Chapter 5 - The Bleachers After DarkThe game was a tight, low-scoring battle. Theo played brilliantly, pulling off a double play in the third inning that made the parents on the bleachers cheer loudly.
Every time Theo made a play, he looked toward the fence where Brendan stood, phone in hand, making calls and tapping screens, barely looking up at the field.
By the bottom of the sixth, we were tied 3-3. Theo stepped up to the plate with two outs and a runner on third.
I stood in the third-base coach's box, watching his small frame adjust in the batter's box. I caught his eye and gave him a subtle nod—the signal to trust his swing.
The pitcher threw a fast, high strike. Theo swung hard.
CRACK.
The ball soared over the second baseman's head, landing deep in right-center field. The runner scored from third, and Theo sprinted to second, sliding safely into the bag as the dugout erupted in cheers.
Game over. We won 4-3.
As the team celebrated near the mound, Brendan walked over to the dugout fence, taking off his sunglasses.
“Not a bad hit, kid,” Brendan said as Theo ran over, flushed and smiling. “A bit sloppy on the turn at first, though. You almost threw out your ankle.”
Theo’s smile faltered slightly. “Thanks, Dad. Glad you made it.”
Brendan glanced at his watch. “Look, I have to head back to Columbus for dinner with some hospital board members. I can’t take you for the weekend like we planned.”
The disappointment hit Theo like a physical blow. He stood there, his glove held loosely in his hand, his eyes dropping to his dirt-stained cleats.
“Oh,” Theo said softly. “Okay.”
“I’ll send you that new glove next week,” Brendan added casually, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, pressing it into Theo’s hand. “Buy yourself something nice.”
I stepped forward from the dugout, my jaw set tight. “He doesn’t need your money, Mercer. He needed twenty minutes of your time.”
Brendan turned to me, his expression cold and arrogant. “Mind your business, Porter. You’re just the guy paid to pick up the balls.”
Before I could answer, Sloane stepped between us, her eyes blazing with a fierce, protective anger I hadn’t seen before.
“Get off this field, Brendan,” she said, her voice shaking with quiet fury. “Leave my son alone.”
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Brendan sneered, looking between Sloane and me. “You two make a charming little working-class pair. Enjoy your small-town life.”
He turned on his heel and walked back to his Escalade, kicking up gravel as he pulled away.
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