Page 7 of Hard Hitter
Raelyn smiled brightly at him and then pointed to the line that marked where to stand when throwing. Quinn glanced up at the clown waiting to be dropped, the target that he needed to hit, and back at the girl who was smiling encouragingly at him. He felt himself smile back at her. He knew this would be easy enough. Turning back to the target, he rolled the ball in his hand a few times before he wound up and took his shot.
Ping! Splash!
There was a brief look of surprise on the clown’s face before she was dropped into the water tank. Raelyn cheered and jumped up and down next to him, and there were claps and sounds of encouragement and interest among the small crowd of party guests who had gathered behind him. A warm feeling filled Quinn's chest as he heard this crowd of strangers cheering for him, making him feel a sense of pride and a rush of adrenaline he was sure he'd never felt before.
The dark-haired man standing next to the bucket of baseballs smiled and clapped his hands before tossing him another ball and gesturing toward the next tank. "If you can dunk all three like that, we'll let you choose any prize you want," he said as they moved over. This clown had bright blue pig tails and a black and white polka-dotted suit with bright blue clown shoes.
Quinn tossed the baseball up in the air and caught it, and with a glance and a small smirk in Raelyn's direction, he wound up and threw the ball for the second time.
Ping! Splash!
An even more enthusiastic roar of applause and cheering erupted behind him. He turned and smiled uncertainly at all the unfamiliar faces, and then moved down the line to the next and final dunk tank. Catching the ball again, he glanced up at this last clown who, if Quinn wasn't mistaken, looked like he was bracing himself. This made himsmile even more, a surge of an unfamiliar emotion-confidence?- filling him up. He gave the ball a few tosses into the air, looked over at Raelyn who gave him an encouraging nod, and this time he really smiled. He wound up and sent the ball flying into the very center of the target once more.
The outburst of applause and cheers he received had him smiling wider than he was sure he ever had before, a few people had given him a pat on the back. He heard a fewwows andgood jobs. Raelyn cheered and pumped her arm in the air before giving him a high five.
"That was so cool," Raelyn said, watching as the clowns all got out of their tanks and began to dry off. "But I think the running face paint might make them even scarier."
Quinn looked over his shoulder at the drenched clowns, wigs askew, face paint and make-up running. She wasn't wrong. When he looked back at Raelyn, there was a tall man with sandy blonde hair, a perfectly manicured mustache, and bright blue eyes that matched the girl's, standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders. Quinn didn't know much about having money, but he could tell this man was drenched in wealth, from his haircut to his easy white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and beach-patterned swim shorts that had likely never been in the water. This man's look said that he was pretending to be casual, butwhy yes, this outfit cost more than your mom's monthly rent.
"Who is this young man?" The tall man asked. He was clearly Raelyn's father, with a smile that crinkled his eyes.
"This is Quinn Casey," Raelyn said, smiling her friendly, bright smile again. Quinn wondered if she ever looked anything but perfectly happy. "He dunked all those clowns on his first throw! I think he's my new best friend."
Quinn paused, looking at the girl's face for a few moments. He'd never really had a best friend before. He wasn't sure why someone like her would want to be friends with someone like him, but he'd only known her for a half hour and already he'd experienced feelings of prideand confidence that he never had before. He returned her smile and for the first time was filled with hope that his life just might brighten up with a friend like Raelyn DeRose.
Chapter 4
Driving down the familiar lakeshore drive of his hometown with the top off of his rented new Ford Bronco, Quinn took in a deep breath, letting the unsalted air fill his lungs. Living in California was great, known for its breathtaking views, but the air up here in Northern Michigan was fresher and cleaner, more crisp. Quinn gripped the steering wheel with his left hand while his right arm hung in a sling across his chest.
This time yesterday he was getting discharged from one of the best surgical units in California, and now he was cruising down M-37 toward his childhood home. His gut lurched and knotted at the thought of the old, run-down bungalow that contained no happy memories. He hadn't seen it in years but remembered the flimsy chain link fence that wrapped around the yard, having jumped it countless times sneaking in and out of his house when his mom had company. The thought of his mom still sitting in that ratty chair facing the window made him tense.
