THE ONLY PRESENT MY old man ever gave me was a baseball bat.

When he’d get bored at the hotel, he’d take me down to Fenway Park and sweet talk, aka bribe, his way onto the grass. He’d toss the ball and I’d hit it back to him, as hard as I could. For as little and scrawny as I was at the time, it went pretty far, at least halfway to the pitcher’s mound, but I was a leftie and my old man swore it was a handicap, so I’d always hit and throw with my right.

Other times, after he conducted business, we’d sit in the bleachers, in the cheap seats because he swore those were the best ones, taking in a game and eating dogs. That’s when Cillian McHugh became my dad.

Growing up, I was always in awe of The Green Monster, and I loved listening to my dad tell stories of the greats—Dom DiMaggio, Cy Young and of course, the greatest of all time, Babe Ruth.

It was during those stories that I felt the closest to him. I felt like I was more than just a box being checked off because my mom felt it was her duty to make sure we got to know one another.

All that changed the summer I turned thirteen. That summer, I shot up six inches, filled out in places that had the ladies taking notice... and I used my left hand to swing at a fastball, hitting it so hard that it actually collided with The Green Monster.

Any other dad would have been proud.

Any other dad would have bragged to his friends that his kid could one day play for the historically left-handed favoring Red Sox’s team.

But not my old man.

Instead, he grabbed me by the collar with one hand and snatched the bat away from me with the other, accusing me of being on steroids or weighting the bat.

For lying to him about my abilities so I could pull one over on him, make him look like a loser in front of his friends who were there because he had business to attend to once he was done showing off his kid.

Not one fucking thing he said made sense to me.

When I argued back, he decided to teach me a lesson by beating the shit out of me with said bat, breaking my left arm in the process.

I never picked up another baseball after that.

Never went back to Fenway either.

If it hadn’t been for my ma, I would have ended up just like my old man—gang banging until some wise guy noticed me and used the hotel he allowed me to own as a front while they laundered money... Or like my pals, in jail, knocking up girls with kids they can’t support, or worse, dead because I chose to play the knockout game with someone who brought a gun to a fistfight.

Still have the scars, the faded tattoos on my knuckles that I thought was hot shit to get inked with, and when it rains, my left arms aches like a motherfucker.

It wasn’t until years later that I learned he tried to swing for The Green Monster during a once-in-a-lifetime invitation to try out for the Red Sox, something the owners had come up with to generate some press.

Cillian failed.

Not only did he fail, but he also cursed out the pitcher, the catcher, and one of the coaches for rigging the tryout.

Eventually, they had to kick his sorry ass out of Fenway.

“Aiden,” my ma sings out, bring me back to the present where we’re talking over Skype. She looks good, happier than I’ve seen her, and proud as fuck over her baby boy going to the Super Bowl. “Have you listened to anything I’ve been saying?”

I shrug. “Not really.”

She rolls her eyes. “Father Sheehan will be flying down with Dom and me. He’s so proud, Aiden.”

“Is it safe for him to travel? He has to be pushing—what, eighty now?”

My ma narrows her eyes. “God gives Father Sheehan strength to not only put up with little shit-talkers such as yourself, but to hold back aging like the rest of us.” She makes the sign of the cross and looks heavenward, like I’ve just committed blasphemy for wondering about the health and age of my old football coach.

“I’ll make sure to hit the packie up before you guys get here.” Father Sheehan is particular about his whiskey.

“Dunkees, too.” She leans forward, looking around a little. “Although, I like those Krispy Kremes better. Swear to God, I’ll beat your ass if you tell anyone.”

“Who would I tell?”

“A girlfriend. Fiancée.” She side-eyes me. “The grandchildren I don’t have.”

“Jesus, Ma,” I groan, scrubbing my face with my hand. “Stop pressuring me.”

“No pressure.” She shrugs. “I’m only getting older and who knows if I’ll be alive or in a fucking grave by the time you decide to gift your mother with grandchildren she can bounce on her knee.”

“You’re fifty-one, Ma, not on your fucking deathbed,” I remind her.

With a grin, she lights a cigarette and blows out a steady stream of smoke. “I gotta go. Dominic wants to take me antiquing. Whatever the fuck that means.”

