Dad headed to the guest bedroom. “Don’t wait too long. A woman like that won’t be around forever.”
Brayden pressed his hands into fists and pushed them into his chest; his rib cage felt like it was falling apart and squeezing too tight all at once. Or, perhaps it was him in general that was falling apart. The thought of Tilly in someone else’s arms made him stumble forward until he’d landed in the recliner, where he eventually fell into a restless sleep.
The next afternoon, he’d had food from her favorite Chinese restaurant delivered to her door. He’d watched through a crack in the curtains as she argued with the delivery man. He showed her the receipt to prove that it was paid for. She asked him another question, and he lifted his shoulders.
As the small guy walked down her pathway, she looked up at his house and stared as if she could see through the curtains to find him looking back at her. He didn’t move, couldn’t. This was the closest he’d been to her in days.
The next afternoon, he worked out in the players’ gym and then showered. Mundane tasks like that were getting easier. He was slowly learning to trust his movements, though he still felt betrayed by his own body. Doc Burningham assured him that was normal. Maybe it was, but that didn’t make it any less difficult to live through.
His phone beeped as he was dressing. He glanced at the screen. I’m around if you want to have that meeting. It was from Coach Andres, that head pitching coach. Brayden had sent an email asking for some time with the busy man. Andres was leaning toward retirement. He’d taken this job back when Harper Richmond Wolfe’s father first started the team, as a favor to her old man. There were a lot of guys like that in the organization. It created a feeling of devotion to Richmond’s memory and a deep love of the game. Brayden appreciated that these guys had been in baseball longer than he’d been pitching—and that was almost his whole life.
I’m in the building. Headed your way.
Good.
He finished slipping on his shoes, which he didn’t tie. He’d loosened the laces so they could come off and go on without him having to look at them. Dipping his chin was still a struggle. He put his phone in his pocket and stowed his bag before heading towards the coaches’ offices.
Andres’s office was the second on the right. He had a painting of a baseball framed behind him. His wife had painted it. Her talent was clear.
Brayden shook hands with Andres. The team was still on the road, but he’d stayed behind. There were rumors that his daughter was going through a difficult pregnancy and had been in and out of the hospital. He wanted to stay close in case something happened. “’Sup, Andres?” Brayden asked in greeting.
“Not much. What can I do for you?” Andres had short-cropped hair that had gone white at the temples.
Brayden took a closer look at him, wondering what was different. “You got glasses,” he blurted like a five-year-old. His ears warmed with embarrassment.
Andres took them off and looked at them. “Didn’t even realize I still had these on. I only need them to read.” He propped them on his head.
“Sorry,” Brayden mumbled. He folded his arms and spread his feet apart. “I wanted to ask you about coaching.”
“You’re after my job too?” He muttered something about sharks being in the water. The assistant coach, Harlen Warner, took over in the bullpen for the road trip. There were other rumors floating around about Warner’s push for a promotion to head pitching coach.
Brayden waved that off. “I mean, what made you want to be a coach?”
Andres looked up at the ceiling. He stared so long that Brayden was tempted to also look up and see if there was a message written on the tiles. “I guess you could say it was because I had more talent in seeing what others were doing wrong than in making myself do what was right.”
“I don’t get it.”
Andres laughed as he settled into the rolling chair behind his desk and leaned back. He motioned for Brayden to take a seat across from him. “I had a knack for evaluating a pitcher. I was a scout, did you know that?”
“No. I had no idea.”
“It was a long time ago, when scouts had to actually travel to see a kid throw. We didn’t have the Internet and video? Please. That was like watching blobs. The ball moved too fast to see on film.” He shook his head. “Back then, the only way to know if a kid had juice was to stand behind the catcher and watch him throw. Anyway, I started telling kids what they could do to get more speed, more movement on the ball. I’d sit with a kid for an hour or two after his game and work him through the paces.”
He pinched his chin with his thumb and finger. “One day, I realized that I was more excited about that one or two hours working with a pitcher than I doing anything else. I dreaded the meetings, the arguments with the GM, all of it. I lived for those two hours, and they only came along once or twice a month. So I decided to get into coaching.”
“Right.”
“Are you thinking of making this a full-time gig?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
Andres leaned forward. “Well, it’s not for the faint of heart. You have to be tough. Tough enough to tell it like it is and not care if people like you.”
Brayden nodded.
“You’re not getting it. These guys are your friends. Most of them will listen to you out of respect, but some of them will have a hard time seeing you as an authority figure. If you want to do this, you should switch teams. Try to get on at a college level first. Let the guys you played with move on and then come back.”
“I couldn’t leave Tilly,” he said before he thought about his response.
Andres tipped his head. “Now I thought you two weren’t a thing anymore.”
Brayden grunted. “Word gets around.”
“We’re like a giant dysfunctional family.”
“I think we’re doing a little better than that. Coach Wolfe is pretty great at bringing the guys together.” He was deflecting from the Tilly issue. The last thing he needed was another lecture about how great she was—like he didn’t know.
“I’ll give him that.”
“Okay.” Brayden got to his feet. “Thanks for the chat.”
