Page 7 of Double Play

No doubt she’s addressing Chuck Nugent, a true star with The Den and practically a Nashville treasure, who covers all home games and some away ones with play-by-play reporting.

With a soft kick at the gravel track, I cross the baseline for the dugout. Sometimes, I can sneak into the tunnel before India intercepts me, but my avoidance has been detected by the front office, and I’ve been warned about interviews.

I’m obligated to give them even when I despise them.

Gone are the days of simply coaching a group of grown men playing a game. In the past, the team manager, or head coach, answered a few questions at the end of a game in a conference room. Now, it’s a constant stream of chatter that occurs during the middle of play directly from the dugout.

Last week, I got my hand slapped by the front office when I was too busy concentrating on Cassidy “Tripp” Nash III up at bat, which is the essence of my job, and told India that I had a game to coach, thus cutting off her inquisition

Meaning: I didn’t want to be bothered to talk.

Not about the trivial, that is. I wanted something real from her.

The slight is nothing personal. I just don’t like how, in the past few years, the dugout has become a place of show-and-tell, providing an interactive and in-depth look into the mindset of the coaching staff.

I don’t need anyone in my head.

Which makes being interviewed by India Baker all the more difficult.

Perhaps my attitude is personal.

Hard not to feel that way about a woman who once twisted me all up inside and then went radio silent.

four

. . .

[India]

Declan Wylde is such a hard ass.

He also has a nice ass, and that fine specimen holds my focus as he stalks away from me, kicking at the dirt like a boy who lost a little league game.

I almost feel sorry for him.

Back when Declan was in college, and Isaiah’s best friend, baseball was the center of their lives. Seemed like the only thing Declan would ever have eyes for was a nine-inch ball with red stitching on it.

Then one winter, he noticed me.

When I was a kid, I’d often try to draw attention to myself. I didn’t want to be an actress or a singer, but I craved the limelight. I’d be the loudest in the room, the flashiest at a party. A little Miss Showoff with outrageous outfits and wild hairstyles.

My mother thought it was a residual effect of having childhood cancer. I wanted to live large.

Dad thought I lived a little too big at times.

Once upon a time, that attention-seeking behavior resulted in a hot week with Declan Wylde, my long-term crush. His piercing sapphire eyes fixated on me, the girl behind the antics, and I felt cherished, like a rare gem. His arms were safety, while his body was all sin, and I wanted to be a bad, bad girl with him. He never frightened me, though. I was afraid of myself at the time.

That weekend changed everything and years later, it shouldn’t matter; however, the heartbroken girl inside the grown woman I’ve become never forgot her first love.

Declan comes from humble beginnings. From a small, poor community in Arkansas, he landed in Colorado, where he made the university baseball team and met my older brother Isaiah. They were thick as thieves from the first hit to catch situation, in which Isaiah hit a grounder toward first base and Declan scooped it up, tagged the base, and the ump called Isaiah out. Isaiah still cries foul after all these years.

While Declan has an older brother, claiming him as his only family, he’d been adopted into our circle of four.

My mother doted on Declan. Isaiah loved him. Dad was indifferent.

When Declan signed with Seattle while he was still in college, I’d been ecstatic for him. I’d also been foolish to think a rookie player on the cusp of greatness would befriend his best friend’s younger sister when I moved to a city he was set to leave.

He was Declan Wylde. Wylde Thing. The Big League changed him. He hit homeruns and scored tons of women, or so Isaiah said.