Swing and a Mishap Read online

  Wren Bennett: That’s a lot to unpack in one message. I’m gonna need a minute.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: Oh, take your time. I’ve been stuck in here going on 40 minutes, and it doesn’t seem to be ending any time soon. This guy has a lot of stamina. I bet he takes Ginkgo Biloba supplements.

  Wren Bennett: 40 minutes???? You should probably check and make sure that poor woman is okay. She’ll never be able to use her jaw again.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: I’ll never be able to take a shit in a public restroom again.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: You know, if that’s what I was doing, but I totally wasn’t.

  Wren Bennett: I really hate tourists.

  Wren Bennett: No, I don’t; I take that back. They’re wonderful and buy enough ice cream to pay our bills. Uuugh… whatever! How’s your day going?

  Official Shepherd Oliver: Screw my day. What’s wrong? What happened?

  Wren Bennett: I just got yelled at for fifteen minutes, because I don’t have any ice cream that doesn’t taste like ice cream.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: I don’t even know how to reply to that statement.

  Wren Bennett: Yep. Exactly.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: What an asshole. Give me their name. I’ll talk to the guy at the field and have him splash it across the jumbotron right before a commercial break with the hashtag loseralert

  Wren Bennett: LOL! Thanks, but I’m good now. She finally left a few minutes ago, and I saw her walk into Hang Five Arcade, so I’m sure she’s currently complaining to them that they have too many arcade games.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: If she comes back, don’t say anything. Just give her a big thumbs-down and a frowny face.

  Wren Bennett: I don’t remember your customer service skills being so poor when you worked at the Dip and Twist in high school.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: Your mom would have kicked my ass if I got out of line back then. Also, I was but a young, dumb, teenage boy. I’m a man now, baby.

  Wren Bennett: Uh huh, sure. Do you still need me to help you pick out what shoes go with the outfit you planned on wearing to the charity benefit on Friday, big man?

  Official Shepherd Oliver: Look, there are a lot of rules in fashion, and I’ve been on too many best dressed lists to screw this up now.

  Wren Bennett: You were on ONE, and it was only because I told you to burn that purple suit you planned on wearing.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: I play for the Washington Hawks. Our uniform color is purple, and several members on the team got matching suits because #teamspirit

  Wren Bennett: If you wear an old, beat-up pair of Nikes with your tuxedo to A BLACK-TIE CHARITY EVENT, I will never speak to you again.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: See? Was that so hard? #bestdressed4ever

  Official Shepherd Oliver: I have something totally awesome and kick-ass to tell you, but I am really, really mad at you right now, and I’m never speaking to you again, so that has to come first.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: Did you hear me? Never speaking to you again, Wren Bennett.

  Wren Bennett: And yet, you’re still talking, Shepherd Oliver.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: Owen’s baseball team was $3,000 short of the funds they needed to play in the tournament finals in Myrtle Beach, and YOU DID NOT TELL ME OMG I AM SO MAD RIGHT NOW I COULD BREAK MY BAT OVER MY KNEE.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: But that would hurt and probably break my knee instead of the bat. WHATEVER I AM NEVER SPEAKING TO YOU AGAIN.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: Seriously, Wren. How could you not tell me they needed that money?

  Wren Bennett: You can’t even last five minutes without speaking to me. You’re not very dedicated to your anger.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: Stop being cute when I’m mad at you.

  Wren Bennett: Stop being mad at me then. You must have seen an old post, because I put together a last-minute fundraiser, and we have the money we need to go to the tournament now.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: I didn’t anticipate this kind of betrayal from my pen pal. Next time you need ANYTHING, especially if it has to do with Owen’s baseball, you damn well better ask for help.

  Wren Bennett: Pen pal? Did you go back to 1983 and write that in your diary?

  Official Shepherd Oliver: I did. With Lisa Frank stickers and a purple pencil that smells like grapes.

  Wren Bennett: Your man card is starting to go up in flames.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: Did you forget I have older sisters? They burned my man card the day I was born and dressed me up in their doll clothes. It’s a damn good thing I look fucking AMAZING in my uniform. With my dark-brown hair, this purple-and-white jersey really makes my blue eyes pop. It’s a sight to behold. And yes, pen pal. We live 3,000 miles away from each other, and you don’t call, you don’t visit, you don’t watch my games on TV…. It’s like you don’t even care.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: Also, what was the deal with your sister’s vague post the other night that just said “He’s a putz” over and over?

  Wren Bennett: That’s a new nickname we gave her former friend Palmer.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: Catchy. I like it. Do go on.

  Wren Bennett: Nothing much more to tell. He won a major golf tournament, and she drunk-Facebooked before we could stop her. That’s why I still haven’t told her you and I have been talking all this time. She’s so sad and in a funk most days, and I don’t want to vomit my happiness all over her when she’s so upset.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: Being my pen pal makes you happy, does it? Do you see butterflies and rainbows when you get a new message from me? I’m particular to sparkly unicorns (see Lisa Frank). I have it in writing now, so you can’t take it back.

