Swing (Landry Family 2)

He stands a few feet away from me and tosses me a ball. The leather cracks as I catch it and whizz it back to him. His eyes light up. “You weren’t kidding. You have played before.”

“Yeah,” I laugh, rolling my eyes. “I played four years of varsity in high school.”

“Impressive.” He sends one back to me and I toss it back to him. “What else did you do in high school? I had you pegged for a cheerleader.”

“God, no,” I laugh. “I played softball and volleyball. I didn’t love either one, to be honest, but my parents insisted I do something with my time.”

“How can you not love baseball? Or softball, I guess.”

I shrug, catching one a little harder. He seems surprised. “I think I would’ve liked it if there hadn’t been pressure on me to be good at them,” I say. “I had private coaches and camps and seminars. It was just too much.”

“What would you rather have been doing?”

“Painting, maybe,” I offer. “I always wanted to try swimming. I loved watching their competitions. I would’ve sucked though. My boobs are too big.”

“Nice problem to have,” he teases, making me laugh again.

“What about you? Did you love just baseball?”

He considers this, his features darkening for a long moment. “I do love it. I always have. I liked football too but it was so physical and I didn’t want to tear my body up like that.”

“That would’ve been a shame,” I smirk.

He catches my toss and winces just a little. “I was better at baseball anyway. It was my thing. In our family, you have to have something you’re known for, and baseball was all I really had.”

“So if you’re a nerd and aren’t good at anything, what happens in your family?”

“You’re Graham.”

This must be a joke of some sort because he bursts out laughing. Although I have no idea why, I’m laughing too. Our voices meld together in the air, his Southern twang and my girly giggle, and I love the way it sounds.

Once we settle down, our game of toss continues. Back and forth the ball goes, a comfortable silence between us. After the fifth or sixth throw, I notice a slight cringe around his eyes.

“Hey,” I say, holding the ball. “Does your shoulder hurt?”

“It always hurts some.”

“Let’s stop. This can’t be good for you.”

A shy smile touches his lips. He looks at me in a way he hasn’t before, like something has shifted between us. “This is the best therapy I’ve had yet.”

“If you mean practicing, it’s not,” I insist. “Not if it hurts.”

I’m not sure what I said, but he laughs. “Gotta push through the pain sometimes, Dani.”

“And you have to rest sometimes too, Landry,” I sigh.

He holds his glove up and I throw it back to him, gently this time. The thought of him going through the motions pushing through pain hurts my heart. I wonder how many times he’s tried to push through injuries and discomfort for another play or another win.

As if he reads my mind, he shakes his head. “I know my limits. I push as hard as I can and stop when I have to. It’s a balance because you know you have physical limitations, yet there are all these expectations,” he gulps. “It’s just a part of the job.” He reads my face and his features lighten. “Besides, I’ve prepared for this my whole life.”

“I get what you’re saying,” I tell him, thinking back to the demands my father put on me growing up to be the best. Years of my life spent pitching two hundred strikes every day without fail. Hours upon hours of time with coaches, dieticians, ph

ysical trainers, all to achieve something he wanted. Not me. “I know the pressure to be good at something. I hated it.”

“I didn’t hate it,” he comments. “I just have three older brothers that are all badass in their own way. It’s tough living up to that.”

“I can’t imagine.”