by Julie Cross
I laugh under my breath. My dad is so not a showboat. What’s the opposite of a showboat? Because that’s the label I’d give him. He’s worked the same dead end, low-paying job for five years, and I doubt a single one of those guys in the glass factory have any idea about Dad’s baseball days. If it weren’t for guys like Frank, I probably wouldn’t have a clue either.
I get both me and Grams each a two-scoop hot fudge sundae and then drive around until she falls asleep. When I get home, Dad comes outside and helps me get Grams into the house. Frank is gone and the kitchen is spotless.
“So…?” I say after he’s closed Grams’ bedroom door. “Are we moving to Kansas?”
“Missouri,” he corrects me again.
“So we’re going?” I fold my arms across my chest, tapping my foot against the wood floors in the hallway.
Dad rubs his hand over his face, looking completely tormented. “I don’t know, Annie.”
“Why not?” He’s walked away, so I follow behind him. “This is a huge opportunity for you, Dad.”
“Your mom—” he starts to say, but I cut him off.
“Don’t even go there,” I groan. “Seriously, Dad? What the fuck?”
“We’re still married.” He’s using the firm Dad voice that only comes out when I’ve really pissed him off. “I can’t just take her mother across the country.”
“Yeah, you’re such an asshole.” I step in front of him, not backing down. “How dare you take care of your negligent, flighty wife’s mother and keep the state of Arizona from locking her up in an old people’s home. I can’t even believe people like you are allowed to exist in society.”
He cracks a smile and leans forward, planting a kiss on the top of my head. “I love you, honey.”
“We’re going,” I say, adopting his firm tone. “Or I’ll start partying all the time and become one of those girls who makes sex tapes and posts them on the internet.”
He flinches even though he knows I’m kidding. He hates that I’m not a little girl anymore. But then I hear that sigh again. The one that means he’s giving in. I bite my lip to keep from grinning.
“Okay.” He releases a breath. “I’ll take the job.”
“And you won’t tell Mom where we went? Please, Dad? I need you to promise.” I didn’t even realize how much I wanted this part more than anything. It would be worth the new city, the new school, the new everything if I could just know for sure she wouldn’t come knocking on the door, ready to break him into pieces all over again.
Dad’s eyes meet mine. He’s still handsome, even at thirty-six years old. He could have someone else. Someone who won’t leave him or fuck with his head. Someone who will love how he obsesses over any guy who calls or texts me, and the way he sits with Grams for hours, telling her stories that might trigger her memories even knowing she’s only going to get worse, not better. Maybe that’s what I can do in Kansas. No, Missouri. Whatever. I can find Dad a new woman. Get him some of those baseball pants and a blue Royals hat and the ladies won’t be able to resist.
There’s pain in his eyes, but he still gives me the answer I want—and Dad’s word is the most reliable thing I’ve ever known. “All right, Ann, I won’t try to contact her…for now.”
I’ll take it. It’s a step in the right direction.
“Do you think Frank’s really going to sign that Brody guy?” I ask. “He seems pretty young.”
“The Royals have an injured pitcher, so if Brody does well during spring training games,” Dad explains, “then we’ll probably try him out Opening Day, give him a two-way contract so he’s not a big leaguer yet. We can use him once or twice, and then send him back to Triple-A.”
“See? You’re already saying, ‘we’ like you’re part of the family,” I point out.
Dad rolls his eyes, but I can see the grin he’s trying to hide.
preseason
Chapter 2
Annie Lucas: Goodbye Arizona, you have been wonderful to me. Facebook, you are my only friend now
20 hours ago, near Gallup, NM
Annie Lucas: States I’ve visited in the last 2 days—Arizona (hot, dry, familiar), New Mexico (why not call it Arizona? What’s the point of separation?), Texas (slept through it), Oklahoma (hot cowboys at rest stops that hold doors open and call me ma’am, MORE PLEASE!), Kansas (Toto, we’re totally not in Arizona anymore)
6 hours ago, near Wichita, KS
Annie Lucas: Does anyone else find it ironic that I have to leave Kansas to get to Kansas City? Why do humans insist on making life more complicated than it needs to be?
