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“Are you gonna pitch or not?” Mark Santos, the bullpen catcher, calls to me, wearing his perpetual scowl. “I don’t get paid to do this for my own amusement.”
Once I’m in the bullpen, I take the mound and fire off a few pitches from my repertoire, enjoying the sound of the ball smacking into Mark’s mitt before he fires the ball back to me. It’s not long before I’m ready, and the pre-game festivities are starting. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, the grass is green, and the dirt crunches beneath my feet as I take the mound in a game setting for the first time in far too long. Nico is set up behind the plate and in an instant I’m in my happy place.
The size and sound of a spring training crowd is different from an opening day crowd in Seattle, but it gives me a rush just the same. The chatter from the stands, the occasional voice rising above the crowd to heckle the pitcher or the batter,the clarity of the umpire’s voice when he calls strike one on a swing and miss, silencing the home crowd for just a moment.
When I strike out their first batter, I shake out my arm as the second batter approaches the plate and takes a few practice swings. Nico drops the sign for curveball, and I shake him off – we can’t start with offspeed, he’ll learn what I like to start with, what I like to throw when the count is 1-0 or 0-1. Fastball. Strike one. After striking out the side, I jog down the steps into the dugout and slap high fives with my team and coaches, reaching Sutton last, she slaps my hand in a high five, her fingers curling around mine for a brief moment before she pulls away and turns back toward the game, watching as Perez steps into the batter’s box.
He swings and misses on the first pitch – a nasty off-speed that hugs the corner of the plate. Sutton slams her fist on the railing before pushing off and pacing the dugout once. Twice. A third time before resuming her spot on the railing. I press a paper cup of orange sports drink into her hand and she slams it back before crumpling the cup in her hand as Perez swings and misses again.
Taking a seat on the bench, I clap a hand on Nico’s shoulder, giving him an approving nod. A silent “well done” before he grabs a bat and makes his way to the on-deck circle. Perez storms into the dugout, avoiding teammates and coaches alike before he drops onto the bench next to me.
“You’re not fighting for a roster spot,” I unwrap a piece of gum and pop it in my mouth, “it’s all but guaranteed for you. You keep hitting like that though, and you’ll spend some time on the farm. None of us is too good for what the coaches have to say. You may not always like the coach. You may not always want to hear what they have to say, but their job is to make you the best baseball player you can be. And you won’t be any good if you can’t hit.”
Perez doesn’t say a word. He just sits there next to me, fuming as Sutton steps away from the dugout railing and high fives Luca and Nico on their way into the dugout following a homerun hit by Nico. Slinging an arm around Nico in a quick hug, I pound him on the back and congratulate him. Of all the rookies in camp this year, I hope he wins himself a roster spot.
The bus ride back to our complex is a lively one. I drop into a seat near the front, away from the raucous laughter in the back – no doubt, courtesy of Luca Phillips. Sutton is the last to board after having to wait for access to whatever utility closet this team set aside for her. Sutton sighs, sinking into the seat across the aisle from me.
“How are you feeling?” I keep my voice down as I shift into the aisle seat, positioning myself closer to her.
“Fine,” she sighs, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the seat. “Just tired is all.”
“Want me to cook tonight?”
“You don’t want to go out with the guys?”
“I don’t have to.” I’d rather stay in, but I don’t tell her that. I’d rather have dinner with her – at my place or otherwise – but I don’t tell her that either. “They stay out too late, I’m way too old.”
That gets a laugh out of her.
“Your place, or mine?” She asks, not bothering to hide her yawn.
“Mine.”
After the bus delivers us back to our complex I head home and get started on food for dinner, leaving the front door unlocked for Sutton who wasn’t far behind me. She stepsinside after a few minutes and kicks off her flip flops, her hair is damp and thrown up into a knot on top of her head. She showered before coming over, and changed from her post-game jeans and blouse into post-post-game leggings and team tee shirt.
She steps into the kitchen and helps herself to a bottle of root beer from my fridge, and reaches around me into the drawer for the bottle opener. She navigates my kitchen as if it were hers; the root beer, the bottle opener, helping herself to the bag of tortilla chips on the kitchen island as she sits down and takes a long swig from the glass bottle, closing her eyes and wincing with the intense fizz.
“Rough day?” I smirk, and she glares at me over the bottle.
“I hate split squad days. I especially hate being the ranking coach on split squad days. I feel like a substitute teacher in the dugout, and then I feel like I’m tattling when I get back to Roger and have to report on the game.”
“But we won,” I point out the obvious as she reaches for another chip while I continue to brown the ground beef in my cast iron pan – yes, mine. I brought it with me from home – on the stove. “It couldn’t have been abadsub note.”
“Perez,” she groans, “the bane of my existence. He has a guaranteed roster spot, and he acts like that’s not the biggest privilege in the baseball world. There are guys on this team working their butts off to fight for spots on the roster, and he stands at the plate and acts like none of it matters.”
“That’s not on you.” I turn away from the stove and brace myself on the kitchen island, making eye contact with Sutton, whose own eyes go wide at the unexpected intensity in my voice. “His attitude and lack of plate discipline is not a reflection on you. Roger knows that. Weallknow that.”
“Thank you,” she sighs, taking another swig of root beer, a drop of which stays on her bottom lip, and I want desperatelyto kiss it away. To taste her. But we can’t. Not again. “I know that. Way in the back of my mind, Idoknow that. Days like today remind me how very little I can actually control in this game.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” I turn away from her and kill the heat on the stove, moving the pan to the hot pad on the island, and ignoring the twinge in my elbow. There is so much that is outside of our control in this game, no matter how hard we work on mechanics or pitch speed or strength and conditioning. “But, that’s enough shop talk. Let’s eat.”
After loading our plates with tacos, chips, and all the fixings, we step out into the cool evening air and eat at the patio table. Not much ever needs to be said when Sutton and I are together, silence between us is familiar. Comfortable. So why do I feel compelled to break that silence with the one topic we agreed not to talk about?
“We need to talk about last October.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Kiss and Tell