“I’m sure you’ll have fun.”

She narrows her eyes. “I think you need to move back home. You’re starting to sound a little weird.”

“Whatever.” I pull up my bank’s website. “I’ll make a deposit into your account in case you see something special.”

“Aiden, you don’t have to do that.”

“Humor me.” I transfer money into her account. “There. Shop to your heart’s content.”

“Such a good boy.”

“It’s ‘cause you’re the best. My forever and always.” I mean what I say. It’s always been the two of us, and she took it hard when I moved to Raleigh.

“You know what would make me really happy?”

I know what’s coming, but I won’t stop her from saying it. “What’s that?”

“For you to find someone else to be your forever and always.” She blows me a kiss. “Talk to you later, babe.”

After we end our call, I rub the heel of my hand over my chest. “Me, too, Ma. Me, too.”

Too fucking bad that the woman I want for my forever and always only wants right now.

***

THE NEXT MORNING, I meet Gideon at Chick-fil-A for breakfast because no one will bother us here. It’s a real family place, with about a thousand kids eating fried chicken and biscuits while drinking sweet tea. The chicken biscuits, I’ll eat, but no way in hell will I sweeten my tea.

“We’re all set for your Breakfast with Dad,” I tell him. “Moved some things around. I even made an appointment for the Porsche to get detailed the day before.”

He nods. “That’s good.”

I sit back in my chair. “Only good? Kid, if someone was offering me a ride like that to drive to school, I’d kiss his ass until my mouth went numb—not that you have to do that. I don’t expect it. Keep your kisser to yourself.”

Shit. The stuff I have to be careful about saying these days. A simple analogy can be construed as me propositioning a minor. It’s a fucked-up world we live in.

“Nah, man. I’m grateful. It’s just...” He swallows, then pins his gaze on the table. “A lot of kids are in the same boat as me.”

“You’re saying there’ll be other kids there without dads?”

He nods. “Yes, sir. We were talking the other day, and none of us know how to tie a damn tie. Only one kid besides me knew how to shake hands without breaking the other guy’s fingers. Then this other kid called him gay, so I slammed the asshole into a locker and told him to stop saying shit like that.”

Good job, I want to say, but I don’t because no matter what, his school has a strict no bullying and no fighting policy. The rules are there for a reason.

“Did you get in trouble?”

“Nah. Brent wouldn’t rat me out. Besides, he didn’t mean it. He’s just afraid, like the rest of us, about what’s going to happen after high school. I’m tired of feeling unsure and afraid... and I think they are, too. I want to do something about it.”

“What brought this on?” I ask, impressed as fuck.

He peers up at me. “Your pep talk went viral. It made me think that I’d only been concerned about my situation and not anyone else’s.”

“There’s nothing wrong with taking care of yours, kid. You can’t save the fucking world.” I don’t want to be negative, but I have to be real, and the reality of his situation is that the majority of kids like him never rise above their socioeconomic situation. A lot of time, it’s because of the people in the neighborhoods. They’re like crabs grabbing onto another crab as it tries to escape, because why leave the bucket? It’s familiar. They know the color, the shape, and the little bit of water keeps their mouths wet.

“I know I can’t, but I’d like to try at my school. Maybe leave something behind that’s more than trouble and football.”

“You saying you want to leave a legacy?”

He nods. “My momma said that football won’t last forever, so I have to use my resources to help as many people as possible.” He makes a face. “She mentioned boats and rising tides, but I don’t know how to drive a boat and that one time my buddy took me fishing at Falls Lake, I got sick.”

Ah, fuck me. I have to help this kid. What good am I as a mentor if I don’t encourage the good shit he thinks of, especially when I’m the catalyst?

“Got any ideas?”

Gideon shrugs. “At my school, they’re always having workshops and shit for science and math. Maybe there could be one for ties and handshakes and stuff... Ugh, I don’t know, but one girl mentioned that it would be nice to bring a date who knew what to do at prom.”

An idea clicks into place. My pulse jumps in response. “I know what to do.”

“Seriously?”

“And who can organize everything, too.” I grab my biscuit. “Dig in, kid. I got a woman to see about an event.”