CHAPTER 49
I dodge the slew of questions about Mateo’s rumored trade to the team from the Bay with a diplomacy that would leave any agent or media trainer proud. My face is calm, my voice unwavering, and my words sound like they’ve come scripted by a professional.
On the inside, I am a fuming wreck one wrong move away from bursting into tears.
Lights flash, but all I can see are the pictures of Mateo Reyes at lunch with the general manager and head coach of another team that have been seared into my eyelids since I saw the trade rumors circulating social media during the seventh inning stretch. Somehow, I make it through the end of my mandatory post-game interviews without saying something rash about the fact that they seem more interested in my relationship with Reyes than the fact that I have just pitched only the second no-hitter this season in the entire league.
It’s impossible to focus my anger at them when I’m so angry at myself. For breaking my one and only rule. And breaking it in the most dramatic fashion possible. I’ve always known better than to date any ballplayers, much less teammates. I definitely should have known better than to fall for a man who I know will always put the sport first. He let me in, and I fell for the way he loves his family, the way his loneliness haunts him, and every way that he told me he wants more.
The way he loves his family. I deflate when I think about his family. It’s easy to be furious at him for seeking out a trade to the team favored to win the Series ring. It’s a lot harder to see this as a betrayal when I consider the other women in his life.
“You saw the news?” Dante catches me off-guard. I stalk past him, but he catches my arm before I can fling open the locker room door. “Breathe, Ramirez. Whatever’s going on with Reyes, you can’t go in there fuming like the woman scorned unless that’s what you want everyone in there to think you are.”
“Aren’t you mad?” I ask because I know I can’t argue with him. “Did you know?”
“Of course not. If anything, I’d expect you to know something first.” He sighs and plays with his white silicone wedding band. “I hope it isn’t true, but what am I gonna be mad at? Trades happen. It’s part of the game.”
“Sure they do. Can I change now? My fucking shirt is sticking to my back.”
“Do whatever you’re going to do, but don’t take your shit with him out on me. The season is almost over, and the Bay is not that far. If you want to work things out, then work things out.” With that, Dante releases my arm and holds the door open like a gentleman.
I mumble an apology and walk through the doors rightfully chastened.
The locker room is a cauldron of tension and rumors. I’m not the only one who’s seen the pictures, and I’m not the only one feeling betrayed. I hurry past my teammates, not ready to get sucked into their speculation. From my tiny closet of a changing room, I can hear them anyway.
“Look, guys. We don’t know what was going on in those pictures–” Dante’s interrupted by a chorus of sarcastic voices incredulous about what else the photos could possibly mean, but he continues. “The only thing we do know is that we just sealed our ticket to October. With or without Reyes, whether those pictures meant anything or nothing, we have our own post-season to focus on.”
“A post-season we’ve got no chance at without him,” Kitt says.
“We held our own just fine tonight,” Williams says. “I’m amazed anyone wanted the trade when retirement is more on the horizon. We’re better off without him.”
“We held our own because we were up against a team that’s been dropping in the rankings for weeks and because Ramirez played the game of her life. You might be able to take Reyes’ place behind the plate, but who’s going to take his place at bat? Sure as hell isn’t going to be you, Williams.”
Cranking up the volume on my headphones, I exit the locker room with my head down and avoid eye contact. I make it to the door, only to run headfirst into Skip.
“Great game, Ramirez,” Skip says in his clipped, gruff way. Only his eyes and the deep wrinkles bracketing them give away his emotions, and my heart swells to see the pride there, even as I’m trying to deny to myself how deeply my heart is breaking.
“Thanks, coach,” is all I can manage.
I toss and turn in bed. Leftover adrenaline and tears I refuse to let fall keep me up, even though I have an early flight in the morning. After an hour of not being able to get comfortable in the bed I shared with Reyes two nights before, I scramble out of tangled sheets and into the other bed. My phone buzzes until I set it to Do Not Disturb, not willing to respond to anyone except my moms. Hours later, after I’ve watched my fill of sitcom re-runs and given up any hope of sleeping, I make my way down to the hotel gym.
With sports discourse on every television screen, this is not the safe haven I was hoping for. I pull on my headphones, but I can’t even listen to my usual workout playlist without thinking of him. I turn to some ready-made playlist suggested by the app. Something fast and angry where, between the screaming and guitar riffs, I can’t understand the lyrics.
I run until my chest feels like it’s going to explode, and I can’t feel my heartache through my own heavy breathing and the stitch in my side. When my legs burn with lactic acid, and my heels are beginning to blister, I move across the room to sweat all over a yoga mat.
I linger in the shower until the water runs cold. By the time I sit back on the bed wearing nothing but a towel, my eyes are finally beginning to close, and my body is too tired to let my racing mind win.
My alarm rings too soon, and I make my way down to the team bus with a coffee in each hand. Staring at my hungover teammates who took advantage of our five-day break before the start of the wild card series, I can’t stand the idea of spending a whole flight back hoping that none of them try to pull me into gossip about Reyes. The thought of boarding the bus without him on the seat next to me has my heart galloping for all the wrong reasons.
