Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
It’s weird, but kind of cool.
“It’s not a bad town to finish the day in,” he adds.
Before I can say anything else, a couple other guys on the team swing by, with Travis and Bautista joining in. Are they the kind of guys who carry a grudge? Are we going to relitigate the casino dog fundraiser incident on top of everything else?
I hope not. Bautista extends a hand, shaking mine. “Welcome to Seattle.”
“Happy to be here,” I manage.
Travis offers a clap on the back hug, which I return. Maybe he can sense my discomfort. “No hard feelings about that dog thing, bro.”
There’s my answer and it’s a welcome relief.
“As long as you play well,” Travis adds, with a wink. Got it. As a first baseman, he has two real talents: hitting the ball hard and making small talk with base runners. He seems especially good at the latter, since he keeps going, “Where do they have you staying?”
“At a hotel for now. The team made reservations at a place nearby.”
Next to him, Bautista cringes. “Dude. You don’t want to stay for long in this neighborhood.”
“Why not?”
“It’s boring, and full of athletes,” he says.
Derek rolls his eyes. “Sounds awful.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I say. “I was looking at apartment listings on the plane. Guess the market’s pretty tight, but I’ll make sure to look not near here.”
Bautista laughs. “Fast learner.” Then his eyes flicker, and he nudges Derek in the arm. “Hey, don’t you have an extra room since Grady left?”
Oh shit.
Derek’s smile tightens. “Yep, sure do,” he says, firmly. Like the conversation is over.
No. Just no. Bautista has to stop now. My stomach churns.
But he continues on, oblivious. “Hope you have better luck than I did. Took me a while to get a realtor to even take my calls. I mean, I thought, I’m a big leaguer, they gotta be accommodating. But nope. Maybe I should have posed as a tech bro.”
“The hotel’s fine. I really don’t mind,” I say quickly. Because I can see where this is going and it’s toward Derek’s spare room.
“Nah, man, that gets depressing after like a week. I’d offer you a room in my place but it’s being renovated,” Bautista urges, then turns to Derek, imploring him. “Miller, do the new guy a solid. Let him stay with you till he finds a place.”
Derek makes a noise that’s a cross between agreement and choking.
This can’t happen. I can’t slide into town, join the team, then crash at his place. That’s the definition of not cool. It’s also the definition of entirely too tempting. “Seriously, a hotel is fine,” I interject.
Travis’s meaty paw lands on my shoulder. “You’ll like it there.” He gives a chin nod to Derek. “What do you say?”
Derek’s face goes stony. He clearly doesn’t want this, but if I protest again, I’ll look like a jackass in front of my new teammates for showing up a veteran player. Derek takes a deep breath. “Sure, Chason”—he says my last name the way it’s actually pronounced— “you can crash with me for a while.”
I’m at another loss for words, this one not driven by shyness, but by the sheer effing cluster of this situation. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.” Like I’m not taking his fielding position—and now his spare bedroom.
6
Adam
Thinking about staying at Derek’s place carries me through the game that night. Since I’m not in the lineup for the game, I park myself at the dugout railing and try to learn as much as I can about my new team. Watching Derek on TV gave me a healthy aesthetic appreciation for his fielding. Watching him like this is completely different.
He’s magnetic—in how he moves, an economy of motions as he scoops balls hit into the middle infield and relays them to the other fielders. Until he makes a throwing error in the fifth inning, mishandling a ball that allows the runner to score. An error that could have happened to anyone, but Derek gives our dugout a long look after it, like he’s waiting for our manager to pull him.
The Pilots—we, though the designation is still strange—win the game. At least that’s something different from St. Louis. Inside the clubhouse, I’m at my stall changing out of my uniform when Derek comes over. “I was about to head out, if you’re ready,” he says.
Travis and Bautista aren’t around. It’s just us talking. I should give Derek one more chance to back out of the extreme awkwardness of sharing his home with someone he once blew and now works with.
“Thanks again,” I say, “But you really don’t have to do this.” I toss my jersey—damp from the ambient humidity and the effort of standing in a dugout for three hours—into a nearby laundry cart. “I’m sure the hotel is fine.”
“It’s all good,” he reassures me. “Bautista wasn’t kidding about the market up here. Besides, I got a spare bed.” Though his voice hitches slightly on the word bed.