Switch Pitching (Off the Bench #1)

1. Ethan

1

ETHAN

MARCH

“Sullivan.” Coach Priya Kelly’s voice pierces through the phone loud and clear, jolting me fully awake. It’s blustery and cold in Portland, Maine, perfect for a day off from training, and I was planning on taking it easy.

“Yes, Coach, it’s me. What’s up?” I know there are only a few reasons why a minor-league player gets a call from their head coach during the off-season.

One: Coach butt-dialed me. She opened the call with my name, so that’s not what happened.

Two: I’m being sent down a level, back to double-A. I hope that isn’t what’s happening.

And three: someone from the Boston Falcons wants to talk. They’re our major league affiliate, and I’m on their reserve roster, but I don’t get my hopes up. For all I know, they could just be shuffling the roster positions.

“How fast can you get to the team office?” Priya asks.

“I can be over in ten minutes.”

She chuckles. “Easy there, Ethan. Take a couple of breaths. Get ready, and I can’t say much, but you’ll probably want to clean up for this. Your agent should have sent you an email, so read that and meet me in my office at ten.”

I check the clock on my microwave just as it flips to 8:57.

“Got it, see you then, Coach.” My phone beeps as Priya hangs up, and I open my email app. As promised, there’s an email from my agent, but it doesn’t say much, only that he’s “bound by non-disclosure until the upcoming meeting”, and that he “negotiated toward an optimal contract” on my behalf.

Not knowing what exactly to make of the whole situation, I spend the next half hour frantically getting ready. Priya sounded positive, but I can’t know for sure. I bury myself in a compressed version of my morning routine before I bundle up, head out, and walk across the street to the Portland Schooners’ head office before 9:50.

Pushing the front doors open, I make my way up the stairs to the third floor where the coaches work, and I see Priya unlocking her door right as I’m about to leave the stairwell. I hang back for a few seconds to give her time to settle before I stride in, trying hard to keep my pace normal.

“How did I know you were going to be early?” Priya asks with a gentle smile.

“That’s just how I am, Coach.”

She laughs. “Ethan. I’ve been telling you to call me Priya for the whole two years you’ve been on the team.”

I shrug, and she invites me to sit across from her desk in a scratchy-looking gray armchair.

“Okay,” she starts. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you to the office on your day off.”

I nod.

“Ethan, I’ll keep this straightforward. Some people from Boston wanted to talk to you.”

My expression stays neutral, but my chest tightens. A few months ago, I was told that I’m a top pick for promotion, but Boston’s roster seemed solid. There weren’t any signs that they’d call me up any time soon. Of course, I could be removed from the reserve list altogether, but teams rarely send people to break that kind of news in person.

Priya continues. “They originally wanted to come here themselves, but…” she trails off, waving toward the worsening snowstorm outside her office window. “Unfortunately, their jet got diverted to Manchester because of this freak March blizzard.”

“Oh.” That’s all I can muster.

“That isn’t an issue, though, since Boston’s representatives and your agent have all authorized me to speak to you on their behalf.”

“What did they want to say?” I ask.

“As of last night, Jonathan Velazquez became a free agent, and Boston found out that Seattle poached him. $47 million over three years.”

My eyes widen. $47 million? And Velazquez?—

“And Velazquez, as you know, is an outfielder, so Boston is down one. They want you.”

I freeze up, not even blinking as Priya reaches for a stack of papers and places them in front of me.

They want you.

Reality comes rushing back as Priya uncaps a pen and puts it next to the sheets on her desk.

“They sent over a contract. Normally, you’d have about a week to decide, but seeing as spring training is already well underway, they want a response by the end of today, if you can.” Priya leans forward on her elbows, placing her head on her clasped hands. “If I were you, I’d take what they’re offering. It’s great, especially for a first-year contract.”

Even though my agent said that he negotiated a good deal for me, I leaf through the pages to read the contract for myself. Slowly, I reach for the pen, ready to sign. Getting a chance to play in the majors is a complete no-brainer. I don’t even search for the pay, knowing that they’re going to offer the league minimum, which is already a lot for someone like me.