Andres stayed in his chair. “This job takes a lot out of you. But you know what kind of a schedule you’re getting yourself into.” He smiled ruefully. “The only guys who work harder than the players are the coaches.”
Brayden smiled at the jab. “Hey now.” He shook hands with the coach and headed out.
He made his way down the hallway, his hand trailing along the concrete wall. The paint was smooth and the surface cool to the touch. He didn’t want to think about what he’d said to Andres about not leaving Tilly, about how she was always his first thought. He rarely made a decision lately without thinking of her; not even ordering dinner came without her face floating across his mind’s eye and her voice in his head.
What would she say about taking this new path? He closed his eyes and brought forth her image. She was standing at the trailhead, two paths open before her. The early morning sun lit her from behind, throwing her curves into beautiful silhouette. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a mass of twists and turns he couldn’t begin to understand. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes full of mischief and adventure. “We’ve taken that trail—let’s explore.” She winked and was off.
He opened his eyes and his vision cleared. He suddenly felt like being a great coach.
* * *
Brayden spent the next two days reading every book on coaching he could get on his phone. He didn’t have time to order the hard copies—he needed info now. He had a game plan for Gunner, and Gunner was going to get on board or the punk was going to meet the toughest coach of his life. He wouldn’t be able to walk for the sprints Brayden would put him through.
As usual, Gunner was in the pen before Brayden arrived. He had a decent work ethic. The idea that practice makes perfect must have been something Gunner picked up along the way. A ball flew into the net behind the
catcher. Of course, there was the counterstatement that perfect practice makes perfect.
“Gunner!” he called, holding up a palm to stop him from winding up. Brayden wasn’t about to interrupt a guy in the middle of his windup. That could mess with his mechanics. Sure, it happened in a game, but a game was a different mentality than a throwing session.
“Great. You’re here.” Sarcasm dripped.
Brayden ignored it. He’d decided to work on the curveball first. A cutter was a little harder to master, and the curve only needed a tweak. They could then build on that success. “Hey, I watched your film from the minors. You looked good.” He carefully monitored his tone and found that it took effort to keep it light, professional. He needed to sound authoritative but not angry. That wasn’t easy, especially with the way Gunner barely tolerated him.
“Thanks?” Yeah, it was a question. One that said Gunner didn’t know quite what to think about this new “nicer” version of Brayden.
“How’d you feel going into the seventh inning?” Gunner had pitched the seventh and eighth on the road—thrown two wild pitches, one that hit the batter, and been taken out at the start of the ninth. Brayden had gone over and over how to approach this conversation and, after consulting the books, decided that acknowledging Gunner’s strengths would be a place they could find common ground.
“I felt good.”
A generic answer. Fine. “Your arm was loose? Your head was in the game?”
“Yeah. I was good.”
“Good. You did great against Patel.”
“He was easy.”
“Why?” Brayden put his hands on his hips. The answer was important.
“Because he couldn’t find his swing.”
“He was having an off night. New pitchers can do that. He doesn’t know your rhythm.” Brayden attributed all of Gunner’s success on the mound that night to that exact thing. He threw just a tad slower than the other guys, which was hard for hitters to adjust to when they weren’t expecting it. He’d bet that by the time they’d run through the lineup—in the two innings Gunner threw—they had him pegged. That’s why Hughes got the home run off him in the ninth. And the home run threw Gunner’s head out of the game, and that’s why he hit the batter. But he couldn’t say all that to Gunner. Not yet. “They’ll have it next game. And so will the rest of the league now that there’s film on you.”
Gunner glared at the backstop. “So what?”
“So we need to give them something they haven’t seen yet. Keep them guessing.” Brayden held up a pair of balls screwed together. He remembered doing something similar to what he was about to show Gunner in high school. The guys at Home Depot were totally cool about figuring out how to make the strange contraption. “Your curve.”
Gunner eyed the balls. “It’s fine.”
“Right. It’s fine. But it could be amazing.”
Gunner huffed, but he didn’t go back to throwing or tell Brayden to jump off a bridge.
Brayden brought the balls up into his line of sight. “Okay, get your grip right. If you throw a curve, then the balls will spin one over the top of the other. If it’s wobbly, then you’re not throwing right.”
Gunner grabbed the balls. “Stand back, old man.”
Brayden gave him room, waving off the catcher. This wasn’t a normal ball, and he didn’t want the guy to get hurt even though he wore all the gear. “Don’t throw it full force. All you’re doing is checking form, and it won’t take much.”
Gunner wound up and threw the balls. They wobbled like a kid with his training wheels just off. The catcher ran over and picked them up, tossing them underhand to Gunner.
Gunner worked his jaw for a minute as he adjusted his grip, making sure his finger was lined up correctly and that one ball was on top of the other. This time he took more effort with his movements, moving slower and with deliberate focus.
The balls’ path was cleaner. There was still some wobble, but the improvement was there. Brayden did a mental fist pump. “Nice,” he said to Gunner. “Now do it twenty times every bullpen.”
Gunner’s mitt dropped to his thigh. “What? I’m already throwing more than any guy here.”
Brayden clamped his teeth down. The first words that wanted out of his mouth weren’t constructive. “You can cut back on your fastballs and save your arm.”