2 hours ago, near Topeka, KS
Annie Lucas: One question—who is Lee and what is he summiting?
1 hour ago, near Kansas City, MO
Annie Lucas: Apparently Kansas City is the barbecue capital of the world. Wtf? Is it also land of the frozen zombie people? How do they barbecue in this weather?
30 minutes ago, near Topeka, Kansas
I’m freezing my ass off.
Dad’s standing on the pitcher’s mound, mesmerized by the empty stadium. “Get over here, Annie!”
I jog over to him and stare at home plate. “Looks great. Now can we please go look at your office? Frank’s ready to give us the inside tour.”
“How many people get to say they’ve seen home plate from the pitcher’s mound?”
“Thousands.” I tug his arm. My hands are numb and my nose is running. “Isn’t March supposed to be springtime? Where’s the spring?”
“All right, all right, let’s go inside.” Dad laughs and throws an arm around my shoulders. “I never knew you were such a cold-weather wimp.”
I give him a shove. “Whose fault is that? You’ve never dragged me anywhere cold before. It’s dangerous. We could die out here.”
He laughs even harder, and we finally catch up to Frank, who is standing in the dugout with Grams. I hadn’t been as impressed with the stadium as Dad. I’d been to the Diamondbacks’ stadium in Arizona, and the Rangers’ stadium in Texas, but walking from the dugout to the locker room, I’ve completely changed my attitude.
Seeing the inside of the athletic training facility, the place where they sit before a game, the place where they get good news and bad news, is so cool. The locker room is huge and the office Dad’s now going to occupy is off to the right of the players’ lockers. There’s a couch across from Dad’s desk where Grams and I take a seat. Grams walked a lot already today and it looks like she’s about to nod off any second. I reluctantly remove my coat even though I’m wearing appropriate cold weather clothing—skinny jeans, furry boots, and a sweater. It doesn’t seem warm enough, even inside.
“Annie and Evelyn can wait here while I introduce you to the rest of the coaching staff,” Frank tells Dad.
“Ann?” Dad asks.
I give him a nod even though I’m starving and tired from the long drive and also pretty curious about this house we’re supposed to live in that I still haven’t seen yet. It’s not like I could really say no and demand a snack and a nap. I’m seventeen, not five.
“What do you think, Grams?” I say after the thud of Dad’s non-leg has stopped and he and Frank are in some conference room.
“Holiday Inn is so much better than that Marriott place,” Grams says. “I saw bugs in the shower.”
“We’re staying in our new house tonight, Grammsie.”
“Well, good.” She leans her head back against the couch. “Wake me up when we get there.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure thing.” There’s a stack of spiral notebooks on the desk, and all of them have the blue and white Kansas City logo in the center. I pick one up, grab a pen, and start doodling until fifteen minutes pass on the clock behind Dad’s desk. My stomach growls loudly.
Grams is snoring now, so I decide to go in search of food—there must be a vending machine around here somewhere. I reach the doorway of Dad’s office and stop.
Jason Brody and all his dark hair and dark eyes and muscles is standing in front of a
locker whistling to himself.
Wearing only a towel.
I can’t decide if I should dive back into the office or make him aware of my presence. I doubt Dad would have left me in this office if he’d anticipated naked baseball players roaming around.
A blaring rock song from his phone sends my heart all the way up to my throat. I’m still frozen in the doorway when Jason Brody answers his cell.
“Hey, how’s it going?” he says, then pauses to listen to the person on the other end. “Yeah, you’re assuming I actually know where anything is in this town.” Another pause. “Live music, beer, and easy women? I think I can handle that.”
I roll my eyes in disgust. What a pig.
“Um, yeah, I’ve got the ID thing covered. No worries.”
