Page 125 of Elevator Pitch

My annoyance with myself grows, feeling selfish and frustrated. How many games has she attended for me? How many times has she let me talk about my issues with players in the locker room? How many times has she swatted my ass to wish me luck?

And what have I done for her? Bought her a couple cups of her favorite calming tea?

I haven’t read a single book. Not even asked to see a chapter. I’ve been so wrapped up in baseball. Again.

The restlessness of being in Philadelphia turns to unease about Vee. Am I doing enough for her? Am I enough for her?

“She’s very impressive,” I state, but I sound a bit tightlipped, almost offended, when I’m actually mad at myself. And I feel Vee watching me. I can’t look at her, ashamed of myself for not coming across like her biggest fan.

Rena is clearly a fan.

Fortunately, Vee and Rena are both good at making conversation and draw the boys into discussions. I’m not much of a conversationalist today. My mind is all over the place, and too soon, it’s time for me to head out.

Dismissing myself, I address the table as I stand. “I’ll see you guys at the ballpark.” It’s not really a question. I bought tickets for Rena and Vee to attend together. Rena purchased tickets for the boys in the same vicinity.

And I pause half a second waiting for Vee to stand and walk me out.

Instead, she offers me a wink. Playful. Flirty. Girlfriendy, but it’s not enough. My irritation is back and it’s not really at Vee. I’m mad at myself. Upset that I didn’t introduce to my sister like I had planned. Harley did. Upset that I don’t have time to hang out with my kids, and my girl, and my sister and linger at this lunch. Upset at this uncomfortable prickle, gnawing at me as I’m back in Philly.

I step to Vee and cup her face, looking her directly in the eyes. “Wish me luck, sweetheart.”

“Luck,” she whispers, her eyes heated before she licks her lips. I want to kiss her senseless. Instead, I settle for a quick kiss, hoping to swallow her wish.

By the time the game starts, I’m a wreck, and the Anchors look more like a bunch of fumbling tee-ballers than professionals making millions of dollars. As I’m not a screamer, keeping that shit in my head, I have a headache by the sixth inning that rivals the crack of a metal bat against a ball on repeat. The constant ting-ting-ting makes my stomach queasy.

Plus, the Anchors are losing.

Rena and Vee are in the stands with my boys, and I’m an anxious mess, feeling the pressure of everyone watching. Me as a coach to a new team. Me as the former coach of our opponents. Philly fans are a tough crowd, and I anticipated the boos. The catcalls of being a traitor. The insults for lost loyalty. From the same fans who demanded my release. Philly is a rough city. Fans love hard; hate harder.

And the tension builds.

When the game ends, the Anchors lose, 0-10, and we hang our heads entering the locker room.

“Guess his lucky charm didn’t work this time,” someone in the locker room says.

I still as I’m the last to enter the common space.

“Who said that?” I glance around the room of men in various states of undress. Some sit. Some stand. A collective breath is suddenly held. My eyes shift from man to man before landing on a smirking Romero Valdez.

“Want to repeat what you just said?” I sound like a teacher, asking a kid in a classroom to share his thoughts with everyone.

Valdez stands tall. Or at least as tall as his five-eight will allow him compared to my six-three. “I said,” he emphasizes. “Looks like your lucky charm didn’t work this time.”

“What lucky charm?” I cross my arms, defensive, while also certain what, or rather who, he means.

“The one you’re fucking.”

“What the fuck?” I take a few steps toward him before Kip and Dalton are in front of me. Not holding me back but blocking any further approach. “What the fuck did you say?”

“I said that piece you’re fucking didn’t bring you luck after all.”

“That’s it.” I call out, jabbing a finger at my short stop. “You’re suspended.” He’s already endured a suspension for his actions toward Ford earlier this season, but his current comments are insolence against a superior. His fucking coach.

“For what?” Valdez questions, facing off with me, meeting my glare between the shoulders of Dalton and Kip.

“For being a dick.” It’s the most unprofessional thing I’ve said as a coach, but I can’t help myself. I know who he’s insulting, and I don’t like what he’s saying.

I am not fucking Vee for some superstitious reason.