I stride up to the plate, adjust my batting glove, nod at the catcher.
Grant’s mask is pushed up on his forehead, his hair sticking through the cage. His expression is all business. “Don’t go easy on him,” he says.
“Not in my nature,” I say.
“Good.” Grant pulls down his mask as he crouches behind the plate, glove between his legs.
I take a few practice swings outside the box, loosening up. The sun rises on the horizon, bright and bold.
The sky is blue and it’s a new day, full of new chances for baseball, for life.
And no regrets, I hope.
In a few hours, we’ll host the Texas Scoundrels for a game. Will Grant know by then if the daylight gives him the same answers as the nighttime?
I’m tempted to steal a quick glance at the man behind the plate, but I don’t. Best to let him make this decision entirely on his own.
I draw a steady breath and visualize putting on my blinders.
Getting in the zone.
At this moment, here on this field with the sun on my shoulders, my world narrows to baseball, only baseball. And just like that, everything feels right.
That’s how this sport has always been for me. It’s been the solace from any storm. It was the escape from my home when I needed it. It was my joy, my respite, my freedom.
I settle in at the plate, adjusting my stance, digging in.
Ready.
Grant must give Sullivan the signal because the rookie pitcher pulls on the bill of his cap, nods, then lifts his glove.
He goes into the windup and fires off the white orb that whizzes right past me.
Damn.
With a thump of ball against leather, Grant fields it.
I don’t even swing. That ball flies by too fast.
Grant tosses it back out to Sullivan on the mound. Sullivan paces then settles again on the rubber.
He sends the next pitch straight down the middle; I can see it in my crosshairs. I put my weight into the swing, slicing the air.
“Strike!”
I turn around. Crosby clenches his right fist, jerks it high like he’s the umpire.
“No shit,” I say to my teammate.
“I call ’em like I see ’em,” he says with a shrug. Then his eyes light up, and he smiles. “Want a third baseman? I can also cover second. And I can cover shortstop.”
“You’re taking over for me already?”
“Maybe I am,” he says.
“We can always use another player on the field,” Grant says.
“I’m there,” Crosby says and trots out to shortstop like a kid in the park.
I settle back in, and when Sullivan goes into the windup, Grant’s words reverberate.
Don’t go easy on him.
Never.
The ball whizzes down the line, and I connect with a satisfying thwack. The grounder skitters across the field and Crosby scoops it up easily, smothering it with his glove.
I curse but then return to the plate.
“Give us another grand slam like you did in September,” Crosby shouts.
Laughing, I roll my eyes. “If only it had gotten us all the way,” I shout back, then turn to Grant. “Game against the Aces that clinched a playoff slot for us last year.”
Grant nods, a spark in his eyes. “Yup. You hit a slider off the Aces star closer to win the divisionals, and no one threw a slider to you the rest of the month.”
I whistle in appreciation. “Damn. You do know the game.”
“I do. Now get your ass in the box and hit.”
We keep it up like that for several more rounds. I get a few solid hits and put one over the fence. Sullivan strikes me out a few times and walks me once.
All because of Grant, who’s unflappable. He calls the right pitch at the right time, guiding Sullivan. Crosby and I trade off, with Crosby taking some swings, working the pitcher as I field.
It’s teamwork. It’s four guys playing pickup baseball like when we were kids, a ragtag bunch helping each other out, playing a game—loving a game.
It’s no regrets.
At least, that’s how this last hour has been for me.
I hope it’s that way for Grant too.
When the session is over, the rookie pitcher is smiling again, a grin of gratitude.
“Keep that shit up,” I say to Sullivan. “We need a good right-handed reliever.”
“Thanks, Declan,” he says. “And it is a hell of an honor to play with you. You’ve got serious game.”
“And you are doing much better, Sully,” Crosby says, knocking glove to glove. “Good job putting in the time.”
Those words tap on a recent memory. “You know how the saying goes,” I say. “Well, let’s get it right.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see a smile tugging on Grant’s lips.
Let’s get it right, indeed.
Today was a test—of concentration, form, focus.
And if I’m grading myself?
I was not one bit distracted by Grant. That’s got to be a good thing, as I weigh what to do with his offer—an offer that’s already making me revise my rules about getting involved with ballplayers.
Rules I need for my own sanity, so my emotions don’t rule me, so my cravings don’t defeat me.
But then, Grant is making me rip up all my rules.
17
Grant
I am not looking at the clock. I am not staring at the time.
I’m only checking my phone for the tenth time to see if Reese scored a big guest for her podcast. My friend started her sports interview show this year as a junior in college, and she’s already killing it, racking up downloads and fantastic reviews.
When I click on my text messages as I leave the locker room after the Texas Scoundrels game, I refuse to let it get me down that Declan hasn’t texted me about my offer.
