by McKayla Box
I watch them run back and forth a few more times. Cash vomits in a corner after one set, but Shoemaker keeps them going, berating them for being immature and dumb. He is making them pay for what happened at The Foul Pole.
Finally, after thirty minutes or so, he walks toward them at the far end and most of the guys collapse to the ground, exhausted. Houston stays on his feet, his hands firmly on top of his head, his chest heaving, his face red, his shirt soaked with sweat. I can’t hear what Shoemaker’s saying to them. He’s lowered his voice, but he has their attention, as they’re all looking at him. Finally, he stops talking and walks back toward the clubhouse and offices.
The guys stay on the grass for awhile. Houston is talking to them, but again, I can’t hear him from so far away. He’s not animated, though. He’s calm and serious.
A wave of guilt washes over me.
The fight happened because of me. If I’d just told Houston I had no intention of talking to Bauer, it all could’ve been avoided. They’re out there running and his hand is injured because I was being stubborn.
Some of the guys finally start standing up and walking slowly toward the clubhouse. Several of them linger, then head in, too. Houston says something to Beck and Beck glances in my direction. Then he nods to Houston and heads inside.
And Houston walks toward me.
Chapter 27
HOUSTON
I see her standing there during our next to last set of sprints.
My lungs are burning, my thighs are like concrete, and I’m ready to puke just like Cash did. But I don’t. I keep it together, even when I see Lila over on the fence.
I don’t know if she can hear Shoe letting us have it, but he does. And he’s right. There’s no excuse for the brawl at any point, but especially before the first game of the year. It’s inexcusable that I punched Bauer in the mouth and cut up my hand.
My pitching hand.
Such a rookie move.
So I need to get things straight with Lila.
I need her to know what I’m really about and it’s not the fight and it’s not the bullshit and it’s not whatever story she’s writing.
It’s about my team.
I can’t let them down.
Even though I already have.
I head toward her, trying not to pay attention to the tight gray leggings she has on, the blue Baymont hoodie that swallows her up but still makes her look as sexy as hell. Her hair’s pulled back in a ponytail and she doesn’t have makeup on, but she doesn’t need it. She might’ve just rolled out of bed. I can’t tell. A lot of the anger I had toward her last night, watching her talk to Bauer, is gone.
Because I need to get my head straight.
No distractions.
I reach the fence.
“Your hand,” she says, her brow creased with worry as she stares at it..
I hold it up. I’ve got athletic tape wound around my hand, gauze underneath it. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” she says. “Is it bad?”
I shake my head. “No. I’ll be okay.”
“I’m so sorry, Houston,” she says. “It’s my fault.”
I’m not expecting her to apologize and it confuses me for a second.
“I didn’t like you telling me what to do last night and it…just got out of hand,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”
“You didn’t ask me to hit Bauer in the mouth,” I say.
“No, but you felt like you had to,” she says. She shoves her hands in her hoodie pocket. “And that’s my fault. Shit.”
I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but it’s definitely not this.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “My hand will be fine.”
“Yeah, but you guys still had to get up and run your asses off,” she says. “I saw how pissed Shoe was.”
“Well, we should’ve known better. The only one who did his job last night was Beck. He got me out of there. He was just…a little late.”
“You want me to talk to Shoe?” she asks. “Tell him what happened? I will, and I’ll tell him I kind of made it worse.”
I shake my head. “No. No, you don’t have to.”
“I will.” Her voice is filled with conviction. “I’ll go find him right now.”
I’m surprised by how hard she’s taking all of this. I don’t think it’s a ploy on her part. She sounds really sorry and really sincere.
“No,” I tell her again. “It’s okay. We’re good. But, look.” I take a deep breath, exhale. “I know I made a bet with you. I’m not trying to get out of that. I swear I’m not. But it’s sort of fucking everything up, and I can’t do that right now. I don’t even mean about me. It’s about the other guys. I’m letting them down. If I’m not—”
“I get it,” she says.
It takes me a second to make sure I’ve heard her right. “You do?”
She nods. “Yeah. You have to focus. Me hanging around has sort of messed that up.”
“I don’t wanna cheat the other guys,” I tell her. “If I’m not all in, I’m doing them a disservice.”
“I know. I really get it, Houston,” she says. “Bet’s off, and you don’t owe me anything.”
I wasn’t expecting it to be this easy. I really thought she was going to fight me. Instead, she’s agreeing with me.
“I still have to write the article,” she says. “But I won’t bother you any more.”
“It’s not…it’s not that you were bothering me.” I rake my hand through my hair. It’s still damp with sweat. “It’s just that since we started this, I’ve been all over the place. I haven’t been focused. It’s just gotten in the way. And I can’t have it be like that.”
“You understand I still have to write the article, right?” she says. “It’s just like you said. You don’t want to let the team down. I don’t want to let the paper down. I have to turn in something.”
I nod. “I get it. I just can’t have you shadow me. Or interview me.”
She looks away.
