Page 31 of Hiding in the Outfield

Oliver Reeves: They finally found their rhythm, then the roster got flipped upside down. Call-ups, injuries, movement all over the place. That’s life in the minors. Unfortunately, that means the first-half winner’s spot is slipping through their fingers.

Bernie: No doubt about it. Olander walks up to the plate. Two strikeouts already tonight for him. Let’s hope this one will be different.

Bernie: Phillips deals. Foul tip back into the stands. Oh-one.

Oliver: They finally managed to get a runner on with their first base hit. For a little while there, I was afraid we would be looking at a no-hitter. Let’s see if Olander can make something happen.

Bernie: Phillips lets one fly. And Olander is caught looking. Oh-two.

Oliver: At this point in the game, the Clippers need him to make contact and drive in a run. He’s one of their best hitters, but I don’t think that guy showed up tonight.

Bernie: The clock is running out quickly on this one. Here it comes. Swings and misses. Phillips strikes him out in three pitches. Third strikeout of the night for Olander, and he leaves a runner stranded.

Oliver: Another missed opportunity for the Clippers.

Bernie: Unfortunately, that seems to be the way of the night.

TWELVE

JACKSON

There’s a knock on my bedroom door, and I frown. “Come in?”

The door swings open, and I blink a couple times. But nope, my eyes aren’t deceiving me: Maddox Barnes is standing in my doorway—I glance at the clock—at quarter to midnight.

It’s Thursday night. This entire week has been a blur. The team is a mess. Lost again tonight. No surprise when our heads are in the shitter. So much has happened over the past few days. Losing star talent with Stone and Araujo. Green rookie replacements. Certain people being released…

Dad called me this morning during my workout and reamed me.

You’ll never get the call-up if your batting average drops below two-seventy. Your talent in the outfield, which has disappeared this week, isn’t enough.

Where’d your instincts go? Did you leave them at home? You hesitated on a play you could have gotten the out on.

Then he went off on the rest of the team.

I get it. I don’t know what we were playing out there, but it wasn’t baseball. I was pathetic tonight too.

Barnes points inside my room. “It’s okay if I come in? You didn’t sound too sure.”

I shake myself out of my stupor and swing my legs over the side of my bed so I’m sitting facing him. “Yeah, man. Of course. Sorry, was spacing.”

He steps inside and shuts the door behind him, then leans against it. I fist the edge of my mattress. I can’t read him. He’s stoic as all hell. Not any different from any other time I’ve seen him. I can’t imagine this is going to be good, though. Not when I’m the reason one of his good friends got sent to the hospital.

I bite the inside of my cheek until a hint of metal hits my tongue. But it’s not enough. I hang my head and squeeze my eyes shut as my body punishes me. My stomach weaves itself into a knot. Tighter and tighter. A fractured cheekbone. Concussion. Dominguez’s words echo in my ears.

“So…I heard Dev got released.”

I nod, but don’t lift my head. Thank fucking God. Even before the bar, I don’t know how much longer I was going to be able to keep on the mask I wore with Dev. I thought he was protection, but really, he was a virus, slowly destroying me from the inside out.

“You upset about it?”

I don’t move, just follow the pills of the carpet at my feet.

“Or relieved?” he asks quietly.

My gaze flies to his. He studies me, one knee bent with his foot propped on my door. Barnes is always watching. He picks up on things others don’t. I think it comes from his physical therapy background. It takes a real attention to detail, noticing subtle things about a person, to diagnose a patient—and more often than not to find what injury they might be hiding.

He pushes off the wall and walks to the small desk next to my bed—or beds, since I pushed the two twin beds together when Henderson moved out.