Then he said, “I want you to stop making him prove who loves him.”
David flinched.
He looked tired suddenly.
Not glamorous older.
Just tired.
“I’m his father.”
“You’re his biology,” Hank said quietly. “Those are not the same job.”
I saw David’s throat move.
He nodded once, like a man being told an amount he already knew he owed.
Then he walked away.
The playoff game arrived gray and windy.
A cold front had pushed in overnight.
The sky looked like crumpled paper.
Leo dressed in total silence.
Not upset silence.
Focused silence.
The kind he used to wear before lumbar punctures.
I hated seeing that on game days.
He should have been excited.
He should have been a little cocky.
Instead he looked like someone preparing to carry something heavy.
At the field, Hank and I parked on the street outside the school fence as instructed.
Buster stayed with us in the truck for a minute, tail thumping weakly, confused about why he wasn’t getting out in his jersey.
That was when I noticed it.
He was breathing harder than usual.
Not dramatic.
Just off.
His muzzle lifted and dropped faster.
His scarred chest working more than it should.
“Hank?”
He turned.
Looked down.
Immediately crouched.
“Buddy?”
Buster tried to stand fully, stumbled once, then steadied.
Hank’s whole face changed.
Not panic.
Worse.
Recognition.
“He was slower this morning,” Hank muttered. “I thought maybe his joints were acting up from the cold.”
Buster looked at him and gave a tiny wag like he was apologizing.
I felt dread crawl up my spine.
“Hank—”
“He needs the vet.”
Leo, who had just stepped out of the back seat in uniform, froze.
His eyes went wide.
“No.”
Hank stood, torn straight down the middle.
The game.
The dog.
The boy.
Every loyalty he had.
I saw it happen across his face in real time.
Then he made the kindest choice and hated it.
“You go play,” he told Leo, voice rough. “Your team needs you.”
Leo shook his head so hard his cap shifted.
“No. I’m coming.”
“Leo.”
“No.”
Hank crouched and took Leo’s shoulders.
“Listen to me. Buster loves one thing almost as much as he loves treats, and that’s watching you play ball. If he could talk, he’d tell you to get on that field.”
Leo’s mouth trembled.
Trembled.
Then set.
He looked at Buster.
At the dog who had stood outside hospital rooms and beside back steps and in every crack where fear tried to get into our house.
Then Leo bent and pressed his forehead to Buster’s scarred one.
“You stay,” he whispered. “I’ll hit one for you.”
I was crying before he even finished.
Hank drove Buster to the veterinary clinic.
I took Leo into the field alone.
And would you believe it?
That was when the principal found me.
She hurried toward us in a sensible coat, wind flattening her hair.
“Mrs. Carter,” she said, slightly breathless. “The board met early this morning.”
Of course they had.
Cowards prefer dawn.
She handed me a paper.
The updated ruling allowed Hank on school grounds as Leo’s designated family support person pending final volunteer review.
Buster, however, remained excluded because the animal policy would take longer.
I looked at the paper.
Then at the empty parking spot where Hank’s truck had been.
And I laughed.
Not pleasantly.
More like the universe had developed a sense of slapstick.
“Thank you,” I said, meaning almost none of it.
Leo went to warm up.
I sat in the bleachers alone.
No Hank.
No Buster.
Just cold metal under me and that awful feeling of reaching the moment you fought for only to find the people you wanted beside you are hurting somewhere else.
The first two innings were messy.
Leo struck out looking in the first.
Missed a routine grounder in the second.
I could see his mind splitting in two from all the way up in the stands.
Half baseball.
Half dog.
Half doesn’t work mathematically.
But that’s grief for you.
By the fourth inning we were down by two.
By the fifth, the wind had turned nasty.
Parents were hunched in blankets.
Coach Benson kept glancing toward the gate like he expected Hank any minute.
So did I.
He didn’t come.
