Page 19 of Shades of You (Calypso Key #4)

Chapter Nineteen

Hunter

I stepped up to the plate, gripping the bat with hands calloused from more labor than this leisurely evening game. The Sugarloaf Key Barracudas were on our turf, and despite the mostly friendly rivalry, I was determined to crack the cool fa?ade of their pitcher, Tom. So far, I was oh-for-two. The Barracudas were first in the league, largely thanks to the arm of this pitcher and their power hitter, Brent. The Stingrays were only one game back in the standings, making tonight all the more important.

“Come on, Hunter!” Stella’s voice punctuated the hum of the crowd.

I tuned everything out and focused only on the approaching ball. It hurtled toward me, and I tensed. It looked high and I took the pitch.

“Strike!” The umpire’s call sliced through my concentration like a knife through water.

My jaw tightened. No way I was letting the next one pass. As the pitcher wound up again, I coiled like a spring. The pitch came—low and fast, a blur against the backdrop of the fading day. My swing met it with a satisfying crack, sending a sharp line drive whizzing toward left field. For a moment, hope soared. But then the Barracudas’ shortstop snagged the ball with a dive, popping up to throw me out at first. Frustration filled me as I trotted off the field.

“Nice hit. Just bad luck,” Evan called from where he stood in the dugout, arms folded across his chest.

“Thanks,” I grumbled as I put on my catcher’s gear, offering him a nod. I’d been on pins and needles all game, trying not to make a big deal of him being there.

Despite everyone on our team knowing it was a huge, monumental deal.

We transitioned to defense, and I crouched behind home plate. Evan stood tall at first base, his figure casting a long shadow in the infield as he scooped up a grounder.

Gabe was on the mound, and the Barracudas were ahead three to one. With each pitch, Gabe strained, his arm losing the fight against fatigue. When a towering pop fly headed Evan’s way, he instantly moved into position, then caught it without a hint of strain. Facing the other way, Gabe winced, rubbing his shoulder.

“Nice catch,” I said over the cheers, clapping my mitt in quiet support.

“Thanks,” Evan replied. His eyes scanned the field, taking in every detail.

The next inning rolled around quickly, and it was Evan’s turn to bat. He walked up to the plate with a nonchalance that belied the tension of the moment. He wasn’t even limping, though I suspected that easy stroll cost him some effort. Tom wound up and threw a ball that came in high—close to Evan’s head. He didn’t even flinch. Just stepped out of the batter’s box as the umpire yelled, “ Ball!”

Maia laughed next to me, not a little pride in it. The next throw had the pitcher releasing a fastball that seemed to scream through the air with the fury of a hundred storms.

Evan swung.

The crack of the bat meeting the ball echoed like a shot across the field. Time slowed as everyone’s heads craned to follow the trajectory of the baseball as it soared high and far over the outfield fence. A solo home run.

“Yeah!” I shouted, joining in the eruption of cheers from the Stingrays’ bench. We were only one run behind now, with the ninth inning looming ahead.

We held the Barracudas at bay in the top of the ninth, our defense as tight as the knots that tangled my insides. And despite Gabe being a little wilder on the mound, he held them. Pride in my family surged through me. Excitement buzzed through the team as we took our last chance at bat. I toed the chalked box for the fourth time. The last time. The first pitch hurtled toward me, and it looked outside. I held my swing.

“Strike!” The umpire’s call pierced the tense silence that had settled over the crowd, and I shot him a dirty look. Probably in his mid-twenties, the kid pursed his lips together but held firm.

“Shake it off, Hunter!” Maia yelled from the dugout. The weight of every gaze was fixed upon me.

Determined, I steadied myself for the next pitch. My hands gripped the bat, the tape pressing into my skin. When the ball came, I swung with all I had but only met air. A swing and a miss.

“Strike two!”

“Goddamn it,” I muttered under my breath, stepping out of the batter’s box for a moment. My heart hammered against my ribs as I tried to focus, to find that sliver of calm. I stepped back in, Tom already winding up for what could be the final blow. And then it came—a blur of white heading straight at me.

Another swing. Another miss.

“Strike three! You’re out! Game over.”

The word over knifed through the evening, severing the thread of hope we’d clung to. We lost by one.

