Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
“I can’t.” Josh says it simply, but it makes my heart do something in my chest similar to when we won the World Series. A champagne celebration. A ticker tape parade.
“I can’t either,” I admit.
We sit there for a second, just smiling at each other, until Josh shifts how he’s holding the phone, wincing.
“Leg hurt?”
“It’s not great.”
“You gonna take it easy? Gotta make sure you’re ready for the season.”
“You really want another go against us?”
“The last one didn’t turn out too bad for me.” I wave my hand, even though it’s missing the replica championship ring I was wearing the last time we saw one another.
“Yeah, yeah, rub it in.” But he’s smiling. “See if you can make it out here. And if not in Florida, I think we might have something scheduled right at the beginning of the season.”
Because of course we’re playing against each other for our first game. “It’s a date,” I say, and I can’t wait for it.
“Count on it.”
11
Chris
Two Weeks Later
* * *
There are some days you dream of as a kid in your backyard. Hitting a mammoth home run, winning a championship, sitting atop a float at a victory parade as the city screams your name.
But there are others you don’t know to dream about. Like how satisfying it is to get booed by a ballpark’s worth of spring training fans as you’re announced at a meaningless game in mid-March.
The ballpark only holds ten thousand people, but they’re all Union loyalists and loud in their disappointment that their team lost the World Series. An especially boisterous chorus of boos greets me as I swing over the railing, jogging out to take my position at third base. The noise intensifies, though I cup my hand to my ear as if I can’t hear them. That only aggravates them further. I smile, because the love and adulation of the home crowd is one thing, but a ballpark full of people who hate your guts means you’ve truly made it as a player. Every face in the park looks unhappy to see me.
Except one.
Josh Spencer, standing in the on-deck circle, warming up for the first at-bat. Even from a hundred feet away, the amused tilt of his lips is obvious.
We texted a lot over the last two weeks. Flirty texts. Friend texts. FaceTime calls. Jamie kept asking me why I was smiling at my phone, and I finally broke down and told him why. He laughed at me, not meanly, and said he understood the need to be discreet till we’re ready to tell the world.
Now I’m smiling for another reason. Because I pulled this off. The team didn’t want to put me on the roster for this game. But I begged the manager for a third time, then a fourth. “You really want to go all the way to Tampa?” My answer was simple and, evidently, enough for him, when I said, “Desperately.”
Now I’m desperate for the game to be over, even though it’s just begun.
Josh sets up in the batter’s box, then works a walk off our pitcher. A single by another Union hitter sends him from first to third. Where I’m standing.
“Fancy running into you here,” I say.
He gives me an amused look, brown eyes twinkling. “I think it’s usually you plowing into me.”
“Well, you can do that later.”
Josh laughs, nudges me with his shoulder, and suddenly we’re the only people in the ballpark, all ten thousand naysayers whisked somewhere else. Reality snaps back into focus when the Union batter swings, sending a ball down the foul line.
“Make sure you stretch first,” I add. “How is the hammie?”
“Better. The docs said I was cleared for all on-field activities.”
“How about off the field ones?”
“I’m supposed to go slow. Take my time. Really work all the kinks out.”
“Well, if you need some help with that, be sure to let me know.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I will.”
The batter makes contact on the next pitch, sending a line drive into the shallow outfield and Josh toward home plate with a “later” trailed as a promise.
After that, there’s nothing to do but play baseball. Spring training games can go either very slowly or very fast. Slow, because no one’s trying to get hurt. Fast, because if you’re an everyday player, you can leave in about the fifth inning, when your work is done for the day.
I go into the dugout for the inning break, expecting to get the swat on the ass that’s baseball for good game, have a great night. But instead the manager doesn’t announce a substitution.
“I was wondering if I was staying in for the next inning,” I ask him, trying not to give away my rampant desire to get the hell out of here.
He arches a brow, suspicious. “Thought you were ‘desperate’ to play in Tampa, Garnett.”