But when I reach the last page, my eyes lock on a bold number eight. Then another five numbers. I blink and refocus. I’m being offered $817,000. That’s not the league minimum.

It’s more.

Priya seems to read my mind and smiles as I look up at her in shock. “They’re paying you what you’re worth, Ethan.”

I know I’ve put up good numbers, but it’s still a lot to process. Bringing myself back to reality, I make a mental note to research what kind of rare Scotch to buy my agent as a thank-you gift.

Priya goes on. “You’re one of the most exceptional players I’ve had the chance to work with.” She stands up and walks around the table to sit in the chair next to me. “Put yourself out there and kick ass.”

I sign in the bold black ink of her fountain pen, the nib scratching as I finish the last loop of what might be the most important signature of my life.

Priya carefully withdraws the contract from my hands, walks over to her fax machine, dusts it off, and punches in a number. As the old machine scans page after page, Priya turns back to face me.

“We’ll be sad to see you go, Ethan, but the team is proud of you.” She fixes her gaze on the darkening sky outside. “Under normal circumstances, the Falcons would book a flight for you to join them in Tampa, but the Portland Jetport is grounding all flights for at least the next two days.”

“When am I expected to report for spring training?”

“As soon as possible, which in your case, is dependent on when the storm stops.”

I rise to my feet. “The storm isn’t a problem. I’ll drive down.”

Priya raises an eyebrow before letting out a quiet laugh. “Always so independent, this one. Be careful on the roads.”

We shake hands before I walk out of her office, clutching a photocopy of my contract, not fully believing that I’ve been promoted . To the major league . To play for the team I’ve supported since I could remember.

I remember my dad saying that he made sure my first word was Falcons. Or rather, he says it was more like “fah-cunz”. I smile, then wince and shove the memory aside, not wanting to put a damper on my day. Even after four years, even thinking about either of my parents puts me in a sour mood. It’s time to pack and then drive for two days. I can’t wait.

My back is stiff, my legs are cramping, and my ass is numb, but I’m here. I kill the engine of my truck, letting the silence settle. My hands rest on the steering wheel as I take a deep breath, trying to tamp down the excitement brewing in my chest. This is it.

I gaze over at the hotel that I just pulled up to, a sleek, glass-clad building that’s reflecting the sunset. I reach for my phone on the dash, triple-checking the address that one of the team managers sent me. After grabbing my duffel bag from the passenger seat, I step out, my legs protesting as they stretch for the first time in hours.

Immediately, I’m blanketed in the pleasant embrace of Florida’s heat, a stark contrast to the frigid winter chill I left behind. I awkwardly sling my jacket over my shoulder, trying to stave off nervous jitters as I walk toward the entrance.

The sliding doors to the lobby glide open, and I’m met with a blast of icy air conditioning that smells like disinfectant and laundry. My footsteps echo over the shiny marble floor as I approach the front desk. A couple of staff members are chatting, but otherwise, the whole place is quiet and empty.

As I round a corner, I catch sight of Damien Miller, one of the Falcons’ coaches. He’s talking to another guy in an admin uniform, but when he spots me, his face breaks into a grin. “Sullivan! You made it!”

“Yeah, long drive,” I manage to get out, trying to eliminate any trace of rookie nerves from my voice. Before I can say anything else, he’s already in motion, handing me a room key and shoving another duffel bag into my arms.

“I’ve got your starter kit here: uniform, cap, the whole package. Training starts at 9 a.m. sharp tomorrow. Get some rest, and good luck out there.” He slaps me hard on the shoulder and then turns back to whatever he was doing before I showed up.

“Thanks.” I look up, but he’s already gone. I’m left standing there clutching my things and trying to process everything.

My pulse pounds in my ears as I head for the elevators, the weight of the duffel bags a reminder of what lies ahead. When I reach my floor, I step out and walk down the hall, scanning the doors until I find mine. The key clicks as it slides in, and I step into the room. I drop my bags and collapse onto one of the beds, the mattress swallowing me up like it’s been waiting for me. Staring up at the ceiling, I let the tension from the drive fade.