  Wren Bennett: No, but I can definitely take back the package I dropped off at the post office this morning.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: OMGOMGOMG did you send me more salt water taffy??? I ate my last piece from the last package you sent at practice a week ago, and I wept in the goddamn batting cages. WEPT, Wren. It wasn’t pretty.

  Wren Bennett: I know. You’ve sent me 32 messages since you ate your last piece, telling me you ate your last piece.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: Aren’t you glad I commented on a video you posted of your son’s first time at bat from his game almost a year ago? Which led to us becoming the best pen pals ever, and now I’m always stocked on Summersweet Island salt water taffy, and your awesome kid is well on his way to playing in the major leagues.

  Wren Bennett: Slow your roll; he JUST turned thirteen. But yes, I am glad for your sage advice, especially since he’s playing middle field now.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: Christ, Wren, it’s CENTER FIELD. You know, the same position I famously play and kick major fucking ass at? ESPN only named me one of the top five center fielders the last seven years in a row.

  Wren Bennett: I only know you’re a famous baseball player because you won’t shut up about it. You know I only watch the sport when my son is playing.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: I swear to God my soul literally leaves my body every time you type those words.

  Wren Bennett: Can I go to sleep now, or have you kept me up this late just to annoy me?

  Official Shepherd Oliver: Oh, shit! How could I forget the awesome and kick-ass thing I needed to tell you before I yelled at you for MAKING ME VERY, VERY ANGRY? Can’t forget my main reason for messaging you and bringing HAPPINESS AND JOY AND UNICORNS AND RAINBOWS AND LISA FRANK INTO YOUR LIFE!!!!

  Wren Bennett: I’m blocking you.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: Oh, God, don’t do that. Then there’ll be TWO Bennett sisters rage posting on social media about their former friends. The world can only take so much before it implodes. Anyway, I wanted to thank you for kicking my ass and telling me to do what I wanted with my contract negotiations instead of listening to other people. I didn’t need a fucking pay raise; I needed job security. I’m happy to say the no-trade clause will remain in effect until the
end of my contract, and the percentage they were going to give me in more pay will now be going to the Little Cleats Foundation, like I originally wanted.

  Wren Bennett: Congratulations! I told you they would give you whatever you asked for. Never doubt me again, Shepherd Oliver.

  Official Shepherd Oliver: Dear Diary: My pen pal is super cool and smart! Maybe someday she’ll get a soul and watch one of my games on TV and actually start liking the sport of baseball.

  Wren Bennett: Don’t hold your breath. #soboring #likewatchingpaintdry #idratherdomytaxes

  Official Shepherd Oliver: *Shepherd Oliver has reported you for offensive behavior*

  Official Shepherd Oliver: *Shepherd Oliver has BLOCKED YOUR ASS*

  Wren Bennett: Nice try. You can’t get rid of your pen pal that easily. I know where you live, and I know your favorite taffy flavor. #itsvanilla #becauseyabasic

  Wren Bennett: Hey, you okay? Haven’t heard from you in a few days. Gabriela Rojas stopped by the Dip and Twist last night. We were talking about that senior prank you guys organized where you filled the hallways with thousands and thousands of rubber ducks. Remember that?! Students and teachers still find a random rubber duck hidden around the school every once in a while. That will never stop being funny.

  Wren Bennett: Hello?? Is this thing on?? Owen hit a grand slam last night. Did you see the video?!! I don’t think I’ll ever stop smiling!!!! Where are yooouuu?!!!

  “Hawks fans are still in shock after center fielder, Shepherd Oliver, sustained a season-ending injury last night in the 5th inning of the playoffs against Chicago. He’ll undergo surgery today, but it’s unclear at this time if this will be a career-ending injury.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Shepherd

  “I had a good streak going.”

  Present day…

  “You’re really doing it. You’re really moving to some Podunk island in the middle of nowhere. Shepherd Oliver, greatest center fielder in Hawks history, retiring to be a fucking high school baseball coach.”

  Twisting the top off a bottle of beer, the only thing left in my fridge at this point, I slide it across the counter of my kitchen island. My friend and former teammate, Nick DeVera, stares around the house I’ve lived in right on the Puget Sound in Washington for almost fourteen years since I was first drafted. Nothing remains inside the 5,000 square foot modern home made from natural steel and black-stained cedar except for a few cardboard boxes in the entryway by the front door and a couch in the living room. So our voices echo off the now bare walls.

  “It’s so empty and cold in here. Kind of like your soul.”

  Nick snorts with the beer bottle pressed against his mouth, tipping it back and taking a drink as two of the movers come back inside and walk through the open-floorplan home into the living room to grab the couch. Nick and I remain quiet while the men work, having learned early on in our professional baseball careers to always watch what kind of personal information you talk about when strangers are present. One time, I hired a guy to come over once a week and go through my fan mail for me. I had to fire him after week two for recording a private conversation I had on the phone with my manager and then selling it to the tabloids.

  While the two guys lift up the couch that sits right in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows with a panoramic view of the Sound, I look around the place, trying to see it from Nick’s perspective when he joked that it’s so empty and cold now. To me, it looks and feels exactly the same. Whether it’s filled with all the furniture, art, area rugs, and pointless knickknacks my interior designer decorated the place with, or the rooms and walls are completely void of anything, it will always be empty and cold.

