Come on, baby... You can do it.
Brynn Langtoine crossed her fingers so tightly her knuckles shone white. Six-year-old Cayden had already been through so much in losing his father, he just had to make a home run for his little league tryout. Or, she prayed, for once come close to at least hitting the ball.
The metal bleachers were the only remotely cool thing on this muggy mid-April afternoon. Ruin Bayou, Louisiana, had its nicer points, but an agreeable climate wasn’t one. Fanning herself with the parent information sheet the coach’s wife had distributed to all team hopefuls, Brynn tried shifting to a more comfy position—no easy feat at eight-months pregnant.
“Relax,” her friend Vivian urged.
“Easy for you to say. Dom not only hits home runs, but sinks soccer goals and makes touchdowns—and that’s all before breakfast. Meanwhile, poor Cayden...” Brynn cupped her bulging belly as her son tripped on his way to home plate. “Well, let’s just say when it comes to athletic talent, he unfortunately inherited my family genes.”
“Stop. Little Cayden’s just going through a rough patch. Losing his dad like that...” She added a few clucks to her shaking head.
As was usually the case when recalling Mack’s untimely demise, Brynn threw up a little in her mouth.
When Cayden looked to her for reassurance, Brynn blew him a kiss. He might be trying out for a big boy team, but he’d never be too old for some good, old-fashioned mommy sugar.
As the pitcher wound up for his throw, Brynn’s stomach churned. Please, please, please, she prayed to her disaster of a dead husband, who had also happened to be one of the most celebrated hitters to ever come out of the state. If you ever had so much as a shred of decency in you, send your sweet son a smidge of your batting skill...
“Strike one!”
Not only had Cayden missed the ball, but he’d cowered when it came near him. Having grown up watching his dad play from a box seat in Busch Stadium III, Cayden had worshipped the man and the game, literally wearing a Cardinals baseball cap nearly every day since he’d been born. Any sane person would’ve thought Mack spent his free time playing catch with his son, but nothing could be further from the truth.
The pitcher threw again.
“Strike two!”
This time, Cayden had ducked to avoid the ball.
Vivian let loose with a low wolf whistle. “Who is that?”
Brynn’s gaze drifted to where her friend pointed. A giant of a man strode to the outfield, kneeling to talk to a pint-size player. His faded jeans, white T-shirt and Geaux Saints baseball cap didn’t mask hard-edged masculinity. A certain larger-than-life, take-charge essence emanated from the man even as he had a simple conversation with a child. The way the man leaned in, seemed to genuinely listen to whatever the distraught child had on his mind, told a different story from the guy’s tough outer shell. His body language said he cared like a father, but Brynn was familiar with most of the little league crowd and was sure she’d have remembered a dad who looked like him.
“Whew...” Vivian was also using her info packet as a fan. “What I wouldn’t give to be single right about now.”
“Excuse me?” Sean, Vivian’s husband, nudged her shoulder. “I’m sitting right here.”
“Oh, yeah.” She apologized with a kiss. “Looking at that hunk, I temporarily forgot.”
Brynn fought not to roll her eyes. Vivian had it all. A great husband who adored her and a perfect son and home. She had everything Brynn had once taken for granted, but now knew she’d never have again.
The pitcher wound up for Cayden’s third and final try as he’d already had four other turns and failed to hit a single pitch. In the span of a heartbeat, the ball flashed straight for her son, only to clang the chain-link fence behind him.
“Strike three! You’re out!”
As he scuffed his little sneakered feet off the field, Cayden dropped his chin to his chest. Brynn’s heart ached for him. Why, at this age, did Ruin Bayou’s team have to be about competition? Why couldn’t it be purely about fun and learning good sportsmanship? Once Cayden was old enough to learn the facts about his father, he’d receive harsh truths no child should ever learn. Until then, Brynn wanted to shelter him and hold him close. She’d tried a dozen times to talk him out of even going for this team, but he’d insisted.
He’d been so despondent ever since Mack’s death, Brynn hoped maybe for once luck would be on his side.
“He gave it a good try...” Brynn resented Vivian’s stab at comfort when she slipped her arm around her for a supportive squeeze. “He’s a full year younger than a lot of these other boys. You wait and see, next year at this time, Cayden’s going to set this field on fire.”
“Give it a rest,” Sean said to his wife. “Coach hasn’t even posted the team yet. Let’s not count Cayden out until this is official.”
Though Sean’s words were kind, Brynn wasn’t delusional. Boy after boy strode to home base, swinging and hitting for all they were worth. Six home runs had been made. Twelve triples. Not only didn’t her son make a single hit, but no catches.
When tryouts were over, the coach, surrounded by players and parents, called the numbers of the kids who’d made that season’s Ruin Bayou Mud Bugs.
Cayden’s number wasn’t called.
While around him, his friends gave each other high fives, Cayden’s eyes welled and lower lip trembled.
Brynn took his hand, leading him away from the crowd. “You did a great job, sweetie. Your dad would be proud.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” Her son kicked the dirt in the parking lot. “I’m a loser. Dad hated losers. That’s why he left us. He hated me.”
Stopping short of their SUV, Brynn knelt in front of her son. “Don’t you ever say that about yourself again,” she said fiercely. “Baseball is just a stupid game, you hear me? Life is about much more. Your dad—”
“Baseball isn’t stupid!” Cayden cried, pitching his bat and glove on the ground. “You are!”
Brynn reached for him, trying to grab the red T-shirt that had been so thoughtfully provided in return for the Mud Bug’s fifty-dollar tryout fee, but he was too fast. He took off across a weed-choked field.
She started after him, but a male voice behind her called, “Let him go. He’ll be all right.”
Brynn turned to find the man she’d seen earlier in the outfield. Up close and personal, he was as intimidating as he was impressive. He’d also inserted himself smack in the middle of an intensely personal conversation to which he hadn’t been invited. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be the judge of what’s best for my son.”
“By all means.” The stranger held up his hands. Hyper kids and their parents made their way to their cars. An audience compounded the awkward factor. “Sorry. Last thing I want is to get into your family business, but I remember the sting of being cut from my grade-school team. Only by my senior year, I’d filled out a little and we went on
