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“If you choose to appeal,” Roger looks exhausted, and sounds incredibly disappointed in all of us, “talk to your union reps. I’m going to talk to the front office about appealing Davis’s suspension. She doesn’t deserve to pay for what you idiots did out there tonight.”
“She can’t appeal?” Luca asks, earning himself an irritated look from Roger.
“No, she can’t. And I don’t think I have to tell you how stupid it is that they’re suspending her in the first place. Let’s just hope ownership and general management are willing to appeal on her behalf.”
“Tell them to add her fine to mine. I don’t want her serving five games and having to pay the fine. If she asks, tell her the team is covering it.” She wouldn’t be suspended or fined if not for my actions on the field tonight. Her question tonight echoes in my brain,would you have acted that way if I were a man?“Give me Nico’s, too.”
“You’ve changed Harrison,” Roger motions to the seat across from him and I know better than to argue. “Ten years ago you wouldn’t have cared a whit that your teammate was fined and suspended. And you certainly wouldn’t have cared that a coach was suspended.”
What he’s not asking iswhat gives?Why, seemingly all of a sudden, do I care about my teammates? I’ve always cared, but to say I’ve never been outwardly demonstrative about it would be an understatement. It’s always been easier for me to put my head down and do the work. As a player representative for the union myself, I’ve been the guy my teammates can come to when they have questions or concerns, and they know that I’ll fight for them and their best interest. It’s why I take my suspensions and usually don’t appeal them.
Sutton isn’t protected by the same union that the players are. None of the coaches are. They serve at the discretion of the team. And unfortunately, more often than not, the team is beholden to the league.
“I knew better. I was warned and I threw at him anyway. I should have ignored it and I didn’t, and I don’t want anyone else suffering the consequences of my actions. That’s all.”
That’s all I’m admitting to, anyway.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
October
SUTTON
My first suspensionisn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I can go to team workouts and run hitting drills, I can observe and coach at batting practice, but when the game starts, I’m sent home. Just before the first pitch, I change out of uniform and into street clothes, gather my bags and exit the stadium to the sound of a roaring crowd.
The ferry ride to Bainbridge offers the kind of solitude I’ve needed since the end of the Anaheim series that rounded out our road trip. Our first morning home, I found myself in a meeting with Roger, general management, and team ownership, all of them stunned that I turned down their offer to appeal my suspension. I don’t want special treatment, and while they insist it isn’t, it certainly feels like it is. Nico didn’t appeal.
And neither did Max.
He never does.
I’ve fought to be a part of this game. I’ve fought to get to this place, to have a seat at this table. I’m taking my suspension just like the guys. Except for Webster, who reportedly appealed and got his suspension lowered to three games. Unlike the rest of us however, Webster’s worst form of punishmentis coming from the media. While I don’t like the headlines that he “picked a fight with a girl” he’s getting what he deserves in the form of bad press for not accepting his suspension and leaving it be.
The house has been awfully quiet since the end of the road trip; Elise is off coaching softball, and Max and I have been giving each other space. And lots of it. But, he’s waiting for me at the ferry terminal, silently lifting my bag from my shoulder and hefting it on his own. We haven’t spoken much in the two days since coming home from Anaheim even with both of our suspensions taking effect immediately, and being in close quarters with each other. I’ve kept to myself in my room, and on my own little corner of the balcony, listening to Max putter around down below, smelling the coffee each morning and waiting until he goes for his run to make my own coffee and breakfast.
It’s been hard not to join him when I hear the strains of the piano floating up from the main floor, or the plucking of guitar strings. Max makes music all day long, and I keep my distance, listening from a safe spot on the stairs where he can’t see me.
Keeping pace a few steps behind Max as we board, I let him walk inside the cabin of the ferry to get out of the wind and cold, but in an effort to keep distance between us, I stand at the railing, looking out across the city and the ferry dock below as the last of the cars board. It’s cold and a light, misty rain has started to fall. I don’t want to be inside with him, not right now, but an arm presses against mine, and a quick glance at the tattooed hands folded together as he leans on the railing beside me tells me it’s Maxwell.
He’s silent, as if waiting for me. It’s a rather public place for a private conversation, but there are things we need to talk about, and I’d rather do it in a place where neither of us can walk away.
“I never meant to imply that you don’t respect me.” I blow out a frustrated breath. “That being said, you were the last person I expected to hear that kind of nonsense from.”
“Sutton,” Max wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his warmth, “I never meant that we have the rule because you’re a woman. Yes, that is part of it and we want to keep you physically safe when all hell breaks loose, but we also want to keep your reputation safe.”
“Max,” I start to interject but he gently stops me, and I suppose I need to hear him out.
“Seven years ago, I got a call from Roger. He wanted me to know that he’d hired a hitting coach, a former college player of his, and would I be a leader – a sort of unofficial captain – in the clubhouse, setting an example for the team of how to treat our new coach. Of course I agreed, and then I got off the phone and processed everything he’d said. That’s when I remembered that Roger coached collegesoftballbefore moving to professional baseball. I realized what he was asking: show you the respect you deserve and the rest of the guys will follow. You walked into that first Spring Training and I was so worried that you wouldn’t last a week…”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I huff out a humorless laugh, pulling my windbreaker tighter around my body as I press myself closer to Maxwell.
“And then I got to know you and realized you were made of sterner stuff than I thought. I was the one who went to Roger before your first Opening Day and implored him to make sure that if there was ever a brawl, ever a fight on the field – and let’s face it, I’m me, there was bound to be a fight – that you would be kept out of it.”
“Afight?” I ask with a laugh.
“Okay, there was bound to bea fewfights,” I turn my face up to meet his eyes. There’s a weariness etched betweenhis brows and in the lines at the corners of his eyes. His rain-dampened hair falls against his forehead and I gently push it away, and in the moment, I’m reminded of a fight during a rained out game in Detroit last October.
The rain is relentless. There’s no way we’re playing a game tonight.