Hell, I refuse to let it get me down that we lost the game when a Scoundrels home run sealed it for the opponent. And that after an endless at-bat when my pitcher and I just couldn’t get in synch. He shook off sign after sign until I called for a curveball, and then the hitter went long.
Did I call the wrong pitch, or was it just one of those games? But close games happen, so I decide to let it go.
I should do the same with Declan and my offer.
Except, am I supposed to text him?
Ugh. I have no idea how this shit works. I made the offer, so am I supposed to make it again? Hey, dude. Called it! I still want to bang you like a screen door in a hurricane.
Time to focus on anything else. Like Reese and her good news. I click on her message.
* * *
Reese: Slam dunk! I nabbed Zayden Wilson, basketball star and NBA rookie, for my podcast!
* * *
Grant: Course you did! You’re a rock star! So proud of you.
* * *
Reese: Thank you! I love that you always support my crazy endeavors.
* * *
Grant: They’re not crazy at all. They’re very you. And you are an awesome podcaster and interviewer. Maybe someday you’ll have me on.
* * *
Reese: Duh. Of course I want you on.
* * *
Reese: Also, any news on the report front? :)
* * *
As I leave the complex, I tap out a reply.
* * *
Grant: We kissed. But I don’t think anything more is going to happen.
* * *
My finger hovers over the send button, but some strange sensation in my chest keeps me from sending it. Is it a weight? Or a worry?
I don’t know, so I don’t hit send.
Trying to figure it out, I read the draft one more time, and my face goes hot. I glance behind me, like someone can see me, read what I’m writing, tell what I’m thinking.
Like it’s written in my eyes and on my features too.
That’s when I know why I don’t hit send.
Reese is my person, and I tell her nearly everything.
She was also the first person I came out to. I’m not at all ashamed of who I like or what I want and especially with her. But this situation with Declan feels too new, too uncertain. I don’t even trust what’s happening in my own mind, so I don’t know that I can share it with my best friend. Whatever is or isn’t happening with Declan feels intensely private. Incredibly personal. It’s not for anyone else but the two of us.
And for some uncomfortable reason, I have this sinking feeling that it’s happening only in my head.
That I’m about to be rejected, and I don’t know that I want to serve that intel up even to Reese.
Maybe it’s because tomorrow I’ll need to adjust.
Reroute back to the way things were.
Workout buddies?
Fine. I can do that.
Teammates?
I damn well better buckle back into that role because I suspect that’s where I’m headed. Just a gut feeling.
I hit delete and write a new note.
* * *
Grant: There’s nothing to tell at the moment. I’ll keep you posted, babe.
* * *
Reese: You better!
* * *
I close the thread, a smidgen of guilt wedging itself under my skin for not confessing.
But what would I confess to? That my head is a ball of confusion over what happens next?
Where exactly did we leave off?
Is there a website with a how-to guide for making a deflower-my-dick-and-ass-please offer to your teammate?
Grinding my jaw, I pop in my earbuds, and I get the hell away from the hotel, the complex, and all the confusion.
We have a free afternoon, so I wander in the Arizona heat, sunglasses on, listening to a wild thriller as some swaggery dude named Jack or Stone or Blade tries to evade Interpol and find a stolen cache of radioactive diamonds.
The escape does the trick.
But only in short spurts.
I can’t entirely stop thinking about Declan. I feel stupid for thinking about him so much. Utterly stupid and young.
Like a puppy dog.
I need to shake him off, get him out of my mind.
When I reach a sprawling park, I break into a jog, then pick up the pace and go for an impromptu run in the middle of the day, jogging past cacti and desert flowers, around trees and along red rocks.
The one thing that always works for me is moving my body.
Eventually, a half hour or so later, my thoughts of him settle down. Even out.
Whatever will be will be, and I’m good with it.
I’m not going to text him because I don’t know what to say.
When I finish the run, I return to the complex. I’m near the Helen Williams sign when my phone flashes with a call from my grandpa—as if he can sense from California that I need someone familiar.
A sense of homecoming threads through me, comfort that comes from the person who’s always been there for me, and I answer with a happy hello.
“Nice double,” he says as I head to the backfield.
“You saw the game?”
“Hello? Streaming. Ever heard of it?”
I smile as I climb the steps in the empty bleachers, then grab a seat. “You guys didn’t ever like to miss a game, did you?” I ask, stretching my legs out in front of me, sitting in the afternoon sun, the mountains in the distance.
“We watch most of your games, kid.” He clears his throat. “Now, my daily report. I’m waiting for it.”
Leaning back, getting comfortable, I give him my report as I’ve been doing every day since I’ve been here. I tell him about the hitters, the pitchers, the coaches, the skipper. About the fans and the guys. About Sullivan, Crosby, Chance.
I leave Declan out. But that’s okay. There are plenty of other things to talk about.
“And what about you? How’s all your running going? Ready for the Bay City marathon?”
