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)
“You played second in the minors?”
“I did. I guess I didn’t forget it all,” I say as I spread mustard on the bread. Truthfully, switching to second is working partly because my best skill might be adaptability. Bumping back and forth between my parents’ houses as a kid, spending some nights alone, hiding under the covers with the dog when the shouting got to be too much—I had to adapt.
Which is what I’ve had to do on the diamond. When I finish making the sandwich, I slide it in front of Travis. “One pastrami for you,” I say.
He smiles, takes a bite, then swipes the mustard off his mouth. “Dude. This is the Adam-style,” he says.
And it’s like a punch in the gut.
Like I don’t have enough reminders of the guy at the park.
“Yes,” I say tensely.
“Should we bring him one? At his new place? It’s not far.”
I do want to see his place. But I’m sure I’d like the lighting too much for my own good.
I make a show of yawning. “I’m gonna crash soon. But feel free,” I say, then turn, so he can’t see the longing on my face.
Days snap back to their pre-Adam rhythm over the next several weeks. I go to the ballpark. I play. We’re playing good baseball, maybe better than we have in years. Adam’s no different in the clubhouse—quiet, thoughtful—or on the field, where all his shyness seems to melt away.
Missing someone you see every day is great. Said no one ever.
What’s actually great is that it’s been several weeks since my last fielding error. In the seventh, Adam lobs a grounder to me and we turn a flawless double play. He flashes a smile. “Looking good,” he says as we head off the field.
I smile too, wishing I felt it entirely.
But I do feel better when I reach the dugout and Becker claps me on the back. “You’re taking to second like a natural, Miller,” he says. From him, that’s high praise.
“Thanks, Skip.”
There’s that, at least. My game has improved. I’ve handled this transition. I’ve adapted. I’ve needed to do it so I have. That’s what I fucking do.
Maybe I needed to get Adam out of my home.
Maybe I need to keep focusing on the game—and not on the way I feel when I return to my condo and I’m alone again.
14
Adam
My new apartment is great. Plenty of light, but not so much glare it wakes me. Neighbors who don’t seem concerned that I’m going to throw wild parties—but to be fair, I’m not. It also allows for dogs up to sixty pounds so I spend a lot of time looking at listings from a local shelter, even though having a dog and being on the road will be tough. But a man can dream.
And I do since this place is great. Really.
Except for the mattress I bought online, which is either too hard or too soft. Or maybe the problem with my bed is that it doesn’t have Derek in it.
At least we’re on the road half the time, the grind of the baseball season a welcome distraction from the conspicuous distance between Derek and me. Guys notice—Travis attempts something like a heart-to-heart on a flight to Houston that I manage to mostly avoid.
It’s harder to avoid Angelides, our catcher, who approaches the empty seat next to mine on the plane ride back, giving me a grunted “Anyone sitting here?” and not waiting for an answer before dropping down.
We haven’t interacted that much since the trade—he’s usually got a cloud of anger around him that matches any slate-y Seattle day, though he’s easy enough to work with on the field.
I wait for him to say what he wants—maybe to talk about fielding. Maybe his usual seat was just taken.
“You good?” he asks, eventually, a question that can encompass a lot.
“Do I seem not good?”
A shrug of one of his thick shoulders. Then a patient silence.
I study the airport tarmac out the window, shimmering with mid-summer heat.
Angelides doesn’t say anything. The silence is growing awkward, probably purposefully.
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
“If something’s going on in the clubhouse or off the field”—Angelides makes a hand gesture that could encapsulate a lot of things—“better to deal with it directly than let it go.”
Said like he knows that from experience.
“Stuff can get complicated,” I say. There. Nice and vague.
“And sometimes guys pretend to be cool about stuff they’re not actually cool with,” Angelides counters.
Busted. But this isn’t just my business to tell. And the stuff with Derek—I’ll get over it.
“Thanks, man,” I manage. “I’ll give that some thought.”
Angelides nods. For a second, I worry he’s going to press the point. Instead he gets up, then claims an empty row nearby, leaning against the plane window. A brief expression passes over his face—eyes scrunched shut momentarily as if in regret—before he settles in to sleep.