Across the field in the home team bullpen, Jake is finishing up his late-afternoon physical therapy session. He’s performing a series of resistance-band exercises, buildingthe strength back in his shoulder. He isn’t a man who belongs in a minor-league dugout forever.
I stare at him, a sureness settling deep into my bones, and I look back at Sarah.
“I am incredibly honored,” I say, my smile tight. She takes in a deep breath, and I’m certain she sees this answer coming.
“Working with you has been the best part of my professional life. But . . . I can’t tie myself to a physical home base right now. If we do this, I need to keep my side of the business model entirely mobile. Laptop, cell phone, and a healthy dose of airplane miles.”
Sarah’s brows rise, her gaze tracking mine out to the field where Jake is packing up his bands. A knowing smirk touches her face, the expression of a woman who recognizes a long-term campaign strategy when she sees one.
“A mobile model, huh?”
“I love this town,” I say, my voice steady, filled with a renewed sense of hope as I watch Jake swing his arms out on the grass. “But I have a strong feeling Jake’s time is coming very soon. And I love him too.”
TWENTY-FIVE
JAKE
3 WEEKS LATER
The small white clearance slip from the team physician is crumpled in my left fist, the ink barely dry, but the lineup card taped to the dugout wall doesn’t care about medical miracles.
McKinney, R. — C (44)
McKinney, J. — Bullpen
The medical staff officially gave me the green light an hour ago. My right shoulder feels totally restored. Better, in fact. I’m nearly bionic. My arm feels alive, loose, and ready to snap throws down to second base. But because I’ve been sidelined for nearly three weeks, Coach isn’t taking any chances with the weekend home opener against Little Rock. It’s one of the biggest series of the season, the stands directly behind home plate packed with scoutsholding radar guns and clipboards, and decision-makers from Texas are looking to pull guys up for a final push.
And I am stuck out in the fucking bullpen, destined to catch warm-up pitches.
A wave of dejection keeps hitting me square in the chest. It’s a bitter reality check, the reminder that the game keeps going whether you’re healthy or not. I stare at the back of my dad’s jersey as he straps on his chest protector, the familiar number 44 mocking me. For a fleeting second, resentment claws at my throat. I want to stare at the ground, find a corner of the bench, and let it fester.
Instead, I take a deep breath, roll my shoulders, and step right up to the top rail of the dugout.
“Hey, Luis!” I shout out to our starting pitcher, slamming my left hand against the padding of the rail. “Establish the inner third early! They were diving into the plate last time we faced them! Let’s get it!”
Luis gives me a nod, then jogs out to the mound.
I look over at my dad. He’s adjusting his shin guards, but the second my voice rings out, his head snaps up. Our eyes lock briefly, and I push myself to mask any disappointment I’m feeling with a grin. It feels fake on my face, and I’m sure it looks half-assed. He doesn’t say a word, simply lowers his mask and heads up the dugout steps.
“Let’s go,” I say, slapping the back of one of our young relievers as I follow him out of the dugout to join the rest of the relief crew out to the bullpen. I’m determined to be the loudest jackass on the roster today.
We take the field first, and Luis manages to escape the top of the first inning unscathed, working around a walk to keep it scoreless.
In the bottom of the frame, our leadoff guy strikes out, but Jayden manages to work his way into a full-count walk.That brings my dad up to the plate with one out and a runner on first. This is exactly where he likes to be. The number of homers I’ve watched him hit in the first with a runner on is too many to count, and my gut says he’s about to do it again. I lean against the bullpen fence and zero in on his form.
“Come on, Dad,” I whisper to myself.
He digs his back foot into the dirt, and the Little Rock ace winds up and fires a heavy, ninety-two-mile-an-hour fastball right at the outside corner. My dad shifts his weight, keeping his hips centered, just like he tells me to every time we hit together, and cracks a stinging single into shallow right field.
“Yeah, old man!” I yell from the bullpen, rattling the chain-link fence with my left hand. “Way to stay back!”
I chuckle, hoping he can hear me and is amused by my imitation. Jayden rounds second and slides safely into third as my dad hits first base at a standard, heavy-legged veteran trot. But the exact microsecond his cleat clips the bag, the entire game grinds to a halt.
My father’s body bends in half, his left hand instantly snapping to the back of his right thigh. He hunches over, then lowers himself to sit on the grass, his head shaking as he grabs his hamstring. The trainer jogs out and kneels beside him, helping him stretch before getting him back on his feet to test out a jog. My dad takes two halting steps into foul territory and drops to one knee, groaning out what sounds like an F-bomb loud enough to be heard all the way out here.
Coach hovers over him, and the two of them talk while the trainer holds his chin in his palm and nods. The whole conversation lasts less than thirty seconds. Roddy is shaking his head, barking words I can’t distinguish, but the trainerrefuses to let him stay. Clearly frustrated, my father allows himself to be slowly helped off the field, his arm slung over the trainer’s shoulder as he ambles his way down the dugout steps and into the back room.
My bullpen radio clicks on my hip, the coach’s voice crackling through.