Quinn wondered what the last words were that they had spoken to each other. Had he just told her "I'm off to Arizona, don't forget to eat"? Did she say anything to him? When was the last time she'd spoken to him at all? He and his mother had been passing strangers. They'd never had any kind of relationship, but were just sort of there, living in the same house, breathing in the same misery.
On the plane, Quinn had taken to Facebook to look up his two best friends from middle and high school who he was pretty sure were still in the area. Last time he’d talked to them, they were in the process of opening their own sports bar right in their hometown. He was happyto see that not only had they succeeded in opening a place of their own, but it was thriving. Traverse City was home to several breweries, distilleries, and wineries, and was famous for craft beer, with the best bar hops and brew tours in the state. With so many craft bars to choose from, Jett Miller and Chris Watson-the third- went for a classic sports bar featuring a variety of domestic draughts, local brews, and local ciders. It was the best of both worlds. While many of the bars in Traverse City boasted a very hipster vibe, Trojan Horse Sports Bar was a veritable man cave.
An idea began to form at the thought of the bar and his old friends. Quinn pressed the button on his steering wheel and spoke to Siri through the Bronco's bluetooth, "GPS to Trojan Horse Sports Bar, Traverse City, Michigan." The screen in the center console brought up the directions in maps. Only eight minutes away, it was worth the detour. Quinn wasn't much of a drinker, but he knew he needed something to ease his nerves and loosen up the knot in his stomach. Plus, the idea of seeing Chris and Jett again after so many years brought a much-needed smile to his face.
About ten minutes later he found himself parked in front of Trojan Horse. His nerves turned to excitement and he was having a hard time keeping the grin off his face, wondering what his old friends would say at the sight of him walking through the door. He made an awkward attempt to smooth his ever-unruly hair with one hand and threw on his aviators, he hopped out of the Bronco and sauntered into the bar.
The space was longer than it was wide, with large flat screens available at every angle, playing a variety of sports channels. The bar itself ran almost the entire length of one side of the building, with trendy bare-bulb rustic lights hanging down from wood beams. The place was done in dark wood tones, and where there weren't flat screens on the walls there were photos of sports teams, posters, jerseys, and various sports equipment hung up. Quinn scanned the walls and the bar again, the liquor bottles backlit on their shelves. There was a section of wall behind the bar that didn't have shelves filled with liquor, but instead boasted the white and blue number twelve LA jersey, with CASEYemblazoned across the top. He couldn't help smiling, swelling with pride and appreciation that his two friends had made a special spot for him on their walls.
The bar was pretty much empty, which wasn't surprising as it was 2:30 on a Monday afternoon. There were two men at the bar, one sitting on a bar stool with a laptop and notebooks on the bar top, and the other behind it, counting liquor bottles. Fair-skinned Jett Miller was pulling out bottles of Hendrick's from beneath the bar, his light brown hair as curly as Quinn had remembered. Chris was tall with coffee-colored skin, his black hair shaved short.
Quinn took a deep breath and let it out, "Jesus, boys, I heard business was thriving. Maybe if you took down that hideous number twelve, you'd get some business."
Both men looked up immediately as Quinn took his sunglasses off, their eyes doubling in size as they realized their old friend was standing in their bar. They erupted in exclamations of disbelief and surprise that he'd shown up unannounced, stopping what they were doing and coming over to greet him with manly, back-slapping hugs, though careful of the obviously injured arm.
"What the fuck is this? You're not really benched, are you?" Jett gestured to Quinn's sling, "Shit, I can't believe you came back! How long has it been?"
"Fuck, I couldn't tell you," Quinn shook his head and looked around. "This place is fuckin awesome, guys."
"QuinnfuckingCasey," Chris shook his head, taking in the sight of him. "Seriously though, what's the injury? It's not serious, right? Y’all won't keep your winning streak if you’re out!"
"No, no, it's not serious. Just had surgery yesterday. I'm hoping I can find a decent PT while I'm here, but I should be good to go by the middle of next season," said Quinn, running his free hand through his hair again.
"How long are you in town?" Jett asked, then ushered Quinn toward the bar. "Fuck, man, let's get you a drink- on the house!"
Quinn slid onto a bar stool and Chris resumed his spot in front of his laptop. "You don't need to buy my drinks for me, guys.” He shook his head as Jett grabbed a rocks glass from behind the bar.