“Good game,” Wyatt, who was Maia’s husband and our center fielder, said quietly as he passed me, his hand briefly touching my shoulder.

“Thanks.”

“Next time, Hunter,” Stella said, patting me on the back before she joined the others collecting their gear. Her smile was encouraging, but the disappointment in her eyes mirrored my own. Resting the bat on my shoulder, I made my way over to the dugout.

“Hey, Evan,” Maia called out, her voice slicing through the murmur of disappointed chatter and the clanking of metal cleats against concrete. “Maybe you should be the one coaching the team, not me.”

Evan laughed, the sound somehow both lighthearted and tinged with melancholy. “You’re doing a great job, Maia. No need for a last-minute substitution.” His eyes didn’t quite meet hers as he shoved his glove into his duffel bag.

I turned away from them, my gaze settling on Manuel. As the driver of the resort dive boat, Shark Bait , the guy could read the ocean like nobody’s business, but now his gaze was fixed on Gabe, who was nursing his pitching arm with a wince.

“Think you might need a break next game?” Manuel’s concern was evident even in his casual tone. And he’d pitched in the rec league before .

“Maybe,” Gabe grunted, rotating his shoulder with a grimace. “If this doesn’t shape up, the mound is yours.”

The idea of Manuel stepping onto the pitcher’s mound brought a round of good-natured encouragement, but wary glances kept darting toward Evan. He was the elephant in the room—or rather, the hurricane whose presence had changed the dynamics of our team massively.

Then Liv appeared, having made her way in from the outfield. Her approach shifted the atmosphere, drawing Evan’s attention. As she reached him, her arm looped around his waist. Evan’s shoulders dropped, and the stiffness in his frame melted away under her touch.

“Ready to go?” she asked, her voice low and soothing.

“I am.”

And there it was—a smile. It was small, almost hesitant, but genuine. The kind of smile that showed up when guards were let down and comfort seeped in. They walked off toward Liv’s Tahoe. I watched them go, feeling a curious mixture of relief and envy. In her company, Evan was different, lighter. He’d found his safe harbor in Liv, someone who helped him navigate his stormy past and anchored him in the present.

I hung back a bit, scanning the now quiet field. After tossing my mitt into my old green duffel bag, I called out my goodbyes. “Take care of that arm, Gabe,” I added, clapping him on the back before heading to my SUV. The night air was cooler now and a breeze drifted off the ocean. It held the promise of rain, or maybe that was just the cloud of disappointment following me.

As I drove home, my mind turned to Brenna. I wanted to see her again. Hell, right now. But she’d just broken up with a guy who was more or less stalking her. Nope—I wasn’t going to push her .

I tried to wash away the defeat in the shower and ate a quick meal. Settling onto the couch, Pedro hopped into my lap. As I absently stroked his soft fur, I pulled out my phone, hesitating for a moment. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I weighed calling or texting. Playing it cool seemed like the better strategy, so I sent a text.

Hunter: Lost the game tonight.

She replied almost immediately, her words lighting up my screen. And, damn it, my mood too.

Brenna: Sorry to hear that! How are you feeling?

Hunter: I hate losing, even rec games. How was your day?

Brenna: You’re always a winner in my book. My day was good. Busy. Sold a big boxed set today. Limited edition.

Her response was prompt, warm. Not someone who didn’t want to hear from me.

Hunter: Sounds like your day was more successful than mine.

Brenna: Success is relative. I can sell a boxed set anytime. But the baseball season isn’t much longer, so losses hurt. It’s my job to cheer you up!

Her words made me smile, and I could picture the playful glint in her eyes as she typed them out. It was easy banter, a comfortable rhythm we seemed to fall into effortlessly.

Hunter: Who knew you were such a baseball fan?

Brenna: Nah. I’m not particularly into sports. Just trying to boost the morale of a certain tall, dark, and handsome slugger I know.

I grinned at her response. The evening stretched out, only the occasional purr of Pedro breaking the quiet of my living room. As our conversation flowed back and forth, I found myself relaxing, the tension from the game slowly dissipating.

Hunter: Thanks for being my cheerleader tonight.

Brenna: Always. Someone’s got to keep you from getting too down on yourself.

Hunter: I never feel down when I’m with you. I’d better let you go.

