But going home means ten days of his relentless positivity. Worse, it means ten days of Granddad’s lectures about my “wasted potential”—like I asked for a hundred-mile-per-hour fastball to shatter my wrist in my first Major League at-bat, like I’m the biggest disappointment he’s ever known.
“When do you leave for Philly?”
“Day after tomorrow, but we’re actually going to my brother’s place in Cleveland—his wife just had their first kid,” she says. “I don’t even care that I’ll be sleeping on the couch all Christmas break. Jake won’t be there, so I’ll be happy.”
Jake Rodgers is the bad boy of Major League Baseball. He’s also best friends with Scottie’s older brothers. I never played with him—I only had that one game in the Majors before my career-ending injury—but he plays for the Chicago Firebirds, the Major League team the Mudflaps are affiliated with. I’ve heard stories.
Who am I kidding? Everyone’s heard stories. The guy punched a teammate during the playoffs a couple months ago, and that’s not even the worst thing he’s done in his career.
Lucas’s pitcher throws a wild pitch, and it hits my batter in the thigh. “It’s okay, buddy. Walk it off,” I call.
“Jake sounds like a turd,” I tell Scottie, my eyes on the field.
“You have no idea,” she says. “You know what he said about me at my brother’s wedding last year? He was giving the best man’s toast, and when he mentioned me, he said, ‘I’ve never met someone who actually lookedbetterwith acne and braces.’ Got huge laughs. If he gets sent down, I’m quitting.”
“He hit forty-two home runs last year. He’s not getting sent down,” I say.
Scottie scoffs. “You haven’t heard? Keep this between us, but the Firebirds areabsolutelytalking about sending Jake down to the minors.”
“What? Tous?”
She looks around before dropping her voice, not that any of the kids in the dugout are paying attention. “Nothing’s official yet, but they’ll have some story about how he’s rehabbing from a shoulder tear.”
“Is he?”
“No. He’s clubhouse poison, and he hit on the GM’s wife at a team party last weekend.”
I groan and rub the back of my neck. Players come in and out of minor league teams constantly, but I’ve spent this whole season trying to build a team culture that can take it. “This is the last thing I need.”
“I know. I can’t stand jerks,” Scottie says. Then she gestures to us. “But pushy and grumpy have a certain charm.”
“You think I’m grumpy?”
She laughs a little too hard. “Yes. Especially when you haven’t talked to Chat Girl for a few days.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Uh huh,” she says.
“I notice you’ve looked at Lucas a few times, though.”
She glares. “I’ve done nothing of the sort.”
“Uh huh.”
Our batter hits an infield fly ball, which Lucas’s shortstop catches, ending the inning. My team starts grabbing their gloves, and Lucas runs over to the dugout, a big grin on his face.
“Hey, Scottie. Did you come all the way down here to ask me to come home with you for Christmas and meet your family? I accept.”
She shakes her head, but a mischievous glint betrays her glare. “You wouldn’t last ten minutes with me, Fischer.”
“Ooh, sounds like a challenge.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Whatever you have to tell yourself.” Then she looks at me. “Travel safely, Fletch.”
“You too, Scottie,” I tell her.
“What about me?” Lucas calls, holding his hands out.