There’s a pause before he answers. “Doctor says I might need knee surgery.”
I sit up straighter. This is the first time he’s mentioned anything. “Yikes. What’s that all about?”
“Apparently, two marathons a year is a lot on a body. Especially an old one like mine,” he says.
“You’re not that old.”
“‘Not that old’ is easy to say when you’re as young as you are.”
“When will you have it?”
“Not sure,” he says.
“I want to be there.”
“You do baseball. You let me take care of my knee.”
“Pops, I want to support you. Just let me know when it’s going to be. Try to schedule it when I’m in town,” I say, halfway to begging.
He laughs. “When? In between your home games? You’re going to be busy the second you get back here. You’ll be on the road. And I am going to be okay. Trust me.”
I swallow roughly, wishing I could help him out. “But—”
“But your grandma will be here. I’ll be fine.”
“Does insurance cover it?”
“Probably, but it’s insurance. Who knows? I’ll look into it.”
“What about PT? Do you need PT afterward?”
“Kid, I just saw the orthopedic surgeon the other day.”
I sit up straighter, resting my elbows on my knees. “Let me pay for the PT. Insurance doesn’t always cover that. I want to.”
“You’re so damn stubborn.”
“I wonder where I got that from,” I deadpan.
“Your mom,” he says with a laugh, then clears his throat. “By the way, I saw her recently. She said she wants to come to Opening Day when you’re playing in San Francisco.”
I cross my fingers. “We don’t even know for sure I’ll make the roster.”
He scoffs. “I have faith.”
“And I appreciate it,” I say, and though I don’t want to assume I’ll make it, things look good so far.
He takes a beat, then adds, “And she wants to come with Frank.”
It’s like I’ve been sucker-punched. “Is she with him again?”
“Seems she is,” my grandpa says with a sigh.
“Guess she can’t stay away from that guy. I haven’t seen him since the end of high school. Haven’t seen her in a while either.” My gut twists again, but this time there’s no confusion—my parents always have that effect on me. “And she wants to come to my games? Now that I’m this close to the majors?” I say, frustration lacing my tone. “She didn’t come to any minor league games.”
He sighs. “She’s complicated.”
“I know.”
“So is your dad.”
“Did he ask for tickets too?”
“No, but he’s pretty busy with Cammi,” he says, and I guess that’s wife number three or girlfriend number twenty. Hell if I know. I stopped trying to count.
My throat tightens, and images of Mom and Dad flitting in and out of my life, Mom singing in clubs, Dad trying to play guitar, flashes before me. My mom is barely thirty-eight years old, same as my dad. They’re not together. They haven’t been in years. Both have dated plenty since they split. Mostly jerks. The only one I ever got along with was Frank, the guy my mom was briefly married to when I was in high school. Till he opened his big mouth about me.
But I don’t want to deal with them today. With a painful wince, and a promise to myself, I let go of the knot of emotions the people who gave me DNA stir up in me.
“Tell Grams I love her, okay?”
“I will, kid. Anything else interesting happening at spring training?”
The back of my neck pricks. My senses trip.
Part of me wants to tell him. Part of me wants to sit down at the table with him and my grandma and have a chat. Talk to them openly, like I did when I was in high school. They were the next ones I told after Reese. They were so damn cute. My grandfather said, “When you meet some guy who steals your heart, I want an introduction so I can make sure he’s good enough for you.”
And my grandma said, “And don’t you
dare settle for anything less.”
But this? This whatever-it-is with Declan? This is not a stolen heart. This isn’t anything.
There’s nothing to tell.
Even though I’m dying to speak. I met a guy. He revs my engine. He makes me laugh. He gets me. He’s so easy to talk to. He understands me. We've been through the same things. And I want his yes. But am I supposed to give him mine again?
All of that is stuck in my chest where it belongs.
Instead, I say, “My coach has an addiction to sticky mango rice, Pops. He gets it every night at midnight. I think he gets it because his wife isn’t around.”
My grandfather chuckles. “So, he’s cheating on his diet on spring training. His wife doesn’t know about his secret mango sticky rice addiction. That’s rich.”
We have a laugh, then say goodbye, and I check my phone one more time and find it empty.
A little like how I feel.
Since this feeling is bugging the crap out of me, I return to the hotel, go straight to my room, and flop down on my bed, kicking off my sneakers.
I stare at my phone, tempted to text Declan, but no words seem right.
I have no clue how to navigate this stuff, and I don’t want to say the wrong thing.
Especially when so much is on the line.
My career, my future, my team.
It’s all too much.
I turn off my notifications and crash.
18
Declan
I hit the gym that afternoon, running through those Nautilus machines with Chance.
Or really, next to him.
Music keeps my mind occupied, my headphones playing Nirvana’s “Come as You Are,” then Alice in Chain’s “Would?” before I go to my hair metal bands with Guns N’ Roses.
Scoring With Him Page 12