The American Wife. Kristina McMorris
was no reply. Which said everything.
“Father, you’re the one who’s so proud of your kids being American. That’s half the reason you came to this country. So why should it matter where Maddie’s parents are from?”
Lane’s mother patted her chest, grumbling under her breath, until her husband raised his hand, stilling her. His rigid words hovered above the quiet. “The final decision has been made.”
A humorless laugh shot from Lane’s throat. “A decision I haven’t been a part of.” He rose to his feet. “Shouldn’t I have a say in my own future?”
“This is not about you alone,” his father said, meeting his stance. “This is about the honor you bring to your family.”
“What if I say no? What if I want to make my own choices?”
When his father hesitated, his mother supplied the answer from her seat. “Then you will disgrace this family. And you will not be welcome in this home. Ever.”
Lane felt the stab of her tenacity, a knife between the ribs. He stared at his father in a desperate plea for support. Surely the man wouldn’t be willing to disown his only son. Emotions aside, a male to carry on the name and bloodline was a fundamental basic.
“Ok
Lane held his father’s gaze for an eternal moment. Every second sent a mixture of frustration and sorrow through his veins. He felt his limbs sag with each devastating pulse.
At the point of futility, Lane replaced his sunglasses. He would never look at his father the same. “Get your shoes on, Em,” he told her. “We’re leaving.”
The song had died. TJ scuffed his spikes on the mound, wishing for the life of him he could remember the tune. For all those high school shutouts and championships, an internal humming had carried him through. Its reliable rhythm had added a zip to any pitch from his hand.
Now, score tied at the bottom of the seventh inning, all he could hear was wind through the trees at Griffith Park and cheering from an adjacent winter-league ball game. Morning clouds soaked up any other sound.
The USC catcher flashed the sign. A curveball. TJ’s old bread-and-butter.
A senior from St. Mary’s continued at the plate. He was a lanky walk-on TJ used to cream with fractional effort. Even sophomore year, just weeks after the holiday that had sledgehammered TJ’s life, the guy couldn’t compete. But that was before. Before TJ’s world had turned silent and grim.
The hitter waggled his bat, waiting. Two balls, one strike, bases loaded with two out.
TJ tucked the ball into his glove. Worse than his sore jaw, a bone-deep ache throbbed from his knuckles. What the hell had he been thinking last night, throwing a right instead of a jab? Thankfully, Paul Lamont hadn’t shown today, banged up as he must have been. It wouldn’t have taken a genius to put two and two together, and the last thing TJ needed was the coach to think he’d become a hotheaded scrapper.
Blinking against the dusty breeze, TJ lowered his chin. He reared back with knee raised, adjusted the seams, and let the ball fly with a snap of the wrist. It broke low and away. A decent bend—just outside the strike zone.
“Ball!” the umpire declared.
Damn it.
TJ spat at the ground. He caught the return throw and tugged at the bill of his cap, blew out a breath. Gotta clear the melon. Start fresh without the clutter or a pitch didn’t have a rookie’s chance in hell. He loosened his neck, shook the stiffness from his hand. Strove to look calm.
The St. Mary’s batter smiled. He crowded the plate, his confidence growing.
But confidence could be a tricky thing. It lasted only if the person either had forgotten or didn’t realize what they stood to lose.
TJ wished he had the leeway to send a reminder. Nothing like a knockdown pitch to wipe a smirk off a slugger’s face.
Just then, the catcher tilted his head and shifted his eyes toward the third-base foul line. It was a warning, understood in a game of silent signals. TJ glimpsed a figure he recognized in his periphery. Bill Essick was approaching their dugout. The Yankees’ scout, a periodic spectator of Saturday league games, had once been a follower of TJ’s career.
Time to turn up the heat.
The catcher appeared to understand. He pointed one finger down, a fastball high and inside.
TJ rose to his full height and grasped the ball in his glove. He paused, ears straining. Where was the song? Where was it?
In a pinch, he closed his eyes and forced himself to picture his father’s face. On cue, anger boiled toward an eruption. Memories of the accident poured in a heated stream. The panic of tearing through the hospital halls, the police officer and his endless questions. The stench of the morgue, the lifting of the sheet.
He unshuttered his view and hurled the ball in a torrent—smack into the glove.
“Steee-riiike!”
Wiping his mind, TJ struggled to reduce his emotions to a simmer. He scuffed the mound again, hard.
Coach Barry nodded beside the dugout. A look of approval from the man, a praised coach of three sports for the Trojans, never lost its impact. He continued to be the major reason, in fact, that TJ attended University of Southern Cal.
But right now, Essick’s opinion was all that mattered.
TJ rolled his shoulder muscles for the impromptu review. He could feel the scout’s gaze on him. Just one more. All he needed was one more to smoke by the batter, one more to wrap up the inning. If he kept it up, he might even close out the game, from start to finish like the old days. Wouldn’t that be swell.
The hitter set his stance. He gave home plate a little more space.
Catcher signed another fastball. It was a cocky choice though relatively safe, given the solid zip on the last pitch and drag on the swing.
Problem was, safe choices never led to greatness. Legends were made of risk takers armed with the skills destined for success. A display like that could be just the thing to regain Essick’s interest, to see a winning thoroughbred in a stable of foals.
TJ grabbed hold of that risk, that sample of greatness, and shook off the catcher. “Come on,” he murmured, “something to dazzle ’em.”
The catcher complied: slider.
Now we’re talkin’, TJ thought. With a 3–2 count, the hitter wouldn’t be expecting a pitch that chanced ending up out of the zone. And when done right, a slider gave the illusion of a fastball, up until it fell off a table the last several feet.
TJ readied for the windup. But just as he was about to close his eyes and dip once more into his cage of fury, a question snuck up on him: What if his rage soon tired of being locked up? He could feel its power increasing each time he let it loose to breathe and stretch. Brought out too often and that rage might end up refusing to go back in.
He squashed the thought and threw the ball with all the strength he could muster. Down the pipe it went. The seams spiraled away—a wall of wind seemed to slow every rotation—and laid tracks that led directly to the bat. Crack. The white pill soared overhead while the runners rounded the bases. Every footfall was a stomp to TJ’s gut. Only for the mile-length arms of the left fielder