“Cut back—? Are you insane? My fastball is what got me here.”
“Right. And your body could throw them in your sleep. Bullpens aren’t just for doing what you already know. You need new skills.”
“Like you?” snapped Gunner. He caught the double ball from the catcher. “And this thing? You’re going to go all super coach on me now?”
Brayden’s hackles rose. “What if I am? At least I’m trying something new.”
“Because you’re a nobody and you’re desperate. You’ve got nothing left in that body, so you’re praying there’s something in your head someone will use. Coach Wolfe sat me down and told me all about your accident and how they’re giving you a shot. I don’t need to be part of your comeback story. I got myself here, and I’ll keep my spot. Even if it means I throw a thousand fastballs a week.”
“There is so much wrong with what you just said that I don’t even know where to start.” But the one truth, the comment about being a charity project, stung.
“I thought you were a super coach.”
“I thought you were a baller.”
“Hey, Brayden,” called Sheila Weaver, the community outreach coordinator, from the net. “I need to borrow Gunner for a few minutes. Do you mind?”
“Nope. His arm could use the rest. I wouldn’t want him to wear it out too soon.” He remembered feeling invincible like Gunner, but he also remembered seeing pitcher after pitcher taken out because they wore out their arms. It was a shame, but bodies weren’t meant to last forever. No matter how godlike a player could be on the field, they all had physical limitations.
Gunner bumped past him, glaring. He dropped the double ball at Brayden’s feet.
Brayden felt the contact all the way to the rods in his neck. He hissed through his teeth. “Punk.”
Gunner didn’t look back.
Newton trotted over and picked up the double ball. A grin split his face. “I’ll bring it to practice next time. I might be able to get him to use it before you arrive. Give me an extra five minutes with him?”
Brayden patted Newton on the back. “You got it. And thanks.”
“I’m not doing it for you. The more curves he throws in my glove, the less balls I have to pick up after practice.” He offered up a fist bump and a grin.
Brayden complied and said goodbye. He was still reeling from the charity comment. Come to think of it, Blake and Dustin hadn’t called him once while they were on the road. Blake got a pass because Elise was also traveling with the team. When they traveled together, they spent free time gazing into one another’s eyes. He shoved the mental image away. Happy couples were a painful point for him right now.
Dustin should have called. He hadn’t seen them since they’d gotten back, either.
He rounded a corner and ran smack into Juan.
“Hey, bro.” Juan hugged him and pounded lightly on his back. “It’s so good to see you man. I mean, I know you’re in the building and everything, but they got you tucked way back in the back with Gunner.”
“Lucky me.”
“Oh, I know. Gunner’s a great guy, right?” Juan’s smile was genuine.
Brayden stared at him for a minute, trying to figure out if they were talking about the same person.
He was quiet long enough that Juan felt the need to jump back into the conversation. “I heard about Tilly. Man, that sucks that she broke your heart like that.”
“That she …? I broke up with her.” He wasn’t sure why he cared to set Juan straight. The result was the same. He still needed and wanted her.
“What? No way! You were, like, going to ask her to marry you!”
Brayden smacked J
uan’s arm. “Shut up!”
“Oh, right, right, right. My bad.” Juan pressed his finger over his lips. “Sh. Sh. Sh.”
Juan liked to talk … “Hey, do the guys think I’m a fake as a coach and stuff?” Great, now he was talking like Juan.
Juan’s jaw dropped. “No way, man. No way. We were, like, totally broken up when Coach told us what happened. I think I cried—you know, like manly tears and stuff. Why? What’d you hear?”
“Nothing. It was just a feeling I got.”
“You’re just in your head. You know. You’re thinking too much about things. Get out of your head and get out of your way.”
“Hey, Juan. Come pee in this cup for me,” called Turner, Doc’s assistant. They were subject to surprise drug tests at the will of the medical staff. They kept records of each test to ensure that the players weren’t using steroids.
Juan laughed. “Anything for you.” He sauntered down the hall.
“Aim. Okay?” Turner said in a warning tone.
“What are you talking about? I have the best aim out of anyone on the team.”
Brayden shook his head at Juan’s antics. The scary thing was that that guy had full custody of three daughters. Juan was the better option between him and his ex-wife. Brayden had met the girls at the Home Run Derby Party—they were all little ladies, so Juan must take being a father more seriously than he took the rest of his life.
Even though his friend was a goof, he had a point. Brayden was all up in his own head over this coaching thing. He needed to get out of his own way. His steps faltered as a new thought came to him. Had he done the same thing with Tilly? Had he gotten in his way? In their way? He rubbed his stomach, suddenly feeling uneasy.
Chapter Fourteen
Tilly
It was a darn shame to be stuck in a staff meeting on a sunny day like this. Tilly sat near the door, worried that if she moved any deeper into the room she’d suffocate. Even though her bike ride had ended in a bush, it had fanned the flames of her desire to be outdoors. This morning, she’d taken the elementary kids outside three more times than the tour called for because she wanted to feel the sun on her face.
Intentional Walk: Dating Mr. Baseball Book 3 Page 10