“Janet came down personally.” Which is why I’m sitting here with uncombed, damp hair. When the manager’s assistant comes down and says he wants to see you, you don’t take time to fuss about your appearance after your shower. You just go.
“Hope I didn’t pull you away from anything.”
If he only knew how boring my life is now. I’d rather be in here for whatever he needs than thinking about my poor performance on the field—or worse, his daughter.
“Film got delayed.”
He nods as though he already knew that. Not surprising. Ripley knows everything that happens in this facility. It’s one of the things that makes him hard to get anything past and easy to trust at the same time.
He steeples his fingers. “Hand still good?”
I flex my left hand. The one I jammed sliding in the final game of the Atlanta series. “Fine.”
“Good.” He picks up his water bottle and holds it without drinking from it. “I want to talk to you about something.”
Dread settles low in my gut. Here it goes. Harkins just won my spot. “Okay.”
Apparently, I’m breaking out in a sweat and look like I just came down with the flu because he laughs and shakes his head. “Relax, Deck. I’m on your side. Your bat is carrying us in the lineup. I’m not gonna say you don’t need to work on your fielding, but the spot is still yours.”
One reason I’ve always loved Ripley is that he’s not one of those coaches who gets a kick out of watching you sweat. He’s a straight shooter.
“Thanks.”
He leans his forearms on his desk and stares at me. Now my mind is racing with scenarios as to why I’m sitting across from him. And the only thing I come up with is that if this isn’t about my position, it must be about his daughter.
“Whitaker wants the Colts to be one with the community. Since we’re made up of mostly single guys, we don’t have a WAG group. He sees this as a problem and wants to fix it.”
“Is he going to start arranging marriages?”
Our team is relatively young, and we do have a lot of guys who aren’t anywhere near even wanting a steady relationship. Our starting shortstop, for one. All three outfielders as well. The closest is Torres, but he and his girlfriend are still doing long distance, and from an outsider’s perspective, it’s not going well.
“I wouldn’t put it past him, but he’s asked that we plan more community events, and I need a player who will be accountable for the guys.”
Oh fuck. He’s asking because he knows I’m a yes man. I’m not stupid enough to say thanks for the great offer, but I’d rather sit this one out. Not during a contract year anyway.
“I need a player to be the point man for the team side. Someone the guys will listen to and who won’t treat it like a burden.” He twists the cap off the water bottle. “I want that to be you.”
I wait a beat to play it off as if I’m considering, when all I can think about is that this is the last thing I want or need this year. “You want me to plan parties?”
“God no. I want you to be the liaison between the team and the coordinator. Show up, rally the guys, make sure nobody skips the events because they think they’re optional.” He gives me a dry look. “Because it’s not optional—for anyone.”
Last year, two guys showed up forty minutes late to a charity dinner, and Ripley’s face twisted into something none of us wanted to see again. They got traded. He doesn’t tolerate disobedience.
“I can do that.” It sounds easy enough. I was picturing myself on hold with a catering company, arguing about whether the chicken or the fish is the better option for forty grown men, and hot gluing centerpieces in my limited spare time. Making sure the guys get to the facility and do what they’re supposed to do is easy.
“I know you can. That’s why I’m asking you.”
He nods, satisfied, and reaches for a folder on the corner of his desk. He slides it to me, and I open it. A calendar of our schedule with stars next to the dates events will be planned for rests inside.
I flip to the second page, and my gaze pauses on the name listed as the contact.
Event Coordination: Penelope Ripley.
I keep my eyes on the page for exactly one second longer than I need to before I glance at him.
Ripley is finishing his bottle of water and looking at the whiteboard as though he’s debating switching the lineup around. The guy never stops working. Which is what you want in a manager.
“Penelope is running the coordination side?”
