AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You could be on this field some day, Kiddo.”I was sitting down the third base line with my dad, right here in this stadium. And sure, I’ve coached here a handful of times in my six year career, but this is different. This may only be an exhibition game, it doesn’t actuallymeananything, but I’m here on this field right now and it means more to me than any championship ring ever could. After my introduction, the camera moves away from me and I bend down, using my finger to scratch my dad’s initials in the dirt. It’ll get swept away. It always does. A reminder with each game that life is fleeting and moments like this should be savored.
Max takes the mound for the first inning and throws a quick three-up-three-down half inning. In this stadium, with this crowd, it’s a thing to behold. I’ve always loved to watchMax pitch; the determination in his eyes as he stares down the batter, the grace as he winds up, and the precision with which he fires the baseball into his catcher’s glove. In any other game setting, I’m not afforded the opportunity to watch him work, and his pitching is a thing of beauty.
As he exits the field to raucous applause from the crowd, and our bench, he shakes hands with Roger, climbs the steps to tip his cap to the crowd and throws me a wink when I offer him a handshake, just as I would for any other pitcher. But he knows he’s not just any other pitcher.
Not to me.
We’re losing by about ten runs with one out left in the bottom of the eighth. I stopped paying attention to the scoreboard after our pitchers gave up the second grand slam of the night. Following another strikeout to end the inning Roger storms up the steps and onto the field. It’s my job to stop him from doing that. Especially when we’re down ten – make that twelve, the scoreboard confirms – runs in anexhibitiongame with no meaning whatsoever.
“Roger!” I shout from the top of the steps trying to get my boss’s attention over the sound of the crowd. “It’s not worth it, get back here.”
I watch Roger as he calmly approaches the plate and points toward the dugout with a grin on his face. He shakes hands with the home plate umpire, a man that I’ve known for my entire professional baseball career. Joe removes his mask and makes eye contact with me before nodding and, with one exaggerated cry, he ejects Roger from the game.
Tears well in my eyes as Roger walks back to the dugout with a spring in his step, grinning like the Cheshire Cat as he shakes my hand. “The game is yours now, Coach. Sorry I’m leaving you a bit of a mess.”
“Roger, I can’t believe you did that. It’s an exhibition for crying out loud! Have you lost your mind?”
“Chastise me later,” Roger claps me on the back before heading toward the tunnel and shouting at the guys in the dugout, “She’s in charge now.”
Roger wasn’t lying when he said he left me with a mess, and it’s not the first time I’ve been acting-manager in a game; a few years ago, during a particularly nasty brawl instigated by an errant Maxwell Harrison changeup, Roger and Jerome were both tossed, along with about half our starting lineup, and I was left scrambling to cobble a team together and play another four innings of baseball. This is, however, the first time I’ve managed the All-Star game. And I probably never will again, so while I’m not altogether thrilled with Roger for pulling this stunt, I have to admit that being able to put “All-Star Game, Acting Manager” on my resume is pretty cool.
We try to rally in the bottom of the ninth inning, but only manage a couple of base hits, two strikeouts and a long fly ball out to right field. With Roger ejected and wallowing in defeat in the cushy comfort of the clubhouse, I lead the team out onto the field and shake hands with my players and our opponents, and when all is said and done, I sit on the bench in the dugout, watching as the crowd leaves the stadium. Tonight was a core memory sort of night. The kind that rewires your brain and tells you that what’s changed can never go back to the way it was.
This whole break has been unforgettable. Filled with moments that I never want to forget, and I’ll never be able to thank Roger enough for affording me the opportunities that I’ve had over the last few days. From meeting my childhood heroes to meeting fans, and somehow coaching this team of literal all-stars. I don’t think this is quite what Dad had in mind for me all those years ago.
The sound of spikes on concrete turns my attention from the field to the entrance of the tunnel where Max stands, still in uniform, an obscene number of buttons undone on his jersey. He closes the distance between us and sits next to me on the bench, his hand lightly brushing mine.
“So,” Maxwell leans back on the bench, stretching his arm out behind me. “With you as acting-manager for a bit, did that make you my boss? And what does this mean for the ground rules?”
“Screw the ground rules.” I turn to Max and pull him in for a kiss. I don’t care who sees. Not right now.
“We shouldn’t,” he whispers, nipping at my bottom lip and going right back to kissing me. “What if someone comes out here?”
“Since when are you the voice of reason here?” I ask, pressing my forehead to his shoulder.
“Since the bottom of the eighth inning,” Max answers. “When I realized that you were made for so much more in this game. And I don’t want to do anything that jeopardizes that.”
“You’re very sweet, Maxwell.” I sigh, wrapping an arm around his waist and leaning my head on his shoulder. “Even if it’s a little frustrating.”
“I know Duckling, I know.”
I finally follow Max into the clubhouse and look around at the team in various states of post-game appearance and wonder for just a minute what it might be like, if it’s even possible for me, to be more than justactingmanager someday.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Calm Before…
MAX
“It was a stunt,and a poorly executed one at that,” whines the talking head, idiot pundit on the afternoon baseball show. Someone who never played a day in his life, but is apparently considered an authority on the game. “It’s an exhibition! Who gets themselves ejected from an exhibition game just to say that a woman managed in the All-Star game?”
“Roger Galligher, that’s who!” I whisper shout at the television so that I don’t wake Sutton who is still sleeping in the next room. We flew into Washington, D.C. late last night and, thanks to Levi Brooks working his magic for us, we were able to check into the hotel a day ahead of the team. I don’t know if he did it on purpose, or if it’s all that was available, but Sutton and I are in a suite, each with our own room but shared space between us.
I’m not questioning it.
We’re here for a quick road trip to D.C. and Baltimore before coming home for a homestand against the Mustangs and the Rockstars, and after all the time we had together during the break, I’m especially grateful for a hotel arrangement that doesn’t necessitate us sneaking kisses in the stairwell at the end of the day.
“Who are we yelling at?” Sutton barely hides a yawn as she comes into my room and sits down beside me on the couch.
