Chapter 5 Mac #2
"Yeah," I said. "I do."
"Okay."
"But I still need to train. I can't stop being who I am because someone's watching. If I do that, they win. I become the thing they think I am—some fragile piece that needs preservation under glass."
"You're not fragile."
"Then stop treating me like I'll break."
"I'm treating you like someone whose life is under threat."
"Marcus's facility," I said. "What are we looking at?"
"Basic weights. Treadmill. Floor space. Functional fitness, not sport-specific."
"It's a start."
"We'll find you more. Give me time to vet locations."
"How long?"
"A few days."
It was a few days of rust I couldn't afford, but Eamon understood.
"Okay," I said. "A few days."
"Get your gear," he said. "Let's see what we're working with."
***
It was a facility tucked behind a fire station in Fremont: nondescript brick, no signage, and an empty parking lot.
Drizzle started on the drive over. Seattle's reminder that dry was relative.
Eamon parked. Didn't move immediately.
"Rules," he said. "No posting location on social media. No telling anyone where this is. And I stay in the room."
"Non-negotiable?"
"You always have a choice. I'm telling you what I need to do my job properly."
The distinction mattered. Not control. Honest parameters.
"Okay," I said. "You stay."
We ran through the rain to the door. Eamon punched in Marcus's code.
Inside: fluorescent lights and concrete floors suffused with the smells of industrial cleaner and old sweat. Utilitarian. Honest.
My kind of place.
Free weights in one corner. Machines that looked older than me. Treadmill. Rowing machine. Pull-up bars. A heavy bag hanging from a ceiling mount.
No batting cage. Nothing baseball-specific, but it was room to move.
"Not much," Eamon said. "But it's private."
"I'll make it work."
He took a position by the door—both exits visible, windows in sight. Pulled out his phone.
I dropped my bag and started the real warm-up.
It was a sequence I learned in college. Dynamic stretches. Band work. Movement prep that told my nervous system we were about to do violent things with precision.
My body responded with gratitude.
I moved to the heavy bag. Started with jabs. Hand to target. Force to impact. The chain rattled.
My rhythm built. Jab. Cross. Hook. Combinations my body knew before my brain could name them.
Sweat started. Good sweat. Work, not fear.
Eamon watched. It wasn't hypervigilant scanning. Something else. Presence focused on me—like gravity.
The bag became every inappropriate interview question. Every camera at the wrong angle. Every message describing my deterioration.
"Good," Eamon said.
I pressed my forehead to the bag, chest heaving.
"Water," he said.
He held out a bottle I hadn't seen him carrying. Room temperature. Perfect.
I drank half. "When did you—"
"While you were stretching at Ma's." He stepped back. "You need anything else?"
What I needed was a batting cage. Then, a hundred balls to field.
What I had was this room, my body, and a man watching me.
"No," I said. "This works."
I moved to open floor space. Footwork drills—the patterns I'd run ten thousand times. Lateral movement, forward burst, plant, and throw.
Left, right, forward, plant. The pivot generated torque. A weight transfer translated my hip rotation into arm speed.
My sneakers squeaked on the concrete. Eamon's attention was almost physical. Not invasive, but intent.
The fans never saw this part. They saw the ESPN highlights and the MVP ceremony.
After twenty sprints, I stopped. Hands on knees. Sweat dripping. My heart rate was north of reasonable.
The room spun.
Eamon touched my shoulder—not grabbing, just there. Solid weight. His palm was warm through the thin, damp cotton of my t-shirt, fingers wrapping around the curve of muscle.
"Easy," he said. "Breathe."
I breathed. Focused on his contact, the specific pressure of each finger. How still his hand stayed even as my chest heaved.
After a minute, I straightened. His hand slid away slowly, thumb dragging slightly across my shoulder blade before it dropped.
"Sorry." My voice was rough. "Pushed too hard."
"You needed to."
"Doesn't make it smart."
"Smart isn't always what we need." He handed me the water again. "Sometimes we need to remember what our bodies can do."
I drank.
"Your form's good," Eamon said. "Even exhausted."
"Eleven years of coaching."
"No. That's discipline." He leaned against the wall. "You don't think about it anymore. Your body knows."
"Muscle memory."
"More than that. You trust it. Even now, with everything uncertain, you trust your body to follow its training."
"I have to," I said. "It's all I've got left."
"It's not nothing."
Silence. I should've been done, but I wasn't ready to leave—wasn't prepared for Ma's house, the waiting, and the phone that might buzz with another clinical observation.
Here, I was only a major league third baseman, and the world made sense.