There’s a tiny part of me that feels bad to be doing this. I did lose the bet. We had a deal. It’s not like me to not live up to my end of a bargain.
But the stakes feel bigger than the bet here, and if she’s mad, that’s okay. I don’t want her to be, but I get it if she is. I would be if I were here.
She looks at me again. “It’s okay. I understand.” She glances at my hand. “Are you sure your hand is going to be okay?”
I glance down at my hand and nod. “Yeah.”
“You’ll be able to pitch on Saturday?”
I nod again. “Yeah. I’ll manage.” I point at the clubhouse. “I gotta shower and get to class.”
“Right,” she says. “Me, too. I really am sorry, Houston. I didn’t mean for it to go like this. But I’’ say it again. I really will have to write some kind of story.”
“I’m sorry, too,” I tell her. “And do what you need to do.”
Chapter 28
LILA
I’m sitting in the newspaper office, staring at my computer.
Staring at a blank screen.
I went to class after I left the field, but I was pretty much a zombie and I don’t recall a word the professor said. I came straight to the office after class because I need to get the article done. I need something, even if it’s just a draft.
And I basically have nothing more than a bunch of disjointed notes.
Edward sets a cup of coffee on the desk. “You look like you need this.”
I sigh and take a drink from the cup. “I do. Thanks.”
“So where do we stand?” he asks, his arms crossed over the argyle sweater vest he’s wearing.
“Literally, nowhere,” I tell him, wincing a little. “I can’t shadow him right now and I’m not sure I have even a framework for a story.”
Edward peers at me from behind his glasses. “Why can’t you shadow him?”
I tell him about the fight at The Fair Pole and my conversation with Houston earlier this morning.
/> “We can call the SID’s office,” he says. “They have to allow access.”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t think it’s worth it at this point. I don’t know how cooperative he’d be, and it just might be more problematic than anything else.”
He sits on the edge of the desk for a couple of seconds. “Okay. Do you have any other angles?”
“I mean, not really,” I admit. “I really wanted this to be an up close and personal kind of piece, so I haven’t looked at other angles.”
“You find anything of interest? I assume you started doing background on him.”
I nod. “I did start. And, yeah, there’s…a couple of things. I guess I could pursue them. I just don’t want there to be any trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“It’s kind of complicated.”
Edward adjusts his glasses and stands up. “Oakley. I don’t really get what’s going on here, but my fear here is that you…might be too nice for this.”
“Too nice?” I say. “I don’t know about that. But not being able to shadow him changes—”
“I don’t mean for this piece,” he says, interrupting me. “I mean for reporting. Period.”
My stomach tightens. “What?”
He takes his glasses off and rubs them on his sweater vest. “Look, you’re a really good writer. I like you’re work. You know that. But reporting is different than writing. Reporting means you’re going to have to ruffle some feathers. You’re going to have to get in people’s faces sometimes. You have to be willing to get uncomfortable.”
“I’m not afraid to ruffle feathers,” I tell him, a little offended by the assumption.
He gives me a skeptical look. “Are you? Because what I’m hearing from you right now is that you aren’t. People are going to get angry with you sometimes for doing things they’d rather you not do. You have to be able to handle that.” He pauses. “Right now, it sounds like you don’t want to deal with it.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m just telling you what I see.” He slips his glasses back on and taps the edge of the desk with his knuckle. “Let me know what you come up with or if I can help.”
I watch him walk away. I’m mad, but not as mad I should be. And I wonder if that’s because I think he’s partially right.
Maybe I should be pushing harder. Maybe I should be just bullying ahead.
And maybe I have some feelings for Houston that I haven’t straightened out yet and it’s clouding my judgement.
I’m not sure what the answer is, but I need a story.
I need to focus.
No distractions.
I have angles that need to be pursued. It’s what I’m supposed to do. It’s no different than what Houston is doing with baseball. And he’s made it clear that he’s done with me.
I briefly consider trying to get ahold of Will Bauer. I’m not sure if he knows about Houston’s suspension or not, but he might be a good starting point. The problem with him is that he has an ulterior motive. I don’t feel like I can trust him or anything he might tell me.
I need to find someone I can trust will at least tell me the truth—if they’ll actually talk to me.
And I think I know who that person might be. At the very least, I should make the call.
Ruffle some feathers if I have to.
I turn back to my computer, open the browser, and start looking for a phone number.
Because it’s what I need to do.
Chapter 29
HOUSTON
“I made lasagna,” my mom says.
I chuckle. “I know. You always make lasagna for Thursday night dinner.”
“Well, if you want something else, you just have to ask.”
“Lasagna is tradition, Mom. No changes.”
I mean that. My mom and I have made it a point to have Thursday night dinners for as long as I can remember. Middle school, high school, now college. As long as the team isn’t away on a road trip, I’m at the house for dinner and it’s always lasagna.
