AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“If you change your mind, I’m doing chicken on the grill. Feel free to walk over and get some.”
A few years ago, I decided to split from the team hotel and rent a house. It gave me more space, and when my sister needed it, I had a room where she could crash for a bit. Now, I continue to rent because it means I’m not stuck in a cramped hotel room for eight weeks. It allows for more privacy than the hotel, but it means I have neighbors, a small price to pay for a place of my own during spring training.
Before heading home, I stop at the grocery store nearby for some pantry staples, and two cases each of water and sports drinks. One for me to have at home, one to drop off in Sutton’s office tomorrow – just like I have every spring for five years. She doesn’t hydrate during our long, warm days in the Arizona sun, and I know it triggers her migraines. When we’re in the clubhouse or dugout during the season it’s easy tofill a cup of water and press it into her hands without thinking about it, but Spring Training is a different beast.
We spend our days in a poorly air conditioned training facility, or out in the desert sun. It’s hot, it’s dry, and she’s prone to migraines, that much I know, and if this is one small thing I can do for her to keep her safe and healthy out here, I’ll do it. And it allows me to keep my distance.
And distance is what I need from Sutton Davis.
After pulling into the garage at my rental and shutting the door behind me, I grab my duffle and immediately throw in a load of laundry, washing off the dirt and dust and sweat that accumulates during a day of drills, and then I’m in my kitchen to wash my hands before raiding the fridge for dinner. But cooking takes time, so I settle on ordering from one of the many delivery apps on my phone.
Once my meal is delivered I move it from the styrofoam containers to a plate, to class the place up a bit, and head out to sit on my deck in the fading evening light. I hear the gate open and try to ignore it and then she’s standing in front of me, two plates of food in hand. She drops them both onto my table and helps herself to the chair across from me.
“Why are you barefoot?” I ask, as she props her feet on the chair next to me; toenails that I have no business noticing, painted with team colors, a delicate gold chain around her ankle winking in the fading light.
“Because, Maxwell, I walked over after I saw your delivery driver leave, figuring if you weren’t going to come to me for food, I’d bring food to you.”
“We’re in the desert, Davis,” I grit my teeth, trying to hold onto whatever little bit of my patience is left after today. “There are rattlesnakes and scorpions and don’t even get me started on the massive spiders…”
“It’s winter, Maxwell. Scorpions and rattlesnakes aren’t a threat right now.”
“You don’t know that,” I grumble, abandoning my delivered chef salad for the plate of home cooked food Sutton brought me. “They could be…lurking.”
“First of all, rattlesnakes spend the winter underground so they don’t freeze. And scorpions are more of a threat in the house right now than they are outside.”
“I didn’t need to know that.”
“Yeah, well, neither did I, but Mandy still felt the need to share it with me.” Amanda MacDougal was the glue that held this odd little friendship together. Then she moved to New York and Sutton and I have been left to our own devices ever since. “Her sister-in-law is a scientist up in Yellowstone, she just wanted me to be aware. Even though I’ve spent the last seven winters down here and am no stranger to scorpions.”
“I didn’t need to know that, either.”
“Well, now you do,” she smiles, and that smile is so disarming. So magnetic. It’s the same way she looked at me at Mandy’s wedding. “And I didn’t need to know that you opted for delivery when a home cooked meal was offered right next door.”
I don’t know how I’m supposed to respond to that, so I let it go, and we eat in near total silence but for the sound of silverware on plates and cars driving down the road. I’m glad she’s almost as stubborn as I am and decided to bring food over because this grilled chicken is better than anything I could have cooked, and the roasted broccoli is much better than my wilted lettuce salad, now abandoned in the middle of the table.
“You looked good out there today,” she says, leaning back in her chair and regarding me with those gorgeous green eyes that I want to drown in. “How’s the arm feel?”
“Not as good as it did when I was twenty.” I try for a laugh, but all I get is a narrow-eyed stare, so I go for honesty instead. “Arm feels fine.”
“Good. I’m glad.” With that, she stands, stacking our dishes and leaving the way she came through the gate from my yard, around into her own and up onto her deck where she offers me a wave and that smile again. “Goodnight Maxwell,” she calls before stepping into her own house and out of sight.
But never out of mind.
The day of the first intrasquad game dawns with a cloudless blue sky, and the energy in the clubhouse is electric. We don’t face our first actual opponent for another few days, but we’re all ready to get back into a game setting. Last season ended on a disappointing note – our historic playoff run ending earlier than we’d hoped for – and now we’re buckling down and getting back to business.
I take the mound to face a few batters before Roger pulls me, giving some of the young call ups a chance to show us what they’ve got in a game situation. Perez steps to the plate and I notice the tension in Sutton’s shoulders when he does. The catcher calls time and jogs to the mound, and I know exactly what he’s telling Greene, I know exactly what I’d tell him: go offspeed. Give him something to chase because he’s going to chase it anyway.
And that’s exactly what he does.
“Oh for crying out loud,lookat the first pitch every once in a while!” Sutton exclaims, throwing her arms up in the air in defeat. Roger laughs from his place on the bench and the new guys stand in bewildered silence as Sutton paces and grumblesnear the dugout steps. “He could throw a sixty foot fastball in the dirt and Luis would still chase. Why? Because healwaysswings at the first pitch. And if our guys know it, so does every other team in the league!”
Sutton’s voice rises in both pitch and volume at the end of her sentence and she is given a wide berth as she continues her pacing. Filling two paper cups with watered down sports drink from the cooler nearby, I press one into Sutton’s hand and watch as she throws it back like a shot before crushing the cup in her hand.
Luca Phillips sits on the bench, watching Sutton as Perez comes into the dugout and completely blows her off when she tries to talk to him, something that won’t get him far on this team. Just as I’m about to say something to the kid – not that I have a leg to stand on with him, as a pitcher – Luca slings an arm around his shoulders and I edge closer to the pair of them.
“She’s here to help you, kid. I know you don’t think so right now, and frankly you haven’t since you got here, but if you’re not going to listen toher,listen to me: whether you like it or not, she’s our coach. And she’s good at what she does. My first season with this team she told me ‘good hitters wait’, and I’ve followed that advice ever since. You should too.”
With that, Luca stands and reaches for a bat and his helmet, but not before firing a final parting shot at Perez. “And for crap’s sake, stop swinging at the first pitch!”
