Black Velvet (37) (Patreon)

(A/N: Hey guys! Here’s a little mini-chapter to tide you over. I’m so sorry about the slow week (for some tiers.) I was really struggling with my mental health this past week due to some outlying circumstances. That’s all I can really say to excuse anything! I’m setting the alarm to wake up early and hopefully utilize my off day to write a bunch in a few different books to get myself out of this funk! Sorry this wasn’t longer. The next chapter will be exciting, at least. ☺️)

—

Ten years ago

I spent almost all night on both signs.

I can distinctly remember my mom shouting that I'd better turn the lights off immediately and that I'd better get my butt under the blankets, or I'd be without television for a week.

I ignored her, just because, no matter how much I loved the Z-Files, I had a job to do.

I hung both the pieces of poster board up to dry around eleven, puffy-eyed and jittery with the desire for the comfort of my blankets, and fell asleep next to them both.

—

The next day, covered in the remnants of glitter, I had ridden out with Dad to the baseball field.  He'd bought me a funnel cake from the stands and let me keep the change. He motioned for me to find somewhere high up on the bleachers and far away from where his ex-boss was perched.

As far as my eight-year-old self was concerned, that day was a great day. I had smiled, feeling extraordinarily proud of my signs. I rocketed up the bleachers even though they were still wet from the previous day's rainfall.

"You have two signs today, Oliver?"  My aunt’s knitting circle friend had asked, motioning for me to sit down next to her crocheted purse.  I had nodded eagerly, ready to show them off.  "That's very sweet. Who for?"

"I made one for my brother, but,"  I lifted the other one, dark blue like the numbers on the back of their little league uniforms,  "this one is for his friend Tobias. He's really good, and he likes stars — like me."

She hummed, seemingly horrified that my mom would let me go near glitter glue or scissors after what I'd done to Ms. Hartgrove’s cat's fur the year before.

I groaned a bit at that, opted on ignoring her for reliving the laughter of seeing a patchy Mister Tomlin strutting back home, mewing and happy in the summer heat to have been relieved of most of his coat (and I’d do it again if I had to, which I did, a year later) —

But I forgot about it entirely when the game started.

I was much more excited than usual to see Tobias called up to pitch that day. He jogged up to his position, waited while the referee talked, turned back up the stands to look for his mom, like always — a small smile when he caught her back on the benches alone.

... But his look for me was different. His eyes narrowed with confusion as I held both his and Nic's signs up proudly, practically bouncing because Tobias was the best player on the team.  All I could think, over and over, was how I hoped he liked my stars.

That I really hoped he liked my stars.

His nose wrinkled the slightest bit, and I know it wasn't from the sun; there was absolutely none to speak of, and after a moment of that confused stare of his, he turned back to pitch, ball in hand.

I glanced over to his mother, and she smiled at me brightly, sweetly, like she knew something that we didn't.  It was the first time that I recalled seeing her smile reach her tired eyes, and it only made me feel prouder.

After that day, I believed in Nic's faulty superstition about the poster-boards carrying good luck for those they were made for; because Tobias played better than I'd ever seen him play.

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