“How’s practice been this week?” she asks, sitting down across from me at our small kitchen table. It’s the same one we’ve had since I was little, a square oak table that still bears the scars of my childhood: scratches, faint marker stains, a lighter spot from when I spilled something that took the finish off.
“It’s been okay,” I say, reaching for the salad.
She starts to say something then stops.
“What?” I ask
“What happened to your hand?” she asks, eyeing the bandaged hand that’s now holding the salad bowl.
Shit. I meant to take it off before I got there and I forgot.
“Nothing,” I say, pulling the bowl toward me. “Just a scrape.”
“A scrape?”
“Yeah.”
She keeps her eyes on me. “Looks like more than a scrape.”
“I’m fine, Mom. I’ll be fine for Saturday.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Just screwing around in the locker room. Was an accident.”
She stares at me for a moment, her blue eyes narrowing. “You were screwing around in the locker room the week of a game? You?”
She knows me too well.
“I promise it’s nothing. I’m fine.”
She doesn’t look like she believes me but she doesn’t say anything. I wish I could tell her, but I know if I do, it’ll raise more questions and she’ll just be worried. She’s had enough worries in her life and I don’t need her worrying about a dumb bar fight I was too stupid to avoid.
Besides, my hand mostly does feel fine. That part isn’t a lie. I’m keeping it covered to protect it, but the cuts on the backs of my fingers and knuckles are healing. I should be fine by Saturday. There’s no stiffness or soreness.
I’ll be ready to rock.
We make conversation while we eat. She asks me about the guys on the team and how I think we’ll do this season. She says she’s had several calls from agents, asking if I’ve chosen someone to represent me, each of them making their case as to why I need to call them back. She’s politely, but firmly told them that I’ll be making that decision after the season and that it’s not hers to make.
“You can hang up on them,” I tell her, lifting another slice of lasagna onto my plate. The cheese stretches and I swipe at it with my free hand, making sure the extra comes with my slice. “I couldn’t care less.”
“I don’t need to be rude to them,” she says. “I know they’re doing their job. I just wish they’d believe me when I tell them you aren’t making any decisions until your season is over.”
“It’s like high school all over again,” I say, laughing a little.
She nods. “Uh huh. It was astounding that coaches didn’t believe me when I told them that you’d already selected Baymont. Or that they could talk you out of it.”
“Works on some guys,” I guess.”
“But you made your decision early,” she reminds me. “And never wavered. You were always upfront with the schools that you were going to stay here and go to Baymont. You didn’t play them against one another like you tell me some players do.”
“I know,” I say. “But they just all think they have a shot until you sign the paperwork.”
I’d committed to Baymont my junior year in high school and I’d even started telling schools a year earlier that I was most likely going to stay home. Most of them listened to me, but they kept peppering me with phone calls and texts and mail. Near the beginning of the year, we started hearing from agents who were offering all sorts of things to get me to sign with them and skip playing in college. But I’d been upfront that I wanted to play college ball and that I wasn’t interested in jumping into the minors right out of high school. They either didn’t believe me or thought they could convince me otherwise.
Now, guys were lining up to represent me in my pro career. But, again, I was clear. I wasn’t going to even think about agents until the season was over. I thought they might appreciate the focus on the s
eason, but it seemed to just make them more obnoxious.
“I’m sorry they’re bugging you,” I tell her. “Write down their names. We can put them on the list of guys we don’t want.”
She laughs. “Maybe.” She sets her fork down on her plate and looks at me. She’s still on her first piece of lasagna, and has only managed to eat half of it. “I did get another call, too.”
“You mean from an agent?”
“No. But before I tell you, I just want you to promise me that you’ll keep your cool.”
“About what?”
“Promise me,” she repeats.
Something spikes in my gut. “Are you sick? Did you hear from a doctor or something?”
She shakes her head. “No, no, honey, it’s nothing like that. I’m completely fine. And that’s the truth, unlike what you’re telling me about your hand.”
I look down at my plate.
“I just want you to promise me you won’t fly off the handle here,” she says.
I take a deep breath and exhale. I have no idea what she needs to tell me, but I’m going to try to keep cool, despite the adrenaline currently surging through my body. “Okay. I promise.”
She eyes me. “Do you?”
“Mom. I said I promise.” I can’t keep the irritation out of my voice. “Tell me.”
“When I got home this afternoon, I had several messages on my phone,” she says. “A couple from agents. But one was from…a reporter. A woman at your school. Lila something, I think.”
The spike sharpens in my stomach. “Oakley. Lila Oakley.”
“Yes, that was it,” she says. “She asked if I would call her back because she’s doing a story on you and she wanted to talk to me about a couple of things. I haven’t called her back.” She pauses. “But you expressed some concern the other day and I thought you would want to know.”
I wad up my napkin and drop it on the table next to my plate. My appetite is gone. “Okay.”
“I’ll call her back,” she says.
“No.”
“I’ll call her back and answer the questions about you,” she says. “If she asks about the suspension, I’ll just tell her I’m not going to talk about it.”