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“I want to.”
He shakes his head. “Be careful, man. That’s all I’m going to say.”
“She’s part of my life.” I want to smile at my own words, but I manage to rein it in. Weeks of rain and gloom, and now the sun is back in my life. It might not be exactly how I want it, but it’s enough. If Hunter doesn’t understand, I can’t make him. “She’d be in it either way, and I like this better.”
“Kirby! Callahan! Stop your chatting!”
I give Hunter a look. “Nice going.”
“Understood, Coach!” As he jogs back into position, he snorts. “A quiet place to work, my ass.”
I settle my cap on my head, adjust my glove, and smack my fist into the center twice. I’d like to keep thinking about Mia, but the pitcher is ready to go.
It’s easy to slip into the rhythm of the game. People have asked me, on occasion, if it gets boring in the outfield, but I never felt that way, even as a little kid. Baseball isn’t continuous motion. It involves lying in wait, ready to strike at precisely the right moment—and that anticipation never fails to keep me on my toes.
* * *
Two and a half hours later,I leave the field with grass stains on my knees, a sunburn on the back of my neck, and a scowl on my face.
A photographer.
At practice.
Forme.
It’s beyond ridiculous, because we were just playing a simulated game, and anyway, it’s not like I’m a celebrity. There’s no reason to photograph me anywhere, much less at a random midweek practice. He slunk around the fence and took a bunch of photographs, and while at first, we were confused, it quickly became obvious who he was targeting. Coach went out and spoke to him, but he was standing just far enough away from campus property that he couldn’t force him to leave.
I refused to look at him, but I felt the gaze of the camera the entire time. It reminded me of the photographers who came to my parents’ funeral.
I risk a glance over my shoulder as I reach the dugout. He’s gone, off to send the photographs to whatever publication will have them.
Fucking asshole.
“Sebastian,” Coach says. My ears prick up at the use of my first name. “Stay back a moment, okay?”
“What’s Miller got to mope about?” Ozzy mutters as he passes by. “He knows where he’s fucking going.”
“Come on, man,” Hunter says.
“What?” says Ozzy. “He probably paid the photographer himself.”
I glare at him. He just smiles, giving me a cheeky little wave. I barely refrain from rolling my eyes.
It’s not that ‘Miller’ is derogatory, exactly, but the guys know that I go by ‘Callahan.’ It’s like if I insisted on calling Ozzy ‘Oswaldo’ even though I know he hates his full name. His draft capital isn’t nearly as strong as mine, and since the start of the season, that’s been bothering him. The MLB draft is more fluid than, say, the NFL’s—with James, it was a big fucking deal that he went high in the first round. It’s an honor to know that teams think I’m worth a big upfront investment, but the way things go, Ozzy and I might end up in the majors at the same time, a couple years down the line. Everyone, even the most talented college players, spends their fair share of time in the minors. Learning to hit that major league curveball is no joke.
“Why don’t you give us his name, so we have the heads up for next time?” he says.
“Perrin,” Coach warns. “Keep it up and you’ll do laps around the bases.”
Ozzy falls silent, but I feel his irritation throughout the post-game debrief. When Coach releases everyone else to the locker room to clean up and take a break before part two of our double practice, I stay in the dugout, staring at the empty field. Hunter stays, too. He gives me a slap on the back with enough force it stings.
“Ouch,” I say flatly.
“Ignore him,” he says. “He’s always been an idiot.”
“That had nothing to do with the interview?” Coach Martin asks.
I look over my shoulder at him. “No, sir. That’s not happening until we play Binghamton here at home.”
