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P.P.S. We are friends.
I didn’t realize he’d paid that much attention to my shoes.
Really, Sebastian?
I’m a size 9
His answer comes back swiftly.
No, you’re not
And you’re welcome
On a scale of one to creepy, this is definitely up there
Not if you’ve seen someone in that pair of boots and nothing else, trust me
My fingers hover over the keys, typing and then deleting. Ruminating onthatmemory woulddefinitelybe a strike against Project GOSMC.
You’re the one who keeps insisting we’re friends
Waving the white flag?
No. I’m just repeating your assertion. The one you won’t let go of, might I add
Yes, we’re friends
I just have a long memory
Don’t be late for dinner
Truthfully, my plan had been to work until I felt like passing out, but chicken scarpariello does sound tempting. That’s a dish I haven’t had in years but remember from the many family dinner parties. The thing I don’t want is to leave before everyone else, because I’m the youngest here and have the most to prove. I can’t be late again, either.
Starting tomorrow, I’m going to get to the lab even earlier. With any luck, I won’t even see Sebastian, which will be a win-win. No hot, athletic distractions, and an extra hour to work before Alice hovers over my shoulder like a pink-feathered bird of prey.
Maybe.
I’ll take a maybe :)
17
SEBASTIAN
“Of course,we’ll make you aware ahead of time what we choose to publish. We’re interested in your story. What you’ve been up to all this time, living with the Callahans, preparing for your future career.”
The reporter, a woman named Zoe Anders, has barely stopped talking throughout the conversation. I thought that a video meeting would be less awkward than a phone call, but I’ve mostly been silent, nodding my head when necessary and chiming in with one-word answers. It seems like she knows enough about me to write the profile right now, honestly. She has her angle all worked out; she’s going to write about how the memory of my father’s career has affected my game.
She pauses, finally, giving me a wide smile. “So, what do you think?”
I feel a little nauseous, honestly, but I don’t tell her that. I’m exhausted after this afternoon’s game—fortunately a win—and this all sounds overwhelming. “Seems… intense.”
She laughs shortly. “Sebastian, this is just a small taste of what you’ll experience in your career. They’re predicting you’ll spend maybe two years in the minors before being called up.”
I wish I could shut my laptop. When I was a teenager, it was easy not to think about the future, not to give any mind to the scouts in the stands during certain tournaments, or the handshakes from men who looked at me and saw Jake Miller, not his son.
Now, it’s almost here, and even if I’m protected by one more year of undergrad, my obligations to whatever club picks me up will start soon. I’ll start tobesomeone, a version of Sebastian that has a public persona. There’s the version of James I know—my brother, my friend—and the one that’s on people’s fantasy football teams. Even if I could shut out all the noise, Zoe is right: this is the beginning of more press coverage, more interest, more expectations. If I get to the majors and do badly, I’ll disappoint everyone. If I do well, they’ll show my stats alongside my father’s. If I do exceedingly well, then the attention might be all mine, but that could make me into a national name, a Mike Trout or Aaron Judge, rather than just someone known in baseball circles.
Judging by the gleam in Zoe’s eyes, she’s trying to get me to that last option as quickly as possible. A story that involves Richard Callahan is one that always gets read, after all.