“Is it true?” Williams makes me jump, and the hot coffee sloshing over my hand is the least of my irritation toward him. I glare pointedly at the closed bus doors, ignoring him with every ounce of self-control. “I guess I should be thanking you.”
“Fuck off, Williams.” To my surprise, it’s Kitt who comes to my rescue.
He tries to push Williams away from me, but a phone is thrust in front of my face before I can think to look away. My eyes focus on the screen against my better judgment, but what I see is worse than I expected. Tweet, after tweet, after tweet all in response to one sneaky snapshot of Reyes and me looking a little too friendly in the elevator.
Theories abound, and few of them have a positive spin, especially where I’m concerned. The predominant opinion is that I used him to make my name–that somehow, I slept my way to pitching a no-hitter in a season-deciding game. Whether people believe that or not, everyone seems in agreement that the trade must be the result of a falling-out between the two of us.
All of these years, I’ve stuck to my one rule: never date another ballplayer. I break it once, and now I’m the Yoko Ono of the baseball world, all because Reyes took a meeting to trade to the best-ranked team in the league without bothering to tell me.
I’m sitting in the backyard, trying not to pout while Mama tends to her garden, when my mom calls us in for lunch. The scent of cilantro and mint is strong, and Mom hands me a bowl full of caldo de res and a pot of fresh mint tea before I can protest. I take my seat at the long wooden table and wait for mama to join me with her own bowl of soup and Mom right behind her with a platter of empanadas hot from the fryer.
“You must be upset,” my mom says while blowing on the tea in her favorite snarky, gay novelty mug. “You haven’t burned your mouth on your soup or your tea yet.”
I stop playing with the zucchini and potatoes floating in the rich broth.
“I just did what only one other pitcher has done this entire season, and my name is trending because of a man instead,” I say. “Shouldn’t you be mad for me? Or at me? What team is going to keep me when the fans blame me for losing the star player?”
Mama squeezes my hand empathetically, but Mom simply curls both hands around her mug, arches one perfectly penciled eyebrow, and asks, “Is that all?”
“Is that all?” I’m too loud, too aggressive, taking my frustration, anger, hurt, and embarrassment out on the two people who least deserve it. It’s ridiculous of me to be throwing a temper tantrum as a grown woman at my mothers’ table, but I can’t seem to stop. “Is that all?”
“Te calmas o te calmo,” my mom threatens, and the fact that she doesn’t actually raise her voice makes it that much more frightening. I’m acting like a sulking teenager, so it’s fitting that her reprimand makes me feel like one. “My point was, if it’s the rumors you’re upset over, why are you shutting Mateo out?” Before I can deny, she lifts one finger and shakes her head. “Don’t think we haven’t noticed you avoiding your phone.”
“Why should I take his messages now? So he can do damage control after-the-fact?”
“Maybe there’s an explanation–” Mama tries to reason. She always has been the kindest of the three of us, while my mom and I are the type to burn the bridge first and ask questions later.
“For letting social media tell me what he should have told me himself? Pass.”
Mama scoots closer to me and opens her mouth to say something else. She stops and sighs when Mom shakes her head. For a few minutes we sit silently with the clink of spoons on ceramic and the crunch of fried masa wrapped around a mixture of beef and potato.
“If you want to stay mad at him, fine,” my mom says once my mouth is too full of tender beef to argue. “But you’ve got to let all this drama go–”
“And ignore all those chismosas in your phone,” Mama adds, not fully understanding how social media works and somehow summing it up perfectly.
Mom smiles at her wife and continues. “You’re mad that no one is celebrating what you did last night, but you haven’t taken time to celebrate yourself. It doesn’t matter what anyone else is doing or celebrating. You have a couple days to let the rest of it go and clear your head. The best way to put all of this chisme behind you is to keep up your winning streak as far into the play-offs as you can.”
“This is why I don’t date,” I grumble under my breath because I know she’s right.
I spend the rest of the day trying not to sulk around the house and fighting the growing temptation to shut the blinds, hide in my darkened bedroom, and let myself cry. My moms distract me better than anyone else could. Mom fields the calls from aunts, uncles, and cousins who want to come over and celebrate my game. Mama uses my height as an excuse to make me pull down all the Halloween decorations from the racks in the garage.
They pull out the old boombox even though I’ve gotten them a bluetooth speaker, and when the music I woke up to every Saturday morning of my childhood starts blasting, I groan out loud. Once I smell the Fabuloso and have a mop in hand, I’m grateful for the physical act of cleaning and the sound of my moms singing together at the tops of their lungs.
By the time the house is spotless and shrouded in artificial spiderwebs, dancing skeletons, and an assortment of pumpkins, skulls, and fall foliage, I’m ready to shower and dive headfirst into my moms’ cooking. A trio of jack-o-lanterns warmed by flickering tea lights keeps me company while I soak in bubbles that smell like apple cider and cinnamon. Sore muscles are soothed by hot water and epsom salts, but the show streaming on my tablet can’t keep my mind clear.
Mama is streaming one of her telenovelas, so I’m surprised to hear low murmuring as I make my way down the hallway. She usually doesn’t want anyone to disturb her during her shows. What surprises me most is making it to the end of the hallway and seeing who she’s talking to.