a familiarity I didn’t think we shared. “Remembers what?”

He grins, likes he knows I’m only feigning forgetfulness. “The day we met.”

Not the first day of freshman year.

Not the day I got him lost.

The day we met.

“You’re hard to forget.” As soon as the words are out, I wish I could shove them back into my mouth.

“I didn’t think you knew what a compliment was, Matthews.”

“I didn’t say it was a good thing, Winters.”

We reach the library with an uneasy truce hanging between us. As expected, Mr. Gibbs is the only person in sight. He gives me the same nod of greeting as every other time I’ve entered this library before turning back to whatever book he’s reading.

I head straight toward my usual table. Caleb follows, taking the seat across from me as I pull out the study guide I made for my Oceanography test.

I’m shocked he’s sitting with me. It’s not like there aren’t other seats available. But I try not to show it. I focus on my notes instead.

Motion across the table draws my attention back to Caleb. I watch him pull a binder out of his backpack and begin flipping through the pages.

My gaze drops back down to my own papers, but I glance up again just a few minutes later.

Caleb is attractive. I’ve always known that. I’ve heard the admiring whispers when he walks down the hall. But I don’t typically allow myself to focus on the way his dark hair falls across his forehead or to think about how straight the line of his jaw is when we’re arguing. Unfortunately, there’s nothing to distract me from either of those things in the silent, empty library.

Except for the blaze of embarrassment when he glances up and catches me staring at him. “What?” he whispers, looking at me curiously.

“Nothing,” I reply hastily, dropping my eyes back down to the study guide in front of me.

I don’t let my eyes wander again until the first bell rings, signaling the start of homeroom in five minutes. I continue to avoid looking at Caleb as I pack up my belongings and stand.

Based on the shuffling sounds coming from the opposite side of the table, he’s doing the same.

“I’ll do the interview with Simon, if you want.”

“What?” I freeze, then glance at Caleb. It’s not what I expected him to say. And, I’m surprised to realize, not something I’m thrilled to hear.

“I’ll do the interview with Simon. If you want me to,” he repeats.

“Is that what you want?” I ask.

“After everything it took to get you to agree to do it in the first place?” Caleb raises a brow as he looks at me expectantly.

And I have a stroke. Or a brain freeze. Or some other impediment that stops me from telling Caleb there’s nothing else I’d love more than not having to write an article about him.

“I’ll talk to Simon…and get some better questions for a follow-up interview,” I tell Caleb as we walk out the doors from the library.

I’m not a quitter.

The hallways aren’t crowded, but other students are trickling in, and we attract more than a few double takes as people pass us by.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll see you in English,” I say as we linger just outside the library doors.

Something between me and Caleb suddenly feels tenuous. Off-kilter. The easy annoyance that’s always hovered between us has vanished.

Caleb opens his mouth to reply.

“Lennon!” I turn to see Will walking down the hallway in our direction. “Morning,” he greets cheerfully, grinning at me.

“Hey, Will.” I smile back.

Will seems to notice who I’m standing with for the first time. “Hey, Winters,” he greets, a hint of surprise in his voice.

“Masterson,” Caleb replies, sounding bored. “I’ll see you later, Lennon.”

I give him a quick, jerky nod. “Bye, Caleb.”

It seems like something shifts in his expression, but he turns and heads in the opposite direction before I have enough time to study it.

“I didn’t think you and Caleb got along,” Will remarks, studying Caleb’s retreating back with a look of confusion.

“We don’t. I have to write an article on him for the paper.”

“Oh,” Will says. After a moment he adds, “I didn’t know you covered sports.”

“I don’t,” I state, with a fair bit of irritation in my voice.

“Okay…” Will replies, obviously looking for more of an explanation.

“It’s a long story,” I tell him. That I could have just ended and didn’t for a reason that eludes me.

“Your article isn’t due tomorrow, is it?”

“No. Why?” I ask.

“Marcus is having a party tonight to celebrate our win yesterday. I was hoping you might want to go, since you were one of the few people who bothered to actually come to the game.”

“Oh.” I start to form a refusal automatically, but then stop to reconsider. Maybe Cassie’s right. What could the harm be? “Yeah, sure,” I say instead. “Is it okay if I bring Cassie?”

“Of course. Do you want me to pick you up or meet you there?”

“We’ll meet you there. I know where Marcus lives.”

“Cool. See you then,” Will says, before continuing down the hallway.

I start in the opposite direction, quickening my pace when the warning bell echoes around me. Thankfully, my homeroom is a quick trip down the hall and to the right. I drop into my usual seat next to Cassie just as the final bell rings.

The morning announcements boom overhead, but I don’t listen to what is being said. I lean over as far as the small desk will allow.

“I need you to go to a party with me tonight,” I whisper to Cassie.

She turns to me, her brown eyes full of surprise. “What?”

“I saw Will on my way here. He invited me to a party tonight, and I need you to go with me. Please.”

“Of course I’ll go with you. We can—” The announcements end and attendance starts. “We’ll talk at lunch,” Cassie says, then leans back in her chair.

The rest of the day passes quickly. Mr. Tanner’s class is a lecture on literary devices for our upcoming papers, but we don’t separate into partners. I caught Caleb’s eye when I dropped our outline on Mr. Tanner’s desk, and he gave me a nod. That was it.

I head home straight after school ends, glad the paper doesn’t have a meeting today. I shirked on chores this morning since it was so outrageously early, and I rushed to ensure I’d beat Caleb to the field.

A wasted effort, in retrospect.

At lunch, Cassie made me promise I would come over after dinner to “prepare for the party.” I have no idea what that means. The last party I attended was a birthday party in middle school that definitely didn’t require two hours of preparation. Cassie insisted a couple of hours were necessary, though, and she was so enthused I couldn’t bring myself to tell her no.