"Show me the throwing motion," Eamon suggested.
"What?"
"The throw. Third to first. I want to see it."
"There's no ball."
"Show me anyway."
I moved to where third base would be. Took my position. Weight balanced. Hands ready.
I imagined the ground ball. The hop. Glove meeting leather.
My body took over.
Plant. Gather. Torque through the core. Arm whipping over. Release point burned into my nervous system from ten thousand reps.
The phantom ball sailed toward imaginary first base.
Eamon exhaled. "Damn."
I looked at him. "What?"
"That's—" He shook his head. "Do it again."
"Why?"
"Because I need to understand how someone moves like that."
It wasn't a request or command. It was pure curiosity, and maybe a bit of appreciation.
I did it again.
And again.
Five times. Ten. Until my shoulder screamed and my legs were rubbery.
When I stopped, Eamon was watching with his brow slightly furrowed.
"What?"
"Nothing. You're just—you're very good at what you do."
"That's the idea."
"No. I mean—" He pushed off the wall. Walked closer. "Most people don't look like that when they work. Like every movement matters. Like you're actually listening to what your body's telling you."
He stopped in front of me. Close enough to catch the smell of him—cedar and coffee.
"Your shoulder's compensating," he said. "Right side. You're favoring it."
"Old injury. It's fine."
"Show me."
I rotated my arm. The joint clicked slightly. Nothing serious. It was the accumulated wear of years playing third.
Eamon reached out and touched the front of my shoulder, thumb pressing into the muscle just below my collarbone. Not hard. Diagnostic. He knew precisely where to touch.
"Here?" he asked.
"Yeah."
His thumb rubbed and pressed deeper. The muscle released slightly under the pressure. His other hand touched my shoulder blade—steadying, counterpoint. The heat of his hands radiated through my sweat-soaked t-shirt.
"You're locked up," he said. "When's the last time you did proper recovery work?"
"Been a while."
His hands rested on me, front and back, holding the joint between them.
"You need to take care of this," he said quietly. "Or it'll get worse."
"I know."
"Mac," he said.
"Yeah?"
"I should—" He didn't finish and didn't step back.
"We should work on mobility," he said. His voice had turned careful and professional. "Before that shoulder gets worse."
"Okay."
"On the mat. I'll walk you through some stretches."
I grabbed a mat from the stack against the wall. Spread it on the concrete.
"On your stomach," Eamon said. "Arms out to the sides."
I lay down. The mat was thin. The cold from the concrete seeped through it.
Eamon knelt beside me. "This is going to feel intense. Tell me if it's too much."
One hand settled between my shoulder blades. The other found that locked-up spot in my shoulder. Then he started pressing down and forward simultaneously, opening the joint and coaxing the muscle to release.
It hurt. Good hurt. The kind that meant something stuck was finally moving.
"Breathe," he said.
I breathed.
His hands were firm and confident. He knew what he was doing—how much pressure, which angle, when to hold, and when to ease off. It wasn't something he'd learned from a YouTube video. It was training. Knowledge. Competence applied through touch.
"Better?" he asked after a minute.
"Yeah."
He didn't stop. His palm moved across my back, finding every knot, every locked muscle, and every place I'd been holding tension since Thanksgiving.
Working methodically. Thoroughly. He leaned into each press, and I listened to his breath steady above me, both hands moving now in synchronized pressure that bordered on pain but promised relief.
I closed my eyes.
Somewhere in the rational part of my brain, I knew it was only stretching. Recovery work. Something any good trainer would do.
With Eamon, every point of contact felt like it meant something more. Every place his hands settled and pressed and held was deliberate. Intentional.
"You hold everything in your shoulders," he said quietly.
"Occupational hazard."
His hands kept working. Patient. Thorough.
My hands flexed against the mat. Instinct. I had a need to reciprocate, to balance the equation and do something, so this wasn't just him giving and me taking.
I started to push up.
Eamon's hand pressed down between my shoulder blades. Not hard.
"Don't," he said quietly.
"I should—I can help, I can—"
"No." Firm voice. "Lie there."
My breath caught. The pressure of his hand—gentle and implacable—pinned me in place. I could have moved if I'd wanted to, but something about his instruction and the care in his voice locked me down more effectively than force ever could.
"I don't know how," I whispered. "I don't know how to just—let someone—"
"I know." His hand stayed where it was. "That's why I'm doing it anyway."
"But you're—what do you want? There has to be—"
His other hand settled on the back of my neck. Warm. Grounding. "This isn't a transaction, Mac. Some things belong to you."