Letters Across the Sea by Genevieve Graham (spicy books to read .txt) 📕

“Thanks, Mama,” he’d replied dutifully.

The Beiser girls were nice enough, but he wasn’t attracted to either, and though he’d never tell his mother, he doubted he could ever marry a woman who couldn’t hold up her end of a conversation. For his mother’s sake, he smiled at the girls, who were watching him, just as he’d been warned.

As he scanned the faces around him, he felt a ripple of unease in his chest. The various skin tones in the crowd had become more obvious to him lately. Hannah and his mother had tried to keep their letters to him upbeat, but his father had been blunt about the swelling animosity against Jews in the city. Max hadn’t been all that surprised by the news. He’d witnessed the growing divide for himself while at university in Hamilton.

“Dreyfus!” the coach called, breaking through his thoughts. “You’re up!”

He grabbed a bat and headed toward the plate, a new kind of apprehension buzzing through him. How many of those spectators, how many of his old, goy friends still regarded him as their chum? How many now saw him as something… less? He screwed his ball cap on more firmly and set his jaw. Time to remind them that he was something more.

It was two out, bottom of the eighth, with no one on base. The Sons were ahead 5–4. Let’s tie this thing up, he told himself.

Standing with his feet apart and knees bent, Max held the bat high and let his body sway slightly, matching the pitcher’s rhythm while he waited for the throw. When the pitch came, his focus instantly sharpened, and the ball slammed into the sweet spot, just off the centre point of his bat. The Sons’ fielders took off running while the crowd roared, and Max sprinted to first base. He was kicking past second when he spotted Jimmy grabbing the ball and winding up. Just like his older brother, Jimmy had a great arm, so Max settled in at third. Hopefully the next batter would get him to home.

Jimmy pointed at him. “Almost got you!” And Max laughed out loud.

But it didn’t matter, because their next batter struck out and the inning ended. Max grabbed his glove and headed back onto the field.

At the top of the ninth, the Native Sons’ first hitter made it to second. After him, Jimmy stepped up to bat. Jimmy wasn’t as good at bat as he was in the field, so Max moved in a little.

“Come on, Jimmy!” he heard Molly yell.

A swing and a miss. Jimmy backed up a step and kicked the dirt. He was the only one of the Ryans who didn’t have a fiery head of orange hair, but his temper was just as sharp as theirs, especially when it was directed at himself.

“Get in there, Jimmy!” Molly shouted again. “He’s got nothing! Eye on the ball!”

A slight, almost imperceptible nod, then Jimmy was back at the plate, setting up his stance. He angled his body toward the pitcher, then crack! The ball shot off his bat, and he ran toward first base as it headed up, up, up. It was a good hit, and too far for Max. He held his breath as it descended, watching his teammate, Pavlo Oliynyk, labour across the field with his glove held out.

“Get under it, Pav!” Max shouted.

It should have been an easy catch. From across the field, Max could practically feel the thud of the ball landing in his own glove. If it had been Richie instead of Pavlo, he would’ve snatched it out of midair and shot it home. But Pavlo was a foot shorter, and so was his reach. The ball plopped down just off his glove, and by the time he picked it up and lobbed it to the infield, Jimmy had run home, and so had the fellow ahead of him. It was now 7–4 for the Native Sons.

Max bit down on his disappointment and acknowledged Jimmy’s hit with a nod. It wasn’t like they’d lost the entire game. They still had a chance, albeit a slim one.

When it was time for Harbord Playground to hit again, Matteo Rossi was first up. He swung, and the ball plowed through the infield, bouncing between legs and around players. It was a beautifully messy grounder, and it got Rossi to first. Snooky Rubenstein, their shortstop, was up next. He made it to first base, and Rossi moved to second. One batter later, all the bases were loaded, and it was up to Max to bring Harbord to victory.

Adrenaline coursed through him as he strode toward the plate, blocking out the cheers and jeers of the crowd. He settled into his stance, raised the bat, and stared down the pitcher. In his mind, there was only one way this was going to go.

Max belted the first pitch, sending it chest height into left field, slicing through the fielders. He took off, putting everything he had into his legs, relishing the crunch of gravel under his shoes as he sprinted past the bases. Flying toward home, he nearly collided with the three runners in front of him, but they all turned, leaping onto each other in celebration while the rest of their teammates rushed from the bench. The crowds on the sidelines went crazy.

They’d done it. Harbord Playground, 8. Native Sons, 7. It was the best feeling in the world.

Pulling out of the team’s embrace, Max spotted Hannah and Molly squeezing between people, on their way to him.

Hannah hugged him tight. “What a game. You were terrific!” she yelled over the noise.

“That was a fantastic hit!” Molly said from behind her.

She was even prettier up close, her green eyes set off by the pale blue of her dress, which he recognized as one of Hannah’s hand-me-downs.

“Thanks, Molly. It’s good to see you.”

“I’m so glad you’re back!” she said, reaching for a hug.

He breathed in the fragrant warmth of her hair as she squeezed him. “Me too.”

“Okay, okay,” Jimmy said,