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“This bonehead.” I point to the screen where he’s still ranting about Sutton as manager last night, noting that it didn’t make any difference, so why bother in the first place, and Sutton laughs.Laughs.
“Yeah. There’s a reason I don’t watch him,” she says. “He’s not a friend of women in baseball. Don’t pay him any mind.”
“Sutton, he has anationalplatform…”
“I know,” She puts her hand on my arm, fingers tracing the lines of my tattoos in a soothing motion. “But for every one ofhimthere’s at least three Roger Gallighers; men willing to take a chance on us. Men who know that gender doesn’t preclude a person from being a good coach in this league.”
“Alright, let's talk trade rumors,” the pundit’s voice breaks through the moment and Sutton’s hand stills on my arm. “The deadline is right around the corner and the rumor mill is working overtime. What are your predictions?”
There’s a guest panel on the show today, featuring other hosts from the network and they start throwing out predictions. It’s the usual trade bait, prospects, draft picks, and teams looking to sell and rebuild. The one thing they all agree on is that Detroit needs to make some moves, and they’re in good position to do so.
“Maxwell Harrison,” the idiot pundit throws my name out there in such a matter of fact way that for the first time I wonder if it could be a possibility. “He’s at the end of his contract and hasn’t announced his intentions. I could see a team like the Mustangs, or even the Founders over in Philly adding him to their rotation for a year. Both clubs need his arm, and at his age let’s be honest, he’s probably only looking at year-long contracts from here on out.”
“Mother duck,” Sutton spits out under her breath.
“I’m sorry,” I hold in my laughter as best I can in the face of her – oddly adorable – anger, “what did you just say?”
“Mother duck. Only appropriate if you’re going to continue to insist on calling me duckling.” She balls her hands into fists as the hosts of the morning show continue to debate how long I’ll keep playing, whether any team would even want me at my age, and then they describe the finer points of potential arm and elbow injury at my ‘advanced baseball age’. “What a bunch of idiots.”
“We’re friends with one of those idiots,” I point out, noting that Jake Hutchinson was brought on as a guest host of the show, outside of his usualOn the Fieldco-hosting duties.
“Yes. And Jake is the only one on the panel that came to your defense. And mine. We like him. We don’t like the others.”
“What happened todon’t pay any attention…?”
“Shut up.”
“Yes ma’am.”
When Sutton heads back to her room and I hear the shower in the bathroom start running, I call Marisol, and as I listen to the ringing, anxiety starts to creep in. All the what ifs. What if I get traded? What if I get injured? What if this game that I love so much, that I’ve dedicated my life to for so long, breaks my heart?
“I’m watching,” Marisol forgoes a traditional greeting, her voice laced with tension. “This is the first time I've actually heard your name, Max. But since it’s coming from a talk show, I truly don’t think we have anything to worry about.”
“Has anyone reached out?”
The silence on the other end of the line speaks volumes.
“If you had to pick…” she blows out a pent up breath.
“You know that’s not how it works.”
“I know, Max. But indulge me. If you had to pick, where would you go?”
If I had to pick? I’d follow Sutton Davis for the rest of my life. I’d retire from baseball and be her home. I’d wait for her at the stadium after road trips, and
sit with the baseball partners and kids during games. And then I wouldn’t have to worry about injury. Or being traded away. Or losing the illusion of control that I have now.
“Marisol…”
“I’m sorry I asked, Max,” Marisol sighs. “But Max, now might be a good time to start thinking about what’s next. Whether that’s retirement or playing for another year. The one thing they got right this morning? You’re looking at one year contracts for the rest of your career. You have decisions to make, and as your agent, I need you to keep me informed about what you’re thinking. Take a few days and then let me know. The sooner the better.”
We end our call and I sink back against the back of the couch, closing my eyes and listening to the last few minutes of the show, and Sutton’s voice from the other room as she sings in the shower. She’s singing the song we always dance to in the kitchen back home. Or on the deck. Once in an empty dugout. I like dancing with Sutton – her steps are sure when mine falter. She’s steady in my arms when everything around me feels uncertain. And right now?Uncertainis an understatement.
The show ends and my phone rings, Jake’s name splashes across the screen.
“Hey,” I answer with a grunt.
“You saw the show.” It’s not a question, and I don’t feel the need to respond. “Max, I’m sorry. I knew he was having me on to talk about the trade deadline and rumors. I didn’t know your name was coming up.”