Unpacking and grabbing a shower can wait. Right now, I need to rest. Tomorrow is a big day.

The harsh beep of my phone rips me from a deep sleep. I toss the covers off and swing my legs over the side of the bed, stretching until my shoulders make a satisfying crack. My body is still sore from the drive, but I push past it. It’s time to get moving.

With slow, half-reluctant movements, I amble into the shower and turn it on, letting the cold jets wake me up. It’s a shock to my system, but I need it. After a few minutes, I cut the water and step out, grabbing a towel. As I dry off, I try to tame my messy hair without much success. I need a haircut ASAP.

It doesn’t matter. We’re all going to be wearing hats anyway.

Back in the bedroom, I grab the crisp white-and-navy uniform that I hung over the chair last night. I slip the pants and jersey on, the fabric stiff and new. The uniform is almost too clean, like it doesn’t quite belong to me yet.

To finish, I grab my hat from the nightstand. It’s brand new with a crease still running along the center. I turn it over in my hands and stare at the blue Boston logo standing out against the gray. I slide it on, feeling the brim settle into place. Right before I leave, I give myself a final once-over in the hallway mirror, letting a tiny speck of pride take root in my chest. I made it here. While I might look the part, now I have to play it.

The lobby is quiet when I leave the elevator, and I check the time on my phone. I’m way too early. Classic Ethan move. Sighing, I lean against a pillar while wondering if I should’ve taken more time to get ready.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the silence, catching me off guard. “Hey there, Sullivan!” The words ricochet off the walls, filling the vast space. I turn to see James Hernandez striding toward me, and I’m instantly star-struck. He’s a pitcher, barely twenty-one years old, and Boston signed him right out of college. If being the first direct recruit in a decade wasn’t enough, he negotiated a delayed start to his training so he could finish his exams and graduate. He’s that talented.

And he knows who I am, even though I signed my contract two days ago.

He’s walking with easy confidence and a wide grin. I’ve seen his headshot floating around in news articles, but he’s even more striking in person. His dark brown hair is slightly messy and I can’t help but smile back, relieved to see a friendly face.

And yeah, I definitely don’t miss how attractive he is. Catching myself, I shove those thoughts aside. I can’t get distracted by the team’s star recruit.

“Hey James, nice to meet you.” I keep my tone casual, hoping my voice doesn’t give anything away.

James steps up, extending a hand. “Glad you’re joining us.” His grip is firm, the kind that exudes confidence.

My heart skips a beat. Great. I’ve known him for less than five minutes, and I’m already losing focus.

“I’m happy to be here,” I say, meeting his brown eyes.

James tilts his head, his smile widening. “You know, you don’t look as nervous as I did on my first day.”

I chuckle. “Maybe I’m just really good at hiding it.”

“Fake it till you make it, right?” James winks, and the playful glint in his eyes makes it easier to relax.

“Yeah, for sure. Hopefully the team doesn’t go all out on me, though.”

James laughs, poking me lightly with his elbow. “The team? Sure. They’re all super kind. The coaches on the other hand…” He trails off.

I raise an eyebrow. “Should I be worried or something?”

“Nah,” he says, his tone teasing. “Just don’t let them see you sweat too much. They love a challenge.”

“I’ll try my best.”

An engine rumbles to life outside, and James jerks his thumb toward the sound. “Let’s roll out. We should snag seats before everyone else swarms the van.”

Our arms brush briefly as he moves past me, and the subtle contact sends an unwanted shiver of heat down my spine. Again, there’s no way I can crush on a teammate.

“How many players are staying here with us?” I ask, following him and trying to distract myself.

James pauses and thinks for a second. “Not too many. Most of the guys bought places or are renting until April. It’s just us rookies and three others that are stuck together.”

I can’t resist smiling. Training will definitely be tough, but having teammates like James, someone I can see myself being friends with, will make it easier.

Forget what I said about easier. I’m dying out here.

