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A young woman meets us in the lobby of the hotel, introducing herself as Charlotte Sullivan. Her eyes flash from me to Luca, brow furrowing for just a moment before her face transforms into one of cool professionalism.
“I’m the Mustangs’ travel secretary,” she shakes our hands and casts a weary glance toward the desk nearby. “I’m sorry you haven’t met with anyone else in the front office yet, but we figured it would be late once you got here and you’d want to rest. I hoped to book you two rooms, but could only get one room with two queen beds. I hope that will suffice until you can each find arrangements for the rest of the season.”
Luca’s posture slumps a bit but he doesn’t say a word. He keeps up his usual Luca Phillips facade, even as Charlottehands us the keys and reminds us that a driver will get us in the morning to make sure we make it to the stadium on time.
“It isn’t ideal, I know,” Charlotte offers a small, sympathetic smile, her eyes locked on Luca. “But please, let me be the first to welcome you – both of you – to the Detroit Mustangs.”
Luca and I step into the elevator and ride to our floor in silence. The last time I stayed in this hotel I made out with Sutton in the stairwell. We made a habit of that in just about every hotel we stayed in.
“If this turns into an ‘only one bed’ kind of situation I have to insist that you sleep on the floor,” Luca smirks, and for the first time in several hours, I laugh. And his laughter joins mine. As the doors slide open and we step into the hall toward our room, we laugh at the absurdity of it all. The absurdity of the fact that we were pulled out of a game in progress and shipped across the country. The absurdity as we get into our room and turn on the television, checking for a recap on the day.
“Is that all we’re worth anymore?” Luca stands in front of the television, an indignant look on his face. “Cash considerations and a couple of players to be named later?”
Yeah, the terms of this trade aren’t ideal.
“That’s allI’mworth,” I tell him, clapping him on the back briefly. “This trade isn’t about me though. I was thrown in to sweeten the deal. They want you. They need your bat in the lineup and your range in the outfield.”
“Maxwell Harrison,” Luca gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock surprise, “are you trying to comfort me?”
“Shut up,” I grumble, grabbing my shorts and toiletries from my haphazardly packed suitcase.
“Don’t go soft on me just because you’re in love.” Luca’s usual humor is gone when he says the wordlove.He spits the word as if it were poison in his mouth. I realize now that in the three years Luca has been in Seattle, I’ve never really taken thetime to get to know him beyond the back of his baseball card. I know his birthday and his hometown and what he’s done as a big league hitter and outfielder, but I don’t actuallyknowhim.
“Bad break up?” I ask, taking my time before stepping into the bathroom to shower and change.
“In the last three years I’ve had more first dates than I can count.”
“No second dates?”
“Nope.” He sighs, dropping onto the end of the first bed. “They either realize that my schedule prohibits timely second dates, or that being a baseball player’s partner isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You and Sutton are lucky.”
“How so?”
“Same schedule,” his smirk is back. He’s deflecting away from himself. “Don’t have to worry about workouts and days off and making sure that you take her to dinner at an ‘acceptable’ time. Most of my dates don’t enjoy breakfast dates or late night dinners after games.”
“My sister likes to joke that I’m married to the game,” there’s a weariness in his eyes and his posture that goes far beyond a half day of baseball and rest of the day traveling. “Someday I’ll retire and…who knows what comes after that.”
Luca is four years younger than me.
We’re old for baseball players, and we recognize that. At thirty-nine and thirty-five respectively, we know that our days in the game are numbered, as evidenced by this trade. Seattle will fill our shoes with young players. Fresh arms and fresh faces. Speed on the basepaths and better command of the strike zone.
“Is that something you’ve thought about?”
“Retirement? Not seriously. I think I still have a few years left in me. You?”
I don’t answer.
I don’t know if I should tell him this is it for me. Not that I don’t trust him, but I don’t know if now is the right time to share the news.
“This is it for you, isn’t it?” No smirk, no humor in his voice, none of his characteristic Luca Phillips arrogance and bravado, instead he gives me a genuine smile, one that reaches all the way to his eyes. “I’m happy for you, Max. And not at all surprised that you didn’t announce. You’ve always hated attention.”
I exaggerate a shudder at the thought of being paraded around as the old man retiring. Knowing that I’d be honored and given ceremonies and pomp and circumstance that I don’t want any part of. I just want to play the game, and go home in October. And maybe ask Sutton to marry me. That would be better than any honor from any team.
My phone buzzes in my hand, a text from Sam.
I was at the shelter all day. Just saw the news.
I should have stopped by before my flight,I respond,I’m sorry.