Now I really don’t want to be caught like a deer in headlights when he drops that towel and puts on his clothes. And if Jason Brody finds out I was lurking in the doorway like a high school girl trying to get a glimpse of a naked major league baseball player, I will literally die of humiliation.
He’d probably get off on that, too, and I’d rather not give him that option. Which leaves me only one choice—dive back into the office and hide out until he’s gone. I turn partway around and the notebook slips from my hand, the metal rings on the side clanking against the floor. My arm crosses the doorway barrier when I reach down to snatch up the notebook.
He jumps a mile when he spots me. “Jesus!”
Okay, now I’ve really only got one choice. I stride out into the open, preparing to introduce myself. My gaze drifts down to the towel dangerously close to slipping off his waist.
He grabs the ends, holding it together with one hand. “Sorry, I thought I was alone.”
My heart takes off in a sprint. I can’t do it. I can’t just say I’m Annie, a seventeen-year-old high school girl. “Um yeah…I’m…” He stares at me waiting for my big reveal. The notebook and pen in my hand catch my attention, giving me an idea. I swallow back the fear and lie. “I’m interviewing players for an article. You’re Jason Brody, right?”
He eyes me skeptically. “What kind of article?”
“It’s for Sports Illustrated,” I say without hesitation and then quickly realize that I don’t look nearly old enough to be a real reporter for a huge publication. “I’m an intern,” I add.
The skepticism falls from his face and he looks nervous, which gives me a boost of confidence. I walk closer and pull out the chair in front of the locker beside his, propping my feet up on the bench across from me. “Frank Steadman said you’d be willing to answer a few questions.”
His mouth falls open, and he looks down at his towel and then back at me. Water drips from his hair and off his dark shoulders. “Um…okay,” he says. “Mind if I get dressed first?”
I wave off his concerns, my face heating up, blowing my confident cover. But him getting dressed might allow enough time for Dad to return, and I’d rather not have to deal with that. I duck my head down, letting my hair hide my cheeks and flip open the first page of the notebook. “This will just take a minute… So, you’re nineteen? And you’re from Texas?”
“Chicago,” he corrects.
I have no idea where he was from but figure it sounded better if I pretended to know. I write down this information and then search my brain for some more questions. “Does the wind in Chicago affect your curveball? Do you throw into it or against it?”
He gives me a funny look. “I…well…I just throw toward home plate.”
My face gets even hotter. “Right, kidding. What’s your favorite color?”
“Orange.”
I take my time writing orange in really big loopy cursive while I think of my next question. “What are your opinions on sushi?”
His forehead wrinkles like I’ve just asked him to publicly declare a political party. “Raw fish and seaweed? I think it’s best eaten while stranded on a desert island with no other options.”
“Very diplomatic.” I scribble down his answer. “How many strikes have you thrown in your career?”
“Don’t know,” he says. “Do people actually count that stuff? Before the majors?”
“Some of them do,” I say, though I have no idea. “If you could be any magical creature in the Harry Potter series, which would you choose?”
“You said this is for Sports Illustrated, right?”
“Yeees, But it’s the…kids’ edition.”
“Oh, right.” He scratches the back of his head. “I guess maybe one of those elves.”
“A house elf? Seriously? They’re slaves.” I shake my head. “Why would you want to be an enslaved elf? They can’t even wear clothes.”
He grips his towel tighter and releases a frustrated breath. “Fine, I’ll choose an owl. That’s what I’d want to be.”
I snort back a laugh and drop my eyes to the page again.
“What? What the hell’s wrong with being an owl? They’re smart, they know geography and shit like that.”
“Owls in real life are actually pretty stupid. But no big deal, I’ll just relay that message on to the children of America. Jason Brody, temporary Royals pitcher, wants to be an owl when he grows up because they know geography and shit like that.”
Okay, I’m getting way too into this fake reporter role.
“Who says this is temporary?” he snaps.
“Your two-way contract.” Isn’t that how Dad explained it? He plays a few games then goes back to Triple-A, all without signing a real major league contract.
