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“It’s okay, Jake. Don’t worry about it.”
“I also didn’t know – though I should have expected it – that he was going to talk about Sutton that way. I hope she wasn’t watching.”
“She was, but it rolls off her back. Or at least she says it does.” I pause and listen; her voice has changed in pitch and volume, and now she’s singing a darker, angrier song. I can feel the lower register of her voice and the emotion in the words she sings. “She’s processing it.”
“Even with all the strides Penelope is trying to make, Sutton too, and so many others, there are still idiots who haven’t caught up.”
“And probably never will,” I offer with a humorless laugh. “Does it ever get easier for you?”
“What? Seeing the woman I love disrespected and discounted just because of her gender? No. It doesn’t. In fact, there are days that I vacillate between bone deep sadness – for her, our daughters, other women in sports, players and coaches that don’t fit the traditional mold – and outright anger at how awful so many people still are. The glass ceiling isn’t just for women, but the work that they are doing moves this game forward for so many more who’ve been excluded from the game.”
There’s a determination in Jake’s voice that I remember from our playing days. And he’s right. Penelope and Sutton, and so many others, are taking steps forward and making strides that will have a lasting impact for generations to come.
“It’s hard to see and hear the things that are said about her and the work she’s doing but at the end of the day, I get to go home with her. I get to be her safe haven in the middle of all the storms that come her way, and…I think you get to do that, too, my friend. Don’t take that part for granted. They may not say it all the time, but they need us as that safe harbor. The reminder thatsomeoneis on their side when it seems like the whole world is against them.”
“Thanks, Jake. Tell Penelope I said hello,” I make an attempt to end the call as fast as I can, unsure of how to respond to Jake’s last statement. “And hug the girls for me.”
“Will do, Max. Tell Sutton we’re proud of her.”
Sutton walks out of her bathroom, her damp hair hanging in a braid over her shoulder, wearing a long sweater over top of a tank top and shorts. She walks over to the desk in the corner of her room, and soon music filters through her computer speakers, punctuated by the lightly falling rain.
Our song.
I join her in her room, wrapping my arms around her from behind, smiling as she twists in my arms and presses a soft kiss to my lips. I’m going to miss this. This freedom we’ve shared for a few days, away from the pressure of the game. And now the deadline looms. But today we have a day that’s ours. A day with no baseball. No analysis or team meetings or batting practice or bullpen sessions.
“I talked to Marisol,” I whisper, and to my surprise, Sutton pulls away, putting distance between us.
“No.” She wraps her sweater tight around her body, brows furrowing as she does. “We’re not talking about this. Not right now. Not today. Maybe tomorrow, when the game catches up with us again, but right now Max, we have a day forus.”
“Sutton, we need to talk about what might happen if this becomes more than speculation.” I don’t want to have this conversation any more than she does, but we have to face it before deadline day. “I’ve seen too many people caught off guard when that phone rings, or when their manager pulls them out of a game. I don’t want to end up like them. I don’t want us scrambling if the worst case scenario becomes our reality.”
Sutton exhales a shuddering breath and plants her hands on her hips, tears glistening in her eyes. I know this is our last free day for a while. Our last day without thinking about baseball. Without analysis and team meetings and batting practice and bullpen sessions. She wants to enjoy this time together before reality comes calling, and I’ve just brought reality crashing down around us.
“When I was a kid, my dad and I were watching a game in the middle of the afternoon, he had the day off and we were on the couch eating hot dogs that he grilled and anticipating s’mores on the grill later that day.” She circles around the counter, coming closer to me, but still staging out of my reach. “In the fifth inning, I watched, horrified, as my favorite player – Roberto Jimenez – was pulled from the field, right in the middle of the inning. They put in a replacement for him, and the cameras followed him as he shook hands with the manager and coaching staff, hugged and high-fived his teammates, and then he disappeared into the tunnel. He never wore the M again. I was devastated.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance as the rain increases its tempo, what little bit of sun we had this morning is gone. And something tells me we won’t be flying out as soon as we thought we would.
“Just because we talk about it doesn’t mean that it’s going to happen.”
“Logically, I know you’re right,” she grabs a tissue from the box nearby and swipes at her eyes before crumpling it up and tossing it into the bathroom trash can. “But, irrationally, I worry that you could get traded and we’d never see each other again.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I know it is!” She all but shouts. “I told you it’s irrational.”
“Sutton,” I close the distance between us, and gently tipher chin up so that her eyes, clouded with unshed tears, meet mine. “That willneverhappen.”
I wrap my arms around her and press a kiss to her forehead as she relaxes against me as thunder and lightning split the sky.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Storm
SUTTON
No baseball tonight.
Not for us, at least.
