Chapter Seventeen
Dylan
Tristan was still laughing. Hell, he’d probably be laughing for the entire school year. And maybe it was funny, but Dylan was too raw to care. That kiss…it’d been amazing, how Lucy fit against him. But the kiss was also like a good-bye, and they hadn’t even really had time to say hello yet.
He’d had enough and gave Tristan a kick under the table. “Stop already.”
Tristan pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “God, that was hilarious.” He made a face—eyes wide, mouth open. “I wish I had a picture of your expression.”
Dylan had a sudden thought that left a sick feeling in his gut. “Please tell me you didn’t set Lucy up to walk in on me.”
“No, I’m not that sneaky.” Tristan gobbled down a french fry. “I guess Coach didn’t think we’d have plans and might want to shower before we left. And why would he?”
Right—why would he? Most of the time they limped out to their cars and drove straight home, sweaty and dust covered. Tristan’s favorite server at Snaps would’ve disapproved of that, so they’d cleaned up first.
Dylan dropped his forehead to rest on the table. “That’s it. I have to move to another state.”
Tristan threw a napkin at him. “Dude, we flaunted every chest on the varsity team last year. You hit three homers, shirtless, in front of, like, eight hundred people. Why are you so freaked out now?”
That was enough to make Dylan raise his head. “Because Lucy probably didn’t go to the fundraiser, and because I wasn’t shirtless, asshat. I was naked!”
“And she really looked.” Tristan shifted in his seat to avoid the napkin sailing back his way. “I’m just saying she’s definitely interested. What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing.” Dylan stirred the ice in his tea glass with his straw, wishing Tristan would just drop it. “It’s a non-starter.”
“What? Why?” Tristan pointed at him. “If you tell me it’s your no girls rule, so help me—”
“It’s not that, although I can’t help thinking I’m dodging a bullet.” At Tristan’s raised eyebrow, Dylan held up his hands. “It’s Otis.”
After he explained everything, including his field trip with the kid, Tristan leaned against the back of the booth. “Wow, man. That sucks.”
“It does, but we’re both okay with it, I think. Otis is Lucy’s first priority.” Dylan took a bite of his hamburger. It tasted like cardboard. A shame, since Snaps had the best burgers in town. “And the minors is mine. Not taking it any further is probably the best for both of us.”
“I wasn’t commiserating because I agreed with you, dude,” Tristan said. “I think you two might be fun together. She’d definitely blast some crazy into your life, and you need that. Isn’t there some way you can talk to Otis”—he laughed—“man to man maybe? I remember being that age and Keller told me he wanted to have a man-to-man talk about something…it wasn’t even important, but I felt like a big shot.”
A little spark of hope lit in Dylan’s chest, but quickly faded. “I can’t do that to Otis. I can’t put that on him, force him to choose. It’s a no-win situation for him.”
Tristan looked thoughtful. “You ever considered majoring in education and coaching youth baseball, like middle-schoolers? Because you’ve got the heart for it.”
“Can’t major in anything if I’m not going to college.” Dylan stared Tristan down, daring him to say something. He didn’t. “Maybe I’ll coach U14 someday. After I retire.”
“That’s a long way off, no matter how you get there.” Tristan drank a big gulp of soda. He didn’t have to worry about sugar affecting performance, or where he was going after graduation. Oklahoma State had thrown a scholarship at his feet, and Alyssa liked the idea of going to Stillwater, so they’d banked on that. Together.
A future, all planned. Dylan’s gut twisted with envy. He had an idea of his future, but a lot of it was out of his control. He had the grades to get into almost any college he wanted, and UT, Texas Tech, and Baylor had all offered him scholarships to come play. But that wasn’t what he wanted.
Maybe Uncle Rick could help him, give him pointers on how to forge his own path into the farm system.
He refocused and found Tristan watching him sadly. “You know, there’s more to life than baseball.”
Maybe for him, but not for Dylan. “But it’s the only thing that matters.”
If only it could be that simple.
Uncle Rick’s tricked-out Dodge Ram was parked at the curb in front of the house when Dylan made it home. Smiling, he parked in the driveway and hurried inside. “Hello?”
Uncle Rick came into the entry from the living room. He wasn’t a big guy—only five-nine and medium build—and people had a hard time seeing him for the outstanding shortstop he’d been for fourteen years in the majors. Retiring to his ranch had weathered him some, too. He looked like a cowboy now, right down to the scuffed boots and sandblasted Wranglers. “There’s my favorite pitcher!”
“That’s because you can hit everything I have.” Dylan accepted Rick’s firm clap on the back. “You look like saddle leather, Uncle Rick.”
“I’ve been rounding up cattle for the last three weeks.” Rick showed him calluses on his hands. “As far as retirement gigs go, ranching isn’t a bad deal at all.”
“What happened to your hands?”
“We had to rope some calves. One was a strong little bugger—dragged me a dozen feet before stopping. I had on gloves, so think what would’ve happened if I hadn’t.”
“Being a cowboy sounds more dangerous than I thought.” Dylan followed him into the living room. “Where’s Mom?”
“She ran to the store. She’s making that chicken dish I like so much for dinner and needed some things.” Rick collapsed into Dad’s favorite chair. “She said Jack will be home around six.”
“Yeah, he’s been working a lot. But…I’m glad they aren’t here. I wanted to talk to you.”
Rick rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. “I figured. What’s up?”
“Mom and Dad are pushing college. They don’t understand why I’d want to go straight into the minors. They think I need a ‘fallback’ plan or something. How can I convince them otherwise?”
“You can’t.” Rick settled back in the chair. “Your dad watched me struggle my way up after high school, but that was different. I wasn’t all that great in school. Your dad was—and so are you. What’s so terrible about college?”
Not him, too. “I have a plan.”
“Hmm.”
Dylan rolled his eyes. “What hmmm?”
Rick’s expression hardened. “Plans are destroyed the second you sign a contract. The club owns you, pure and simple. You don’t control your destiny outside of what you produce on the field. You can’t network or study your way up the chain— A huge part of it is luck. Right place, right time. Can you roll with that?”
Dylan mashed down the panic rising in his chest. “I can. If I can just get into the farm system, I know it’ll all be fine.”
“Let me give you a stat…only ten percent of minor-leaguers ever make the majors. That’s ten percent of the guys good enough to move into professional play. Only one percent of high school players make it straight to farm on top of that. A year or two of college won’t kill you—or your chances—at all. What it might give you is another passion outside the game that will sustain you if a fickle career doesn’t work out.”
Doubt chased its tail in Dylan’s mind. He knew he had the stuff. He knew it. All he needed was a shot and to work very, very hard. “I can always go back to college later.”
“Without the scholarship, and with some wear and tear on your body.” Uncle Rick rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to dissuade you. I want you to have all the facts, is all. I won’t lie to you and say the hard work wasn’t it worth it— It was for me. If this is absolutely what you want, I know some scouts in the area. I could put in a call for a quick looksee this summer, give you some idea of where you stand before you rule out college ball before commit day. Okay?”
That seemed fair. “Okay.”
He could do this. He could prove to them he was ready to play pro ball. And if part of him wondered how lonely he’d be, and where Lucy planned to go after graduation, well…that was sheer weakness. He wasn’t going to be benched by weakness. Not today, not ever.