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“Well, as it turns out, we’re in the same city now.”
“Detroit’s a big city,” I do my best to reassure him. “A lot of people.”
“Yeah,” he sighs, “but the Mustangs only have the one travel secretary.”
I thought I noticed some looks between the two, but never would have expected that they have a history. I don’t want to pry or push him for details, not until he’s ready. And based on his body language right now? He’s not ready.
“Did you know that when we got here?” I carefully ask.
“I knew she wanted to work in baseball. I always thought she could do baseball operations someday,” Luca’s gaze is far away and his voice is wistful. Reminiscent. “She has – had, when I knew her – a brilliant analytical mind. She saw the whole board, you know? If baseball were chess, she was ten moves ahead of everyone else. All the time. She was the one you wanted over your shoulder during fantasy baseball, but instead she wasinthe league and won every year. And now she’s the travel secretary. I can’t help but wonder if she’d have done something different if I hadn’t…”
“No,” I stop him there with a shake of my head and a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Revisionist history doesn’t help anyone, and besides, Charlotte strikes me as the type who isn’t going to let anyone stop her from achieving her goals.”
“That wasn’t Charlotte.” There’s a finality in his voice as he sits up and meets my gaze, eyes filled with an intensity I only ever see when he’s on the field. “That womanfrom the first night? That wasn’tmyCharlotte. My Charlotte was radiant and joyful. This Charlotte…”
“Was annoyed to see you?” I poke a little harder than I’d planned.
“Yeah.”
“You think maybe there’s a reason for that?”
“I know there is. And I’m hoping she’ll give me a chance to fix things.”
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” I ask, knowing full well that when Luca Phillips sets his mind to something there’s no deterring him.
“Did you really think that kissing Sutton in the dugout last October was a good idea?” I can only stare at him as my brain takes a few minutes to process his words. I thought, we – Sutton and I – thought that moment was completely private. We didn’t know anyone saw us. Or worse that anyone from the team saw us. “It wasn’t my business. And I don’t know why I feel the need to tell you this, but here it is: if Charlotte tells me to back off, I will. But I want to get to know her again. I want to get to know who she’s become.”
“Who haveyoubecome?” I ask gently and he slumps again into the couch, eyes glistening.
“I don’t know if I know that answer.”
When the Mustangs hit the road to face our divisional rivals in Cleveland, I stay back in Detroit and start working with the team trainers and physical therapists. They start me with gentle, easy, range of motion exercises just to gauge my pain levels and what I can stand to do at this point. The fact that there’s no tearing rules out the necessity of surgery, and Ihaven’t decided yet if that’s a good or bad thing. Part of me thinks that surgery would bring my season to an end and answer all the questions rattling around in my brain at night when I should be sleeping. The other part of me can’t wait for the rehab to be over so I can pitch one last game. At least.
After my range of motion is determined, I do light throwing the next day. Nothing from my windup. Nothing at velocity. Standing on level ground as opposed to the pitcher’s mound. My routine isn’t unlike that of gamedays; I wake up and eat breakfast before I head to the stadium for workouts. In the afternoon, I take a break for lunch, which is when I talk to Sutton. Or listen to her. I let her fill me in and listen to the sound of her voice. She’s worried about me and my arm, but I assure her I’m just fine. I don’t know if she believes me but she doesn’t bring it up more than once a call.
In the evening, instead of getting ready for a game, I head home. I watch the Mustangs and then the Olympians, hoping for any glimpse of Sutton I can get before I text her goodnight and fall asleep to the sound of the game, only to wake up and repeat the process in the morning.
By the time the Mustangs are back in town, Sydney determines that I’m ready for some throwing from the mound, and then it’s only a matter of time before I'm cleared to make a rehab start.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
In the Minors
MAX
The clubhousein Toledo is a lot livelier than the clubhouse in Detroit, it’s also a lot younger. These kids have the same joy that Jake and I had when we were their age. A joy for the game that I haven’treallyfelt in a long time. I miss that love of the game. Over the years, it’s been more about my performance — my earned run average, opponents’ batting average, how many strikeouts I average in a game — not my love for the game. The reason I started playing in the first place.
As I watch these boys take the field with fire in their eyes, it renews that joy in me as I step on the mound to the raucous applause of the sell-out crowd. I forgot how much I loved playing in minor league stadiums; they are smaller, the crowd closer to the field, and invested in the game and the players in a way that fans in big league stadiums often aren’t. Minor league games cater to families, and make baseball accessible to a wider audience, helping to foster the love of the game in fans of all ages.
Growing up, we lived closer to a minor league stadium than we did a major league team, so Dad took Elise and I to games as often as he could. That was the one thinghe and I were able to bond over, a love of baseball. Dad taught me everything I know and while he wasn’t sure about me going pro, he spent a lot of time watching me in the minors as I developed as a pitcher. He never got the chance to watch me in a big league stadium, so in some ways this feels like coming home.
There’s a little tightness in my elbow on the first pitch, but nothing compared to the night of my injury. By the end of the first half inning, I feel good. The best I’ve felt since the beginning of the season. I know there’s a team of people watching me tonight to make sure that I don’t throw too many pitches – and to make sure that the pitches Idothrow find their target and don’t cause any more pain in my arm. They’re making sure that I can pitch my allotted innings, watching each and every pitch, the movement of my arm, and if I had to guess, watching my face for any signs of pain, and if anything is wrong, they won’t greenlight my return to Detroit.
After the game, I spy a familiar face in the post game press conference. Molly Mitchell hangs in the back of the pack, and I’m surprised to see her here.
“Don’t tell me they sent you all the way down here just to cover my rehab start.”
“You’re the most interesting thing about Detroit baseball right now, Max,” she smirks, eyes glued to her phone as she types out a note. I sigh, but try not to let it show. She’s not wrong, and that’s unfortunate. I don’t know why Luca and I were traded to a team without a hope of making the playoffs except for them to free up payroll for off season moves. With one of us retiring, and the other aging out of the game, our time with the team is short and I think the front office knows it. “But enough about that…how’d the arm feel?”
