Penelope
* * *
Of course, I find out from Janet.
Not from my dad. Not a phone call, or a simple heads-up, or I don’t know, any of the basic human courtesies that a father might extend to a daughter he just volunteered for a task she doesn’t want to do. Nope, just Janet emailing me the player contact sheet with the name Decker Davis listed as the Team Liaison.
What the actual fuck, Dad?
I slam my laptop shut, stand, and grab my keys, wishing I had read it last night instead of half an hour before the meeting.
My heroic Uber driver gets me to Webber Field in record time, giving me enough time to corner my dad before we head into the conference room.
He’s in the hallway outside his office when I arrive, talking to one of the pitching coaches whose name I can’t remember since fire is racing through my veins. My dad catches my approach from over the guy’s shoulder and purses his lips as though he’s trying not to laugh.
He says something to the pitching coach, pats him on the shoulder, and walks over to meet me with his hands in his pockets.
“Hey, slugger.”
“Don’t slugger me. Decker Davis?”
“He’s a good player. Four Gold Gloves. Great bat.” He shrugs.
“Dad…” I say with a mix of exasperation and exhaustion.
He tips his head. “Walk with me. We don’t want to be late.”
I have to double my steps to keep up with him. “I’d like you to explain why I had to find out from Janet that?—”
“Because I knew if I told you, you’d say no.” He says it simply and without apology. That’s my dad though—he rarely apologizes for much.
I close my mouth.
He’s not wrong. Decker Davis being part of this is the one thing that might have made me say no to my dad.
“He’s the right guy for the job,” my dad continues, keeping his voice low. “The players respect him. He doesn’t make things about himself.” He pauses. “But you know all of that.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what’s the matter, slugger?”
I groan. “Can you please stop calling me slugger?”
He presses the elevator button and stares at me as if I’m seven again. “It’s my name for you.”
“Only when you want something.”
My patience thins with every second that passes, and my dad doesn’t acknowledge that he knows why Decker and I should not be planning these events together.
I have spent a considerable amount of time and energy over the past several weeks trying not to think about Decker Davis. And last night I agreed to go on a date with a doctor I’ve never met, and now I can barely remember his name because it’s being crowded out by he-who-should-remain-nameless.
I don’t say any of that though.
“It’s going to be awkward,” I whisper, even though the hallway is empty.
The elevator arrives. At least I’ll be able to corner Dad in the small space and convince him to assign someone else on the ride up.
My dad waves his arm for me to step in, and he follows, pressing the button for the level the front offices are on. He leans against the metal wall, studying me for a moment. He’s always had the ability to read me like a playbook.
