Page 139 of Hiding in the Outfield

“Yooooo. Look at your sexy self, Olliebear. Pro-ball jerseyed the fuck up.” He lifts his fist to his mouth. “Dayumnnnnn.”

Schultz is cracking up next to me, and I can’t hold back my grin. Shane is something else. Even though his face is taking up most of the screen, it looks like he might be in the locker room. “You guys just finish up your game?”

The video tilts, and then I’m looking at Easton’s face. “Yeah, managed to scrape a win thanks to Shane’s base stealing and Trent’s ridiculous defense. But damn, do we miss your hot bat.”

“And his Norse god-like size,” Paulie calls from somewhere in the background.

Trent’s face pops on screen. “Congrats, man.”

My heart gives a small tug. Trent and I were just getting to know each other. He’s a good kid. I’d never realized just how bittersweet achieving my dream would be.

Easton holds the phone as far up as he can, and the rest of my old team gathers in the screen’s frame.

“Good luck, Olander!” O’Neil yells from the crowd.

“Go kill it!” Slater adds.

“We’re heading to the bar to watch you,” Shane says. “We’ll be lifting our beers to you, bro. We miss you.”

“And some of us are really fucking jealous,” Thompson says, and laughter spills through the speakers. “You made it, man. We’re so happy for you.”

“Thanks, guys. I’ll try to make you proud.”

Schultz bumps my shoulder and gives me a what am I, chopped liver look. I huff out a laugh and then turn the phone. Gasps and oh shits erupt on the screen.

“Oh, and meet Jimmy Schultz, guys. Schultz, meet my old Triple-A team, the Providence Clippers.”

“Ohmigod,” Shane squeals. “You’re like my second favorite shortstop ever.”

I snort. Have a feeling I know who his favorite is.

Schultz chuckles. “Thanks, man. Honored.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Been trying to help keep this guy from tossing his guts.”

Shane’s face turns serious. “Box breathing, bro. Four in and four out. You need to find your center and then manifest. Visualize that ball in leather. Hear the crack of that bat. Oh, and see if you can snag a ginger tea.”

My smile turns soft. I really fucking miss these guys. “Thanks, man,” I say roughly. Because now, instead of nervousness, I’m being besieged by…homesickness.

Shane tsks. “Bro. Thanks, bro. Man.” He scoffs. “Like I’m some rando. Seriously, Olliebear. Am I nothing to you?”

Easton snickers, and Schultz’s shaking shoulders jostle into me as he tries to stifle his laughter.

Paulie steals the phone and puts the call back on the rails. “Good luck, Olander. Wish we could be there too.” His eyebrows lift meaningfully. “Now get out of here before Shane starts up a yoga session or some shit.”

I hang up and pocket my phone.

“Looks like you had a good group of guys back there,” Schultz says. “It’s one of the tough realities of this game. But based on that call…I think you’ll fit in just fine here, rook. Let’s head down to the field for a throw around. We’ll loosen you up. And if you really need a yoga session, guarantee La Cruz—our second baseman—will lead the charge.”

I draw in a breath and count to four. The smell of grass and earth mixed with a hint of brine from the nearby ocean fill me. Release. Count to four.

And, damn Shane, but he was right. It does help.

The stadium lights burn into my skin like I have my own personal sun shining directly over me. My gut hasn’t settled, but the pressure in my chest has eased.

It’s no wonder Jimmy Schultz is captain. He’s not that much older than me, but he carries an almost paternal presence. It didn’t take long to see he’s the gravity of this team. Every person turns toward him as he walks by—a respect earned through his obvious camaraderie and gentle command.

I was able to get to know a couple of the guys a little better while tossing the ball around—finally able to let go a bit and not be blinded by my panic. Schultz was right about La Cruz too. He’s a goofy guy, rocking a sick set of braids, bursting with energy, who I’m pretty sure would be best friends with Shane. He actually rode Eli Derby, our right fielder, out onto the field. La Cruz’s chestnut stallion, apparently because of Derby’s auburn hair. Another thing I could totally hear Shane saying.

I shift and roll my shoulders as the first batter steps up to the plate. Go time. Standing out here, waiting for the moment I have to remember how to catch a ball, is torture. I can just picture— No. Manifest. Ball in glove.