I also have a feeling this will be my first and final high school party.

Might as well make the most of it.

Despite the chill in the January air, Gramps is sitting out on the front porch in one of the ancient rocking chairs when I get home. He looks up from the magazine he’s reading when the creaky steps announce my arrival.

“How was school, Lennie?” he asks, taking a sip from the mug set beside him.

“It was fine,” I reply. It’s my standard answer.

“You left awfully early this morning,” Gramps remarks.

“I had to work on something for the paper,” I tell him. “I’m heading back out to the barn to finish things up now.”

“Don’t worry about the feed bags. They were already moved.”

I shoot Gramps a hard look. “You didn’t.” Disapproval is heavy in my tone.

“No,” he responds, sounding disgruntled. “Tom stopped by earlier for a visit. He moved them.”

“Good.” I let out a sigh of relief. “Did he happen to say anything about those articles I sent him?”

Tom Stradwell owns the Landry Gazette, along with a host of other local papers, and is one of my grandfather’s oldest friends. He’s also my best chance at having something to do besides muck out stalls and clean tack in the fall.

“He liked them,” Gramps tells me, still sounding disgruntled. And disapproving. “Said to come see him in May if you’re still interested in some work.”

“Of course I’ll still be interested,” I stress. “I hope you made that clear.”

“Schools are still taking applications, Lennie.”

“Gramps, we’re not going through this again. You can’t take care of the farm yourself.”

“Then we need to sel—”

“We’re not selling the farm,” I state firmly. “This is your home. My home.”

“I just wish…” He lets his voice trail off.

“I know,” I mumble. Sometimes, I really hate my parents for the respective messes they left behind. “Look, lots of people take gap years. I’ll have more time to do things around the farm when I’m not in school. I can make some repairs, market the stallions better. We’ll have Stormy’s foal to sell. Maybe that’ll be enough for me to take some online classes, at least.”

Gramps opens his mouth with what I can already tell will be an argument, so I take evasive action. “I really need to get started on the chores. I’m headed to a party after dinner,” I inform him.

Sure enough, that tidbit derails him completely. “What?” Gramps looks stunned. Saying I don’t get out much is akin to suggesting Landry’s residents have a mild interest in horse racing.

“I’m going to a party tonight,” I repeat. “I mean, as long as that’s okay?”

“I—yeah, of course,” Gramps fumbles. In addition to the surprising flicker of activity in my sad social life, he’s also thrown by me asking permission. Our relationship is usually defined by me taking care of him.

“All right, then.” I take advantage of his lingering shock to slip inside the empty house.

Rather than dump my backpack in the kitchen like usual, I carry it upstairs with me so I can change out of my jeans and sweatshirt into rattier jeans and a dirty sweatshirt. I typically don’t bother changing on Fridays, since Saturday is the designated laundry day, but I don’t really want to show up to the party smelling like manure and covered with horsehair.

By the time I finish all the barn chores and exercise Gallie, it’s pitch black out and I’m starving. I finish brushing down the massive black stallion and head inside, happy to see dinner is already waiting on the table.

Whispers of steam rise from the freshly cooked burgers. I eagerly lather plenty of ketchup and mustard onto the warm bun before delving into my food. Some of Gramps’s culinary creations are questionable, but his burgers are always good.

Gramps surveys me curiously as I eat. “You’re hungry tonight.”

“It was Gallie’s day,” I explain. The youngest of our remaining seven horses, Sir Galahad is feisty on a good day. Like all of them, he should really be ridden more than twice a week, but my schedule is already stretched trying to accommodate two rides a day. Exercising Gallie is like trying to stay aboard a rocket ship. He was born when I was in fifth grade, and won every race he entered, just before my dad died and everything really fell apart. Gallie’s stud fees are our main source of income these days.

Gramps shoos me away from doing the dishes after supper, so I head upstairs to change back into what I wore to school. I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror attached to the back of my door, trying to see myself the way a stranger would.

My hair is my best feature. It’s thick and straight, and thanks to a lack of any recent haircut, hangs almost to my mid-back. Ordinarily it’s a mundane shade of light brown, but in the sun I have coppery highlights that emphasize the green in my hazel eyes.

Right now, in the artificial light cast by the lamp on my dresser, it’s difficult to replace anything remotely special about my appearance. My brown color is boring and my eye color is overshadowed by the dark circles beneath my eyes. The sweatshirt I’m wearing hangs loosely around my thin frame, jumbling what few curves I have.

I walk over to my closet, swinging the slightly ajar door fully open so I can peer at the contents. There are only a few hanging items to flip through. A jean jacket, which is out because I’m already wearing denim, a sweater that shrunk last winter, my rain jacket, and a navy blouse. I actually like the blouse a lot, but it’s entirely unsuitable for January.

Sighing, I close the door and resign myself to my current outfit. I’ll be wearing a coat over it, anyway.

I head back downstairs. Gramps is still in the kitchen, finishing up the dinner dishes. He looks up when I enter the room.

“Okay, I’m going to head out,” I tell him. “I’ve got my cell. Call if you need anything, all right?” I hesitate. I’m gone all day to school, but hardly ever at night. What if he needs something? What if…

Gramps reads the uncertainty on my face. “I’ll be fine, Lennie. Won’t ride one of the stallions or move any hay bales. Just a Jays game and bed for this old man.” He grins, and it creases the skin around his eyes, the exact same shade as mine. Even when his face relaxes, the lines remain, the folds firmly etched in his face after decades of squinting in the sun at horses galloping by. His expression sobers, and his voice gains a bit more authority. “Go have some fun, all right?”

I nod reluctantly and head out into the chilly evening.