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)
Especially when Derek shakes his head and says, “You sure you got your foot on the bag?”
Like I faked out tagging second base. “I’m sure. If you want, I could tag you out again.”
I’m not trying to flirt with him, but it comes out that way, even if it probably just sounds like regular, harmless trash talk to my teammates. That may be all Derek hears too.
“Now there’s a thought,” he says.
So maybe he heard me correctly. I lift the glove to my face to hide a smile, but then seize the chance and add, “A good thought.”
He lifts a brow, then his lips curve into a dirty grin. “You have so many good ideas.”
“I do.” I’m this close to jumping on the chance he’s maybe offering, to asking if he wants to meet again. But is this just harmless flirting? Or the start of something more that I’m not ready for yet?
I stall too long. Before I know it, Derek is heading off the field with a tip of his cap.
After the game, we load up on the team bus. I look back one more time. My pulse kicks faster when I see him in the distance, leaving the facility.
Maybe I’ve found my answer to the Why did I want to run into him? question. That one night with Derek last month was both challenging and easy at the same time.
I think I like that combo.
But I turn my gaze away and focus on baseball. That’s what I do for the rest of spring training and into the first few months of the season.
I play hard, and I go home alone. Sometimes, before I fall asleep, I check his game stats to see how his spring is going.
Mostly, he’s playing well enough.
Mostly.
5
Adam
On a Monday night in late June, the mood is dreary.
I cross home plate in the bottom of the eighth, having just knocked in two runs. Ordinarily, I’d high five some teammates. Batting runs in is, obviously, one of the most satisfying parts of playing baseball for a living. It’d be more satisfying if the Arches scored more than the other team.
Since we’re trailing by five, no one comes out of the dugout. It’s just another night in St. Louis, like most of the ones this season.
When the game ends the way most games this season have ended, no one in the clubhouse says Want to grab a bite? or Better luck tomorrow.
But the mood shifts Tuesday morning when I arrive at the clubhouse for an early workout.
The second I push open the door, the vibe among my teammates is…curious.
Chatty.
My skin tingles.
I know this vibe. My teammates are clustered toward one end of the stalls, whispering loudly. There’s pretty much one reason they’d be doing that.
A trade.
I feel a burst of anticipation that surprises me, then a little too much hope.
One of my teammates says my name—“Chason” with a full ch. I clear my throat to alert them to my presence. Conversation stops. Our center fielder turns slowly, chair squeaking. “I think they need to talk with you.”
They could mean anyone: our manager, the team’s president of baseball operations, my agent. I leave the changing area. When I reach our manager’s office, my agent is waiting for me outside. He’s also become a good friend over the years.
I figured I’d see Maddox LeGrande today—he told me he was coming to town. The fact that he’s here now means only one thing, and it’s not that we’re having lunch. “Hey, Adam,” he says, since he’s one of the few people who uses my first name. The sliver of a smile says the rest. The news is good. As in…I’m going somewhere that wins. “Wanted to be the first to tell you.”
“Trade?” I ask, though the question is a formality. I’ve been playing well this season and the rest of the team…hasn’t. Something increasingly difficult to talk around during press scrums. Maddox nods, looking pleased. “How’s Seattle sound to you?”
Holy shit. That takes a few seconds to sink in. Seattle. “Are you sure?” Like there’s been some mistake. Because Seattle already has a shortstop, who’s an accomplished hitter. Defender. Kisser. My tongue was in his mouth just a few months ago.
“Great,” I say, like that one word can mask how I feel—a little guilty, like I shouldn’t be this excited to go to a club with a winning record, and a lot weird.
Because, well, it wasn’t just my tongue in Derek’s mouth. But I swipe dirty thoughts from my brain, as Maddox ushers me into the manager’s office, even as something else nags at me. Something I’ll deal with later.
I must look as bewildered as I feel, because my manager starts talking about all the great times I’ve had in St. Louis, about how much there is left to accomplish in my career. About how change is hard—baseball’s motto for when something difficult happens to someone else.