Cash and I are warm after about fifteen minutes, and then I pull the spare gear from my bag for the bullpen catcher and head back to the dugout with him. Ty’s coming, but not until tomorrow, and it feels weird to play a game completely on my own. My brother hasn’t missed many, and I like it when he’s here.
We’re playing Washington. They’re good. But we’re better. There are a lot of scouts in the stands. They come early, before spring training, and they like watching these tournaments. I’m not expecting anything, but I just hope I make an impression. I’d like to be on their list, someone they’ll remember when they come to watch next year or the year after.
“Mister, mister,” I hear a kid’s voice say, and when I look down, I see him pulling on the leg of my pants. He has curly blond hair and a McConnell baseball hat is mashing most of it down. I kneel down and pull my mask off to look at him, and he’s holding a pen and a ball. “Can I get your autograph?”
“Sure,” I say, unable to hide the smile this puts on my face. This is the first time anyone has ever asked for me to sign a ball. This is awesome. I write my name, clearly, and my number and hand the pen and ball back to the kid. He tucks it in his back pocket so it sticks out, and it makes me chuckle. He hangs around our dugout for a few minutes until someone official-looking comes to get him and leads him over to the home plate area. He must be throwing out the first pitch, or yelling “Play ball!” or something.
The rest of the team finishes warming, and soon the dugout is crowded. Gum is popping and seed shells are being spit everywhere. The announcer goes through the lineups, and there’s enough of a crowd here that there’s actually applause. I wonder if anyone travelled from McConnell for this? I bet it’s mostly boosters or alumni. Once they get through the announcements, everyone climbs the steps, and we all take our spot on the third base line, caps held to our chests, my mask held to mine.
The music fires up, and I expect the same recording of the Star Spangled Banner that I hear every game. But tournaments must be special, because after the flowery intro, someone starts to sing.
She starts to sing. I know it the minute the first word leaves her lips. I would know that voice anywhere. It’s the voice I imagine when I’m going to sleep every night, and the one I listened to silently, hiding in the dark, while she sang in the shower when she thought no one was there to hear her.
Rowe is singing. In front of at least two thousand people…maybe three. And she’s not missing a beat. She’s hitting every note, and it’s perfect and beautiful…and she’s here, within reach—touchable. The longer the song goes, the more I can hear her nerves coming through, but she keeps going, her voice just as pretty as the first note, just not as strong. If I knew I wouldn’t get booed for interrupting the ultimate act of patriotism, I would break formation and run to her right now, but I wait.
When the second verse hits, the video screen switches from a slideshow of fireworks to her—it’s her! She’s holding one arm around her waist and the other hand is clutching the mic, her eyes closed, just trying to survive this. I can’t believe she’s doing this, and I know how hard it is for her. This is light years ahead of what she thought she was capable of, and she’s doing it for me. I feel Cash lean into me at my side, and when I look to him, his eyebrows raise.
“That’s your girl, right?” he whispers.
“Yeah…that’s my girl,” I whisper back, rapping my mask against my leg just waiting for the song to finish so I can run to her. Her hair is long and wavy, tucked under a McConnell headband, and she’s wearing jeans and a McConnell sweatshirt…mine! Ty! Ty must be here. He’s the only one who could have given that to her. I turn my head without fully looking, and I can see him by the dugout.
Our national anthem is long. I mean, like, stupid long. I’m sure Rowe is thinking the same damned thing right now as her voice quivers for those last few lines. The crowd can feel her losing her nerve, and everybody starts to join in, even the guys standing next to me. As soon as she’s done, as soon the word brave ends and there are no more syllables for her to sing, I drop my mask and I run.
It takes a while for the crowd to notice what’s happening, but when I get closer to her, a few people start to cheer. Her arms are trembling, and she hands the mic back to a guy wearing a shirt and tie, and she looks like she wants to pass out. She doesn’t see me coming until the last second, and when she turns to me, her eyes grow wide and she bites at her bottom lip. I don’t give her a chance to explain—I don’t waste another second. I cup her face in my hands and pull her to me, kissing her so hard that I have to bend her backward and hold the arch of her back in one hand.