Page 138 of Hiding in the Outfield

I lift my head and turn to look over my shoulder. A brown-haired, bearded man with bright hazel eyes stares back at me. He’s got a friendly aura about him, even though his confident stance is one of a man who owns a room. I let out a shaky breath. Jimmy Schultz. Captain of the BDE. Been playing shortstop for them for ten years.

I give him a tight smile. With the way my stomach is squirming like a bed of eels, I’m not willing to chance opening my mouth.

His expression turns sympathetic. “Worried you’re going to puke?” He claps me on the shoulder. “Been there. Best advice I can give you? Go out there and play ball like you’re out in the sandlot back home. That’s all this is. Just a fancy sandlot. We’re just a bunch of kids throwing together a neighborhood ball game.”

I swallow hard and nod. Right. Just some backyard baseball.

“Have you eaten?”

I vehemently shake my head. Have I eaten? Have I slept? Nope. And nope. Am I going to embarrass myself in front of the entire world when I vomit and then pass out on national television? Yes, yes, in fact, I am.

He tsks. “Follow me, rook. I know exactly what you need.”

I blindly follow. He could lead me to a den of vipers and push me in, and I’d walk in without a second thought. Because I have no thoughts. I have trained for this moment my entire life. But I forgot to prepare for one small piece. The visibility. The cameras are close enough to catch every breath—every misstep—every error.

The entire world is watching.

Brick.

After brick.

After agonizing brick of pressure piles on.

“Yo, Ralphie!”

I jerk.

Schultz led me down the hall to a small kitchenette area. “We need calories, and we need to combat a puke risk.”

A guy dressed in BDE’s signature blue hurries from a back room, dumping a box of containers, all various supplements—protein powder, creatine, beta-alanine.

His attention falls on me, and he sizes me up in one quick look. “Any food allergies?”

I shake my head, and then he’s throwing a bunch of things in a blender.

Schultz bumps my shoulder. “Ralphie here will get you any shake you need. You just tell him what you’re looking for, and he’ll be able to throw something together.

The clink of ice cubes fills the air, then the blender whirls. Thirty seconds later, a bright green smoothie slides across the counter toward me.

“Mint, banana, flavorless collagen protein and electrolyte powder, almond milk, honey, and a handful of spinach. I kept it simple for you. No extra caffeine to add to your jitters. The mint and honey should kick those nausea nerves.”

I open and close my mouth helplessly. This is like being in a whole new world. “Thanks,” I manage. I turn to Schultz. “And thank you, man. Like, really.”

I take a tentative sip of the smoothie—and holy shit, it’s bangin’. The mint settles in my stomach, soothing it instantly.

“Don’t mention it.” He gently pushes me back toward the locker room. “I’ve been where you are, kid. I was traded three times my first season getting the call-up.”

My lungs stall, and I trip, almost losing my smoothie.

“Woah, easy. Sorry, maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say.” He sends me a sheepish smile. “It’s nerve wracking. Every clubhouse has a different vibe. But you’re in good hands here. The BDE vibe is really chill. We’re a newer team, and we’re hungry to make a name for ourselves. We don’t have the old-franchise pressure like the Yankees or the Dodgers. I know you’ve been here a hot second, but I promise all the guys are great. Even Sanchez. He mostly grunts, but he’s a total teddy bear.”

My lips twitch, and a teeny-tiny bit of that overwhelming pressure lessens, a single brick falling off. We step into the locker room, and my phone vibrates in my pocket. I peek at it, and my eyebrows shoot up. A video call from Shane?

“Ah, sorry. Is it okay if I take this? It’s my old Triple-A team.”

Schultz barks out a laugh. “Dude, I’m not your mother. Take the call. Though I make no promises that I won’t butt my head in.”

I answer and open my mouth—but Shane, of course, cuts me off.