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Everyone’s concern is for the veteran catcher who is the glue of this team.
When I look back at the dugout, I see Ross pinch the bridge of his nose and a silentfuckfalls from his lips.
I know Mack gets treatment on his knees after every game, so I’m assuming whatever happened is related to that, but it doesn’t help me stay still. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to go to him.
Fake or not, we do share a relationship.
We share a house and a bed.
And most recently, we started sharing much more than that.
My feelings for this man are starting to look a lot more real than they should and right now all I want to do is run over there and demand to know if he’s okay.
Gripping the railing, I hold my breath along with the rest of the fans and players and watch as Buddy and the trainer tend to him.
Minutes feel like hours, but eventually, he stands and limps into the dugout. When he passes by the press box, I can see the pain etched all over his face, but at least he walked off by himself. That gives me hope that he’ll be okay and that whatever just happened is fixable.
It has to be.
He has to be okay.
After all this time and effort—blood, sweat, and tears—if anyone deserves to play in the postseason and see this team to its first World Series, it’s Mack Granger.
I’m hardly able to pay attention to the rest of the game. My mind and heart are in that locker room and I catch myself praying for the first time in a long time. Praying that Mack is able to recover and play another game, not months from now, but soon.
He deserves this.
He deserves all the good things in life.
* * *
The Revelers endup losing by two runs, but Bo scores in the eighth inning, so at least it’s not a shutout.
During my postgame interviews, I try to stay positive, focusing on the rest of this series and how the team plans on handling the next two games. After this series is an important road series with Los Angeles, which is the Revelers’ rival team. They’ve gone back and forth all year, trading wins and series, but if the Revelers can get a sweep, they’ll only need four more wins to clinch the division. Depending on how the next few series go, they could end up doing that at home, which would be amazing for the city of New Orleans.
As I’m walking through the narrow hallway that leads back into the clubhouse, I hear someone whistle and jerk my head up to see Jason Freeman standing in nothing but a towel. His grin does nothing for me and I try not to even react as Brian and I walk past.
“What?” he asks, his arms stretched wide. “You’re not going to interview me and ask me about my fucking awesome defensive plays? It’s not my fault I’m surrounded by a bunch of limp dicks who can’t finish.”
On nights like tonight, emotions are running high.
Some guys are quiet.
Some are pissed.
And then you have Jason Freeman, who is a complete asshole, but that’s a given on every day of the year. He’s just extra douchey on nights the team loses, always blaming someone else. It’s never his fault.
“When you want to be a decent human being, I’ll interview you. Until then, you can go spout your narcissistic bullshit somewhere else.” My hands are shaking when I start putting my notepad in my bag, but I refuse to let him see I’m rattled.
It’s not him anyway, it’s the fact that what I just said is very unprofessional and all it would take is a manager or coach hearing that and reporting it to George, who could very well fire my ass.
Brian chuckles beside me.
“Stop,” I mutter. “Don’t make it worse. I shouldn’t have reacted.”
“You handled it a lot better than most people. You can’t let guys like that walk all over you.”
Jason’s barking laugh makes my back straighten.