  There aren’t enough priceless paintings or statement furniture pieces in the world to make up for the lack of warmth, love, and noise that other people bring to a home, or to stop me from missing the family of my own I thought I’d have filled this huge house with by now. It was the only reason I bought something so large at such a young age. Baseball was always the most important thing in my life, and I kept telling myself I had plenty of time for everything else. Year after year, I put the game above all else, and for what? An empty and cold house, because all that time passed me by faster than my sprint speed, and now I’m almost thirty-five and still alone.

  “No one has seen or heard from you in months since Alana dumped you, and then out of the blue, I get a phone call telling me to come over and help you finish packing,” Nick finally continues when the movers are back outside loading the couch onto the truck.

  Vomit doesn’t rush up to my mouth from my gut when Nick says my ex-girlfriend’s name, so at least that’s progress. She made a ridiculous media circus out of asking me to make things exclusive a year ago on home plate when I made the winning run that took us to the playoffs, but at least she had the decency to break things off quietly and in private after my injury and after I told her I was thinking about retiring and never playing pro ball again.

  “And yet you’ve been here for twenty minutes and haven’t packed a thing.” I scoff.

  “Neither have you. You hired movers and packers, you rich, lazy dipshit,” Nick replies with a smirk, telling me I’m forgiven for the radio silence all this time. And for leaving him high and dry in the outfield.

  Nick was drafted as the starting right fielder for the Hawks a year after me. On our team, a bullpen relief pitcher will come out between innings and warm up the left fielder, leaving the center and right fielders to warm each other up. Nick and I were forced to create a friendship and a bond from day one, whether we liked each other or not, if we wanted our team to succeed. Thankfully, neither one of us are too big of assholes, and we hit it off immediately. Now I’m leaving him with an egotistical rookie center fielder whose opinion of himself is currently higher than his batting average.

  “I have to do this, man. Summersweet isn’t a Podunk island in the middle of nowhere. It’s right off the coast of Virginia, and it’s where I’m from; you know that. They needed a high school baseball coach, and I needed a new job,” I remind him with a shrug, flipping his beer bottle cap around through my fingers.

  “You haven’t been from there since you left a million years ago. Your parents don’t even live there anymore. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter.” Nick laughs, finishing off his beer and sliding the empty bottle across the counter to me so I can toss it in the trash. “Coach told me Doc was happy about the rehab you’d made on your knee and signed off on you returning to work right before spring training this season. We all assumed your injury was too bad to come back, and that’s why you wouldn’t talk to any of us or give any interviews, you asshole.”

  Fucking Coach.

  I love that guy to death. He was the closest thing to a dad I had here in Washington when my own father couldn’t be here at all times. I trusted him and the advice he gave, and he was always the first person I went to when I had a problem and my dad was busy. But he’s a bigger gossip than the entire small island of Summersweet put together.

  “I had a lot of time to think during all this—”

  “Of course you did,” Nick stops me, getting up from the bar stool and walking around the island to help himself to another beer from my fridge. “You locked yourself away in a condo in the mountains for six months and never picked up my calls or answered my texts. Do you even know how many funny memes I sent you during that time that you didn’t even appreciate?”

  “Believe me, I saw all the Jesus memes you sent,” I deadpan as he comes back to his barstool and twists the cap off his fresh beer.

  “Come on, that one with him knocking on someone’s front door that said Open the door, man; I gotta shit was hilarious!”

  I give Nick a few minutes to laugh to himself while he thinks back on all the ridiculous messages he sent me while I was locked away feeling sorry for myself, before I continue.

  “When I slipped on the bag at third base during that game, I heard the tendons and ligaments in my goddamn knee pop, and I knew it was b
ad before my body even hit the ground.”

  Nick winces, but thankfully enough time has passed that I no longer hear that sound in my head every waking minute of the day, and it no longer wakes me up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. I can only imagine how my teammates felt, being stuck in the dugout, watching the team funny guy—the man who never shuts up or stops trying to put people in a good mood, who has sucked it up and played through every injury with a smile on his face—writhe around, clutching his knee and screaming in pain. Nothing was funny after that, and I stopped giving a shit if anyone was in a good mood, myself included.

  “All those days in the hospital, all that time recovering after surgery, and the months and months of rehab, I had no idea if I’d ever play again, and that scared the shit out of me,” I tell him, all the thoughts I’ve agonized over pouring out of me after being locked inside my own head for so long with no one to talk to about it. “But it didn’t scare me, because I was afraid of never playing again. It scared the hell out of me, because the thought of never playing professional ball again… it didn’t freak me out at all. It relieved me. So, I started making a list of all the things I love about playing compared to all the things I hate about playing. Let me tell you—that list looks a lot different now that I’m almost thirty-five from when it did when I was in my early twenties.”

  “Well, obviously,” Nick rolls his eyes. “You were young and pretty back then and pulled in a lot of tail. Now you’re old and washed up, get winded by the time you make it to second, and all your tail is going to the rookies now.”