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With his hands on my waist, Max lifts me onto the kitchen counter, putting us at eye-level as he braces himself with hands on either side of my thighs. His eyes glisten with unshed tears. I’ve known Max for six years and have never seen him like this.
“My dad wasn’t an affectionate man. He was agoodman, and I knew he loved us even if he never said it. I was raised not to tell anyone about my feelings – sadness, anger, excitement – we kept it to ourselves. I know, now, how toxic that was and how negatively it impacted my life. And Elise’s. And I know, now, how to tell people how I’m feeling, but that doesn’t make it easy.”
“Sweetheart,” I thumb away the tears slowly rolling down his cheeks. “We don’t need words. We’ve never needed words.”
“You deserve words, Sutton. You deserve a man that can talk about his emotions and feelings and the things he grew up being told men don’t talk about. Iwantto be able to talk about these things. Especially with you. I love you, Sutton Davis, and I don’t want a day to go by where I don’ttellyou that.”
I press a soft kiss to his lips as he sighs against me, arms wrapping around my waist. We stay like this, wrapped in each other’s arms as the music continues to play until the timer for the pizza goes off and he reluctantly lets go of me. Dinner is good, but being in Max’s arms is better and once the dishes are done and the house is cleaned up for the night, that’s exactly where I find myself again. In his arms, stretched out besidehim on the couch as we watch the replay of tonight’sOn the Field.
“...Seattle could be a seller at the deadline,” Penelope posits, “any predictions?”
Max tenses against me, and for the first time in six years the trade deadline has me worried. As I get ready for bed I find myself on my phone, searching for trade rumors, any mention of names; of course the usual teams are looking to sell, in their perpetual “rebuilds”, or following post-championship fire sales. An odd few are looking to buy, Detroit stands out to me as rumored to be looking for someone to beef up their pitching staff.
“Detroit seems poised to make moves as the trade deadline looms,”says Molly Mitchell, author of the first article I click on, “entering the second half of the season with a division lead, and potential run at the title. With a rash of injuries early in the season, Detroit may be looking for a steady arm, a pitcher with command of the ball and command of the clubhouse. Someone who can lead the team to win, both on and off the field.”
Sleep doesn’t come, as I lay in bed turning over the trade rumors in my mind and thinking back to previous trade deals that the Olympians have been a part of. During my time here, we’ve never been big players at the trade deadline, and I’ve been glad for that, I know too many players who were traded mid-game, or in the middle of the night without any kind of warning or protection in their contracts.
“Do you have a no-trade clause?” I ask Max, casually (I hope) over breakfast before we have to leave for the press conference.
“Are you worried?” He asks, not answering my question.
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“To be honest, so am I.” That surprises me, but I try not to let it show. I can’t go into the press conference today worryingabout this. Or the home run contest tonight. I don’t want this threat hanging over our heads until six o’clock at night on August first. “Marisol is keeping her ear to the ground in case my name comes up, and so far it hasn’t. Right now, we have nothing to worry about.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Max softly kisses the top of my head as he leaves the table, leaving me to stew in amplified anxiety. His non-answer answered my question in so many ways; hedoesn’thave a no-trade clause. And while there may be the illusion of safety for some players at the deadline, no one is guaranteed that they won’t have the rug pulled out from under them by their team.
I’ve been in press conferences before, but never like this. Never seated on the stage with Roger on one side of me and my childhood hero, Roberto Jimenez – former Detroit Mustangs third baseman, and the reason I played third base in high school and college – on the other. Roberto is serving as Roger’s hitting coach for tomorrow’s exhibition, he’s currently the manager of the Kansas City Kings, and as I sit here next to him, listening to him speak about his career, that sinister shadow creeps in again.
“Roger, talk to us about the choice of Sutton Davis as your bench coach. Why not one of these other – arguably more qualified – coaches up there with you?”
Roger leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. Roberto tenses beside me as the question is asked, and I pray that the heat I’m feeling in my cheeks doesn’t have a corresponding rush of color. The last thing I need is to be red facedand embarrassed on every replay of this press conference from now until the end of the All-Star break.
“Why didn’t you ask me about Roberto as hitting coach? Or Adam down there as my first base coach. Jerome at third? What you’rereallyasking me is why I chose awomanas my second in command in the dugout. And I’ll tell you why; it’s because I trust her. She has a good mind for the game, for strategy. She knows baseball inside and out and no offense to the men up on this stage, but there’s no one else I’d trust by my side more than Sutton Davis.” Roger leans forward and looks down the table in both directions before continuing. “And if you are offended, you have no place in my dugout or my clubhouse. That goes for players and reporters too.”
Max replays the soundbite again and again as we watch a special post-home run contest episode ofOn the Field.Penelope looks furious that the reporter would even ask the question in the first place, and Jake and Jim are quick to jump in and commend Roger for his answer to the ridiculous question.
“Get some rest tonight, Sutton,” Max pulls me in for a kiss just outside my bedroom door. “We have a red carpet to walk tomorrow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
All Star
SUTTON
No one preparesyou for walking a red carpet alone. Max and I can’t exactly walk the red carpet together, or ride in together like most of the players and their partners or spouses do. He rides in with his sister, and she gets to walk the carpet with him. I get to walk the carpet alone.
In all my years as a baseball coach, I’ve never walked a red carpet. Max is an old pro as a multi-year All-Star. He’s dressed in his best suit – navy with a crisp white shirt underneath, unbuttoned just enough to tease at the ink hiding beneath the fabric, slim tailored pants, and expertly shined shoes that he spent the afternoon perfecting – and sitting on the end of my bed as I work on my hair and makeup for the red carpet.
My hair is in a sleek ponytail, something I don’t have to mess with once I’m changed into uniform. But first, I have to dress up. My best dress is actually my best jumpsuit. A wide legged, navy blue number with criss-crossing straps and a tailored waist. And pockets. Because I’m awkward in front of the press and never know what to do with my hands when I’m talking.
Max passes me my earrings from the little box I packed them in; turquoise teardrops that match my bracelet, andcomplete my ‘Seattle Olympians but make it formal’ look. I didn’t know when I packed this jumpsuit that Max was packing his navy suit, or that we’d end up matching, but I certainly don’t mind it as he steps behind me and I take a good look at the two of us in the mirror.
“Head held high,” he says, fingers on my chin, tipping my head up ever so slightly. “Fearless. You don’t need anyone to lean on tonight. It’s all you.”
“What if I trip?” That teases a small smile out of him.