He yanks a pair of jeans from his locker and then grabs a bundled up orange T-shirt. “Well, I plan on kicking some ass on Opening Day and making this a permanent gig.”
“I think you need a reality check,” I say. “One game isn’t going to be enough—”
“Annie, what the hell are you doing?”
I leap off the bench and turn around to face Dad and Frank standing about five feet from me. “Introducing myself to your new pitcher.”
“Brody, what are you doing here, son?” Frank asks. “We’re off today.”
“Just getting in some cardio and weights.” His gaze darts from me to Dad to Frank. “I was just finishing up this interview for Sports Illustrated. The kids’ edition.”
“Well, we won’t keep you from getting your clothes back on, then,” Frank says, like he’s trying not to laugh. “And just for future reference, all interviews will go through the team’s publicity department so no one will be wandering in here, surprising you. Savannah will meet with you tomorrow to discuss publicity.”
Dad moves forward and extends a hand to Jason Brody. “Jim Lucas, nice to meet you, son. I’ve seen your spring training videos. You’ve got some real talent. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
Brody shakes Dad’s hand, his eyes still on me.
“And this is my daughter Annie,” Dad adds.
Brody glares at me. “Let me guess—you don’t work for Sports Illustrated?”
I turn quickly and head toward the office again. “I’m starving. Can we get dinner?”
Franks laughs and Dad groans like I’ve embarrassed him. He’s probably regretting leaving me alone in the first place.
By the time we’re ready to leave the stadium, Jason Brody is fully dressed, winter jacket zipped up, and following us out of the building.
He grabs my arm and holds me back, allowing some distance to form between us and Dad, Grams, and Frank. “Well played, Annie Lucas.”
I shrug and flash him a smile. “Thanks.”
“You’re gonna write that interview for me,” he says, winking at me with a knowing smile.
I keep my eyes forward. “I’m not writing anything for you.”
“Fine, then I’ll just have to explain to your dad some of the concerns I have for his daughter’s well-being,” he says.
I grab his coat sleeve. “What concerns?”
His eyes dance with amusement. “Touching naked guys inappropriately…”
“I did not t
ouch you!” I let out a breath and lower my voice. “Besides, he’s not going to believe you.”
“Maybe not,” he says, all casual. “But I do think your lying problem and your lack of respect for other people’s privacy could be masking a bigger psychological issue. You might find therapy helpful.”
“Whatever.” I fold my arms across my chest and continue walking. “Don’t you have beer and women waiting for you? Better hurry so you’re not late.”
Of course Dad wouldn’t really send me to therapy, but my behavior was a bit extreme and Brody looked really uncomfortable when they walked in. Better not take any chances.
“Can’t wait to read my interview,” he says before rounding the corner and heading in a different direction.
I stand there for a minute scowling at his back and then jog to catch up with Dad, wondering what Brody would say next time I saw him without that interview.
It’s hard to complain about the weather after seeing the large four bedroom ranch home Frank rented for us. My room even has a bathroom. I’ve been sharing one with Dad for as long as I can remember. Dad’s also got a brand-new silver SUV, which gives me full driving privileges to our very old, yet still running family car.
So yeah, I’m liking Kansas City so far. Even after the Jason Brody incident.
The movers have already arrived with our stuff and piled the boxes in various rooms. The house is furnished, so we only brought clothes and other non-furniture items. All I want to do is flop on my new queen-sized bed and play around on my laptop, but Frank is still here standing in the living room with us, waiting for some woman named Savannah to arrive.
I’m trying to figure out how to work the TV for Grams when a twenty-something red-headed woman walks through the front door carrying clothes on hangers with dry cleaner plastic in one arm and a stack of folders in the other arm. She’s wearing heels, a black pencil skirt, and a matching black blazer. She looks the opposite of a baseball-associated person.
“Savannah, you’re under there somewhere, aren’t you?” Frank jokes, reaching out to take the dry cleaning order from her arms, setting the clothes across the back of the couch.