“It’s the hair, okay? It was made to be under a hat.” He runs a hand through it, and it sticks up at far too many angles.
“Have you considered growing it out even more? Maybe the weight of it will keep it down.”
“I’ve considered shaving it, but I’m not sure my mom would forgive me,” he says, snorting. Then he breathes in and out slowly. “It’s hard seeing someone get a second chance that I’d kill for. I’m happy for Sean. I just can’t help but envy the guy. He’s got it all.”
“You have more than you think, you know.”
“Do I?”
I exhale, trying not to allow frustration to tinge my words. “So MLB didn’t work out. Do you really intend to punish yourself for the rest of your life over it?”
“I’ve done a bang-up job for the last few years. Why stop now?”
“Fletch—”
“I know. There’s more to life than baseball,” he says, though it’s lip service. “But I feel like I failed my family.”
“You didn’t fail anyone.”
“I was in the Minors when my brother was attacked. I got called up a few months later. I thought it was God or the universe or whatever telling me that our curse was broken. That our family’s luck had finally shifted, that we could stop paying for the mistakes of the past. And then—” His chuckle would make strychnine seem sweet by comparison.
I’ve watched Fletch’s first at-bat and seen the wrist fracture that ended his career. He’s strong enough to teach, to show players how to swing. And his understanding of strategy and game theory is next level, according to my data analyst friend. But he doesn’t have the strength or stability to compete at the next level. Coaching is all there is left for him. For someone whose identity and destiny have been tied to this one thing, it’s devastating to think how the fallout from his injury must hurt so much worse than the injury itself ever did.
I don’t say anything, because I’ve learned that when Fletch has something on his mind, he’ll say it eventually.
“A friend told me I have a focus problem.”
“A focus problem?”
“Yeah, she said, ’It’s not about why; it’s about what’s next.”
“Your friend sounds smart.”
He shrugs.
“And pretty.”
“That’s enough.”
“It’s the friend from the chat board, isn’t it? The one you’re secretly in love with?”
“I’m leaving.”
“I’ll fire you if you do.”
A loud whoop sounds behind us, and Fletch and I both turn to see Lucas whipping his shirt overhead while Scottie rolls her eyes. But I see a hint of a smirk on her lips. Scottie’s tough as nails, and she needs someone who doesn’t back down from a challenge.
We’ll see if Lucas fits the bill.
Fletch makes a quiet huffing sound, and I wonder if he regrets opening up as much as he did.
“Thanks for talking to me, Coach.”
“You know, it’s technically ‘Interim Coach.’”
I snort. “You try smiling during a game, and I’ll make it official.”
He narrows his eyes. “You mean that?”
