Chapter 2 - The Shadow from PhoenixBy Thursday afternoon, the autumn chill had settled over the Westfield High baseball field. The leaves on the oaks surrounding the outfield fence were turning deep shades of crimson and gold. I was setting out the batting tees when the travel ball team began trickling in.
Theo arrived early for once, walking alongside a tall, elderly man with a silver mustache and a kindly smile.
“Coach Caleb!” Theo called out, tossing his gear bag near the dugout. “This is my granddad, Arthur.”
Arthur Mercer extended a firm, weathered hand. “So you’re the famous Coach Caleb. My daughter has told me a lot about you these past couple of days.”
“All good things, I hope,” I said, shaking his hand.
“Mostly about how you’ve been keeping her son safe when she’s stuck at the hospital,” Arthur said softly, his blue eyes holding a mix of gratitude and lingering concern. “Sloane works too hard. Her ex-husband made sure she walked away from that marriage with nothing but her pride and Theo.”
“Brendan?” I asked.
Arthur’s smile faded slightly. “Brendan is my nephew, actually. My late brother’s son. He inherited the family business, but none of the character. He thinks money can substitute for presence.”
He looked toward Theo, who was already running out to catch fly balls in center field.
“Brendan is coming to town this weekend,” Arthur added, his tone lowering. “He claims it’s for a medical conference in Columbus, but he called Sloane demanding to take Theo for the weekend. She’s terrified he’s going to try and disrupt their routine again.”
“Does Theo want to go?”
“The boy loves his father, but he fears the disappointment more than anything else,” Arthur sighed. “Keep an eye on him today, Coach. He’s been anxious all morning.”
During batting practice, I watched Theo closely. His swings were tight, rushed, and erratic. He missed three straight pitches down the middle—something he rarely did.
“Take a breath, Theo,” I said, stepping up to the batter’s box and resting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re trying to hit the ball before it even leaves my hand. Step back.”
He backed out of the box, breathing heavily. His eyes were bright with unshed frustration.
“He called me last night,” Theo muttered, staring down at his cleats.
“Your dad?”
“He said he’s buying me a new glove. A hundred-dollar one. He said my current one looks like junk.” Theo looked up, his voice cracking slightly. “I like this glove, Coach. You helped me break it in.”
My heart twinged. I looked at the worn leather glove resting on his hip—the one we’d spent two afternoons oiling and pounding with a mallet until it fit his hand perfectly.
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“A glove doesn’t make the player, Theo,” I said gently. “The hands inside it do. Yours are just fine.”
He nodded slowly, stepping back into the box. The next pitch I threw, he drove it deep into left-field gap.
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