Zach raised his hand and the deluge of words cut off as quickly as it began. “Explain honor, Jace.”
The young man sucked in a breath. Thirty teenagers ranging in age from thirteen to seventeen were on campus at Mike’s Place for the summer. Zach had invited them to sign up for the baseball team over spring break, and training began the first of April. They planned games against other regional boys’ teams to kick off in two weeks. He’d demanded only three very specific rules from his team and its motley crew of military sons.
“Honor requires the ultimate standard in ethical and moral conduct.” Despite his slighter build, the boy’s voice was deep.
“Which means what, Fin?” Zach flicked a look at the taller boy.
“We must never lie, never cheat, never steal—” Fin squirmed and hesitated.
Zach waited, never relaxing his expression. “And…?”
“And we must be accountable for our actions and hold others accountable for theirs. We must never sully our honor or the honor of others,” Jace finished.
Zach hid a wince at the crack in the teen’s rapidly maturing voice. “Exactly. Did either of you act with honor?”
“He was out. Fair and square—”
“He blocked the base. I touched the sandbag before he touched me with that ball.”
The two glared threateningly at each other but held their positions under their leader’s stare.
“I did not ask you what happened on the play. I asked you if you acted with honor.”
He waited. Feet shuffled and inch by inch, their defiant looks drooped.
Jace cleared his throat. “No, sir.”
Fin concurred. “No, sir.” Despite his pride, his chin ducked down in a conspicuous swallow.
It was hard to be a teenager. Boys in bodies destined to become men. The struggle between comfort and discipline would be ongoing for their parents, their teachers, and their coaches. Going easy on them would do them no favors. Like all their teammates, one or both parents were active or recently retired military. Some, like Fin, saw their fathers intermittently between missions, and others, like Jace, would never see their fathers again. It was hard to serve.
It was harder to be the family of those who served.
“Fifty laps. Both of you. Go.”
The boys grabbed their caps and took off at a jog, side-by-side, to loop the outer field.
Glancing at the rest of the team, Zach whistled. “Catching practice for the defense, twenty minutes. Batters, head to the cages and work on those swings.”
The kids scrambled to comply, but he stayed where he was at third base, his attention equally divided between the assignments.
Logan jogged up at an easy lope, his limp barely noticeable after months of continuous therapy and training. “They’re going to be best friends.”
“Probably.” Zach grunted, resisting the urge to grin at the thought. Right then, when the kids looked at him, they needed to see stern disapproval. How many times had he and Logan pounded the snot out of each other at the same age? He’d relax his facial expression and let the approval show in a few laps.
“You want to grab a beer when they’re done?” Logan bent down to claim Fin’s glove, tossed the ball up and caught it with a twist. The scars on the left side of his mouth pulled down in a grimace. It was obvious his arm still gave him problems, the scar tissue having reduced his flexibility.
“Yup. Rangers are up against Yankees.”
“Sounds good.” The ball continued its up and down motion as Logan tossed with his right hand and caught it behind his back with his left.
“PT is gonna kick your ass if you strain your wrist.” A cool observation, nothing more, but Zach kept a watch on the ticks of strain in Logan’s face.
“Eh, not warmed up enough. I need the practice and Quinton’s idea of PT is observing the hill until the Marines get there to actually take it.”
He didn’t laugh at the comment. Like his teens, Logan needed the same kind of firm restraint, but in the twenty-two months since his injury, he’d defied all expectations on recovery. He may never have the full flexibility he boasted before being trapped in a burning Humvee, with a leg shattered and arm broken while fire burned through the layers of his skin, but he was damn close.
Because he didn’t observe the hill. He took it.
“Yeah, but he’s still your CO where this is concerned. Be careful he doesn’t sic Doc on you.” In addition to being a close friend and a member of their unit, retired PFC James Westwood was Logan’s trauma counselor and despite his recovery, the two still met professionally at least once every other week.
“Yes, mother.” Logan smirked and curved the ball in an easy toss at Zach.