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The team’s best interest.
Baseball is a business.
Baseball is a business.
Baseball is a business.
No matter how many times I reminded myself of that fact, it didn’t lessen the sting.
Pressure built up in my chest as I looked away, struggling with what to say. Finally, I pulled myself together and stared steadily back at him. “I’m not healed a hundred percent yet. I just need more time. I’ll get back to where I was, you know I will. ”
He shook his head. “It’s already a done deal. ”
“Why do I get to choose where I go?” I felt a little dizzy as the room spun, or maybe it was my head, still reeling from the news.
“Because it’s an even trade. Both teams are offering the same things, so I figured I’d do you the courtesy of asking if you had a preference where you went. ”
“Thank you,” I said with a nod.
“Both Toronto and Anaheim are asking for you. You let me know which team you’d prefer, and I’ll do my best to make it happen for you. ”
I sucked in a breath. It was a no-brainer. “Anaheim. Definitely Anaheim. ” If I had to get traded and move, the least I could do was take Cassie back home.
Shit.
Cassie was going to kill me.
My mind whirled with all the ramifications of this move. Cassie had a job she loved. We’d made a home here in New York. We were Matteo’s only clients. We had friends, and responsibilities, and suddenly I felt like the weight of the world rested on my shoulders.
Jimmy cleared his throat. “Great. I’ll let them know. ” He gave me a nod of dismissal and waved me toward the door.
I moved to leave but paused for a second, then turned around and asked, “When will it go through?”
“The deadline’s in a few days, so not before then. ”
A few days?
>
“Will I throw any more for the team?” I asked. It was probably a weird question, but I liked knowing when something this momentous was going to be my last time. I wanted to be able to say good-bye, knowing I was kicking the mound for the last time, putting on the uniform for the last time, walking onto the field for the last time. I’m a baseball player; we’re fucking mental, okay?
“Probably not. You’re a good pitcher, Jack. ”
A few months ago I was a great pitcher.
“You still have some years left in you, so don’t let this get you down. This is all part of the game. ”
I saw red for a second as emotions welled up within me at the injustice of it all. Fucking easy for you to say.
Lucky for me I didn’t voice that thought out loud, but settled for muttering, “Not really. ”
“Excuse me?” Jimmy slammed his pen down on the desk and eyed me, his face slowly turning red.
“This,” I said tersely, then paused. “This isn’t part of the game at all. It might be part of the business, but it’s not part of the game. ” Then I opened the door and walked out.
Still had a few years left in me? I’d show them. My hand wasn’t fully healed yet, and I could still come back just as strong as I was before. The Mets organization might have just quit on me, but I refused to. I’d play my best years for the Anaheim Angels. At least I would still be playing.
Matteo drove me home in silence. It had been like that since I’d gotten hurt. He let me take the lead when it came to my wanting to talk or not, and most days lately, I’d been silent. I felt like a shitty person because we were friends; I just didn’t always act like one lately.
