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“No,” She holds out a hand, silencing every protest that bubbles up. “I’m not at the hotel. I have a rental.”
“Then let me drive you there,” I grit my teeth, biting out the words. To my surprise she nods, and accepts my offer of a hand up off the ground. I help her into the passenger seat of my car and hand her my phone to plug the address into the navigation app. “If you need to vomit, please tell me. I don’t want to risk my security deposit.”
“Charming,” she quips, leaning her head against the headrest. “I can practicallyfeelyour concern for my well being.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I grumble, not even sure if she hears me. “I only meant…tell me, and I’ll pull over.”
I drive the rest of the way to her rental house in silence, glancing over at her every few minutes just to make sure she’s okay. She didn’t tell me what the medication is for and it’s none of my business, but it makes me wonder what she’s not telling me. Making the last turn into the driveway of Sutton’s rental, I stop the car and get out, opening her car door and offering her a hand which she takes, to my surprise.
“Do you need anything?” I ask as she unlocks the front door. “Food? Water?”
“No, thank you. I’ll order some food and make sure that I rehydrate. I will need a ride to work in the morning, though. Since my car is still at the complex.”
“What time?”
“I report at five-thirty.”
“Why?” I’m not even up at five-thirty. The benefit of being considered a veteran of the game, I guess.
“Coaches meetings. Workouts. Going over analytics before working with the guys.” There’s a defensive edge in her voice and I hate that, once again, I’m the one bringing it out of her, but even in her condition there’s a fire in her eyes when she bites back at me like this. “I can always call a rideshare if it’s going to be an issue.”
“No issue. I’ll be here.”
“Thank you.”
After leaving Sutton’s I head down the street to the nearest grocery store and grab a few cases of water and sports drink, one of each for me, and one of each to drop off in Sutton’s changing room tomorrow. She doesn’t need to know that they’re from me, she doesn’t need to know that I care in the least, but I do. If she can hold her own against me, she’ll be fine with the rest of the team.
Of that, I have no doubt.
CHAPTER ONE
Pitchers and Catchers
SUTTON
It’s been a long,cold winter.
A winter filled with what ifs.
What if the center fielder had only gotten a better jump on that last fly ball? What if I hadn’t kissed the one person I absolutely should not be kissing? What if we’d have won the whole stinkin’ thing?
But today isn’t a day for what ifs, it’s a day for fresh starts.
Today is a day for my first and longest love: baseball.
Instead of lying in bed thinking about all of last season’s what ifs, I jump out of bed with a spring in my step and a smile on my face. I turn on my spring training playlist and dance into my shower, singing along with The Boss as I get ready for the day. Coffee comes next. Coffee and a pastry. There’s no argument that Seattle has the best coffee, but here in Peoria, Arizona, there is a bakery that churns out magic in the form of allergen-free baked goods. My first stop after getting off the plane and renting a car was The Good Eats Bakery. Where they know me by name.
With my gluten free pastry and coffee in hand, I set off toward my office. Arriving before the rest of the coaching staff, I perch on the hood of my car and eat my breakfast while Iwatch the sunrise over the practice fields. The field is awash in soft gold sunlight as the clouds part and the sun’s rays poke through. With the sun comes the grounds crew, preparing the complex for the day; the infield dirt is sprayed down, buckets of balls are set out and batting cages set up.
Arizona in February is a welcome change from the rainy, overcast, dreary Seattle winter. It’s sunny and warm here, and I’m in the baseball spirit the minute I step into the training facility and into the warm sun. Smoothing my hands down the buttons of my jersey, my fingers brush the stitches of the appliqued team logo across my chest, a tangible reminder that I get to spend another season in this uniform.
I’m the first one on the field this morning, everyone else is in the clubhouse getting ready. Lacing up their spikes, getting into uniform, so much of the team camaraderie is built within the clubhouse; I get dressed in a small private room off the main clubhouse, my own space that allows me to feel connected to the team and the staff, while still offering privacy.
It’s taken me a long time to get to this point. To earn the respect of the team, of the other coaches, and of the rest of the league. Roger Galligher took a chance when he hired me as his hitting coach. I took a chance by calling up my old softball coach from way back when and asking for a job, and when he hired me, my whole life changed.
This is the start of my seventh season in the league, working with Seattle’s hitters, and I’m incredibly happy to be here. But there are still a few vocal players - and coaches - who are not afraid to tell me that I have no place in this game, or in the league. I walk into the dugout and grab a bat, testing the weight of it in my hands and taking a practice swing or two, my dad’s voice in my head reminding me of the work that I putin to get here. Reminding me that Iearnedmy spot at this table. In this clubhouse.
The sound of spikes on gravel gets my attention, and I turn to watch the parade of baseball players and coaches exiting the training facility and coming out to the practice fields - some for the first time in their careers - some for the last. I see the wonder on the faces of our new crop of rookies, the wisdom in the eyes of our veteran leaders of the team…and then there’s Maxwell Harrison, wearing his usual scowl and scruff.