Brenna: Aw! Sweet talker. Night.

There was something both comforting and exhilarating about this easy exchange of texts. In a way, it felt like we were building something, brick by digital brick. Small experiences shared, little connections made. Even if our families’ histories tried to dictate otherwise, here we were, two people tentatively stepping over a century-old line drawn in the sand.

Setting my phone on the couch, I picked up the Clive Cussler book from the coffee table and thumbed to where I’d left off. Adventure waited between the pages, a welcome distraction from the ache of losing the game, and thoughts of how much I wanted to go over to Brenna’s. Thirty minutes slipped by, Cussler’s words painting vivid scenes of underwater exploits and treacherous escapades. Pedro had fallen asleep on my thighs.

The sound of my text tone jolted the stillness, startling both me and Pedro. He gave a disgruntled meow as I reached for my phone, eager to read another message from Brenna.

Instead, the screen lit up with an unknown number. As I read the mysterious message, the air in my lungs froze. My entire focus lasered down to the words on the screen.

(305) 222-6395: You need to tighten up your stance and not take so many pitches. You’re so tall, your strike zone is as big as the Grand Canyon. You’re never going to draw a walk, especially in a rec league.

Numbness washed over me as I read the text. Then read it again. And again. Only one person could dismantle my batting technique with such precision. Only one person could have sent that text.

Evan.

What the hell should I say?

How should one respond when someone reached for the first time in fourteen years? While at boot camp as a miserable, guilt-ridden eighteen-year-old, I’d deleted Evan’s information from my contacts. But who else could it be? Finally, I sent back a response, my thumbs numb and clumsy.

Hunter: Thanks for the advice. Maia might be a good sister, but she’s not the best hitting coach.

My text floated away into the digital ether, carrying with it another huge step in mending the chasm between brothers. Pedro sat up on my lap, sensing my change in mood.

“Come on, come on, Evan.” After a pause, another text came through.

(305) 222-6395: No, but she’s good at building a team. So is Stella.

I snorted, an unexpected laugh escaping me despite the tension coiling in my gut. That was typical Evan, always giving credit where it was due. And he wasn’t wrong—Stella could rally a group of cats into a swimming race if she put her mind to it. This time I answered more quickly, more confidently. A challenge wrapped in a veiled request.

Hunter: Maybe the Stingrays need a new hitting coach.

I stared at the small ellipsis that indicated he was typing a response, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. The brief lull felt like being underwater, suspended between two worlds—the surface where everything was light and clear, and the depths where things got murky and unpredictable. My fingers tightened around the phone, its edges digging into my palms. The text bubble popped up again, and I braced myself, ready for whatever Evan threw my way.

(305) 222-6395: If you need some pointers, I might be able to help you out .

Breath exploded from my lungs as I bolted upright. Screeching, Pedro leaped from my lap. I ignored him, hope flaring in my chest like a beacon.

Hunter: When and where?

(305) 222-6395: Let’s have a casual batting practice in the garden next to the Big House. Can you come Saturday morning? Dad kept my old batting cage, believe it or not.

Hunter: I believe it. I’ll be there.

Nothing happened for a solid minute, a minute heavy with portent. Pedro cautiously jumped back on the couch and sat with his tail curled around his white paws. I tapped out a final text, adding one confirmatory word at the end.

Hunter: Thanks, Evan.

The answer came immediately.

(305) 222-6395: You’re welcome.

The phone slipped from my hands, landing on the coffee table with a clatter that spooked Pedro. Once again, he leaped off the couch. This time, he shot me a disgruntled, narrow look before stalking off toward my bedroom. I barely noticed, my head falling back against the wall, and both hands running through my hair.

Evan’s words, so simple and casual, were anything but. They rattled around in my head, a chaotic blend of past and future colliding. Baseball had always been our common ground, and now it might just be the thing to bring us back to each other. Picking up my phone again, I opened our conversation and tapped the icon at the top. In place of the bare digits of his phone number, I entered a first name. Nothing else was needed.

Evan.

I could already feel the trimmed grass of the lawn Evan and I had once practiced on as kids, smell the leather of my glove, hear the crack of the bat—a sound that spelled out hope in the only common language Evan and I truly spoke anymore.

For now, that was enough.