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Carson had been avoiding Greta since their argument in the car. Greta wasn’t exactly sorry about it.
But ever since her conversation with Joey in the kitchen… she’d been thinking about it a whole lot. Thinking over what Joey said about Carson making her happy.
Greta still wasn’t convinced.
But that could just be the lingering bitter taste in her mouth since they fought.
She’d tried to disguise it with cigarettes.
Things had been… politely civil. Carson still spoke to her as a coach, as she did any other Peach. But… the little moments of connection had stopped. Greta hated that she missed that more than the sex.
There were no more quiet conversations in the hallway, no sitting together on the bus for a few minutes, no intimate glances across the locker room. Carson was all business all the time, and Greta could see the strain, could see the toll it was taking on her. She could see it in the tightness in Carson’s shoulders, the perpetual downturn of her lips, the increasingly dark circles under her eyes. No hint of a sparkle in those brown eyes that usually twinkled with delight.
Greta hated it so much she was almost ready to… reach out.
She was sitting with the Peaches one afternoon, painting her nails with Maybelle. They’d had a morning game that day, were already back at the barracks to have lunch and some precious free time. Carson had not eaten with the rest of the team. She looked drawn and tired, and their narrow loss to the Comets had only exacerbated the sad downtilt to her mouth.
Now the coach was nowhere to be seen, while the majority of the team lounged together. Jess had coaxed Esti into helping her with pronunciation of Spanish words, and Lupe laughed every time the shortstop didn’t get it right. Ana and Joey were conversing quietly in the corner, and Greta was going to need to ask Joey exactly what they’d been talking about so intently. Terri was on the phone to her husband in the other room, and Shirley… was off somewhere. Probably communing with her humidifiers.
Carson’s absence from the team was beginning to feel deliberate. She’d heard a few of the girls mention it in the locker room earlier, and wondered if it was time to raise it with the coach. They were losing enough games as it was, they didn’t need morale to drop any further because they felt abandoned by their coach. Again.
Greta had just finished applying her second coat of polish - was blowing on her nails - when Carson appeared in the doorway. A forced smile of greeting in response to the chorus of “Hey coach!” that echoed around the room.
Brown eyes locked with Greta for a moment. A barely perceptible gesture, a request for Greta’s company. And Carson walked out of the front door.
Greta was so surprised she didn’t second guess. Smiled at Maybelle before making an excuse about the fumes from the polish, needing some fresh air.
She found Carson sitting in one of the armchairs on the porch. Greta stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure what was going on. Usually when Carson gave her a look like that… she was waiting so they could walk off together. Find somewhere private.
Not sit on the front porch in broad daylight.
“Coach?”
Carson didn’t look up at her. Didn’t stop folding and refolding the hem of her dress, the nervous motion making the tendons in her forearms bunch and flex.
“I know… you don’t want to speak to me. But can you just… I just need… Can you please just sit with me for a bit? While I think.”
“Look, Shaw…”
“Please Greta. I’m not asking you to do anything, just.. I just need to think, and I’m so tired of being alone.” Her voice cracked on the word.
Greta’s traitorous heart lurched in response.
She sat in the matching chair. Crossed her legs and settled back.
Carson looked up for a split second. The hint of a grateful smile, before the anxious, sad look returned.
At a bit of a loss, Greta stared out at the street. A few of the neighbourhood kids were throwing a ball down the street. Another few rode past on bicycles. The mailman whistled as he made his rounds. The sun shone down on their quiet suburban street, a few fluffy clouds skidding along in the wake of an imperceptible breeze.
It was all painfully ordinary.
And exceptionally fraught.
Greta relaxed back into her chair further, tilting her body so she could better observe Carson in her peripheral vision. Every single part of the catcher’s body radiated tension. Unhappiness.
Even her breathing was sharp. Staccato.
Greta had to fight back the urge to get up. To move around. To say something. Not so much bored as terrified of the need to sit with her own feelings. When you spent your whole life running away from any kind of discomfort, sitting in strained silence with nothing but your own thoughts to keep you occupied… wasn’t what you wanted to be forced into.
No.
Carson hadn’t forced her into it. She’d asked. Actually reached out despite everything and asked for something she needed.
She wasn’t in the habit of doing that, and it must have been hard. Reading between the lines of their conversations - of what she knew about Carson’s life - Greta got the sense that Carson didn’t ask for much, because she didn’t expect to get it. Her lack of self-confidence, of self-belief…
She hadn’t learned, like Greta, that you had to make your own confidence. Because no one was going to believe in you if you didn’t believe in yourself.
And even if you didn’t really believe in yourself, you could fool people into thinking you did, and that was almost the same.
A movement caught Greta’s attention out of the corner of her eye. Carson was picking at her fingers, pulling at her cuticles.
Greta had seen the results of this anxious habit, had seen the bleeding mess that the catcher could make of herself without even realising.
She wanted to reach over and still Carson’s movements. Wanted to smooth the worry lines from her brow, to massage the tightness from Carson’s shoulders. To see the dimple in Carson’s smile.
She couldn’t, and worse than that she wasn’t even sure if Carson would want her to. And that stung.
So she did the next best thing. She did what she wanted Carson to do, and hoped that the other woman would follow her lead.
Greta let her hands lay on her thighs, palms up. Started breathing deeply. Audibly. Holding her breath for a couple of seconds with each inhale.
It took maybe thirty breaths before Greta noticed that Carson relaxed her hands. Another dozen or more before Carson shifted position on the chair. Scooted her butt back and rested her spine against the seat back. A further couple of minutes before Carson’s hands also lay palm up on her thighs, fingers loosely curled.
She couldn’t look at her watch, but… Greta estimated it took about ten minutes for Carson’s breathing to match pace. For her shoulders to lose tension, her jaw to unclench.
Greta maintained her breathing for another few minutes. Until Carson’s eyes started to droop. Her whole frame loosening.
When Carson’s breathing lost pace with Greta’s, she risked a glance over. Carson’s eyes were drooping, unfocused. Her blinks slow.
“Hey coach.” Soft.
“Hmmmn?” Carson didn’t even look up, on the edge of sleep.
“I think you should go and have a nap.”
“What?” Brown eyes blinked into focus, met Greta’s gaze.
“Go have a nap Shaw. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
“I… I mean… I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“I can see that. Go catch a few hours now. And then maybe we can have a late afternoon practice session later?”
“Uh… yeah… that sounds… good.”
Greta stood, smoothed the wrinkles out of her dress. Walked to Carson’s chair and held out her hand.
“Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
Carson looked at her outstretched hand. Brown eyes cut to Greta’s face. Cautious.
Greta nodded, once.
And Carson clasped her hand. Let Greta haul her out of the armchair.
Their fingers tangled for a moment as Carson found her feet. Before the coach walked back into the house.
Greta noticed the burning bitterness had disappeared from the back of her throat. And she smiled.