By midday, I’m drenched in sweat, my legs are like lead, and my lungs are burning. The sun is relentless, beating down on me as I push through my conditioning drills. So far, it’s mostly been agility drills, which I’m okay at, but the last round of sprints were super slow, and now I’m an inch from being completely wiped out.

I glance around the field, searching for James. While I’m getting worked to the bone, he’s over on the mound, throwing heat under the watchful eyes of the pitching coaches. His toned, sun-kissed arms blur as he fires pitch after pitch, each one landing with a solid thud in the catcher’s glove.

It’s impressive. I’m trying to focus on resting while I have a rare break, but my gaze keeps drifting back to James. The way his muscles flex with each throw is distracting, to say the least.

Not that I’d ever admit it to him, or anyone else. I have one shot at making it in the big leagues, and I need to prove myself. I can’t let anything interfere with that or give anyone the impression that I’ve got baggage. Said baggage: being gay. Sure, professional sports are more accepting now, but I want to be seen for my skills first.

“Rough morning, Sullivan?” A deep voice rumbles beside me, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I turn to see Will Leblanc leaning against the chain-link fence. He’s a third-season infielder, and we overlapped on the Portland team for about a month after I joined. We’re both from the same corner of middle-of-nowhere Maine, and we got along well.

“Yeah, no kidding,” I manage, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. “Trying to adjust to how intense this is.”

Will chuckles. “Don’t worry, it’s a rite of passage. Survive this, and it’ll be chill.”

I give him a side-eye. “Easy for you to say. You don’t even look tired.”

Smirking, Will claps my shoulder. “Just comes with experience. You’ll learn all the tricks soon enough.”

I nod, appreciating the reassurance, but my gaze drifts back to James. He’s deep in conversation with one of the coaches, nodding while adjusting his grip on the ball.

“Saw you chatting to James earlier. It seems like you’ve made a friend already.”

“Yeah, we ended up talking this morning. He’s cool,” I say.

“That’s one way to put it. He’s a character, that’s for sure.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

Will chuckles again. “You’ll see. If you two become super close, you might balance each other out. You’ll bring your quiet stoicism, and he’ll bring his… everything.”

Tilting my head, I wait for Will to elaborate. He’s holding back a laugh, and I get the sense there’s more to this story.

“Okay, spill. Is there something else?” I ask. I try to keep my voice casual, but I can’t shake my curiosity.

Will leans closer, lowering his voice. “Alright, so here’s the thing. The first night James arrived for spring training, back in March, we hit up this restaurant. It was supposed to be super casual, but James walks in and shows us all up without trying, you know what he looks like. He was all cleaned up, dressed well, the whole package. It didn’t take long before this group of women at the bar started obviously checking him out.”

I pause to let the details sink in.

“Anyway,” Will continues. “These women approach him and lay on heavy with the flirting, and before we know it, they’re all over him. I mean, seriously, they were like moths to a flame. Next thing we see, he’s leaving with the whole group.”

I raise an eyebrow. “All of them?”

“All four. He walked out super chill, like it was normal for him.”

I can’t say I’m too surprised, considering how attractive James is. I have eyes, but I don’t let myself get any ideas. The guy is clearly straight, which gives me momentary disappointment before I remind myself that dating a teammate is a terrible idea.

But still, leaving with four women? That’s something else. Good for him, though.

Will smiles at my subdued reaction. “So yeah, now everyone thinks he’s a total player.”

“Right.” I can see how that would happen. The team seems to have the same athletic, hyper-masculine dynamic as everywhere else I’ve played.

“Don’t worry, man. James is a great guy. Just, uh, get ready for some stories once you guys end up hanging out,” says Will.

I let out a short laugh. “Noted. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Sending a parting wave my way, Will jogs off to rejoin the rest of his training group, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I glance back at James, who’s still talking to the pitching coach.

Will might be onto something. Even though I just met James a few hours ago, we hit it off well. While I’m not the type to draw a crowd, I have my own way of getting things done. As long as I stay focused and keep putting in the work, I can make my short spring training a success.