Chapter Seven
Present Day
Madden stood in front of the mailboxes in the vestibule of his new apartment building, keys in hand. After his meeting with
Yankees management, they’d arranged for a real estate agent to show him some options. He’d taken a three-bedroom on the Upper
West Side instead of choosing one of the downtown bachelor lofts he’d been shown, which seemed to surprise the agent, but
thankfully he didn’t comment.
What would Madden say, anyway?
I want to be prepared in case Eve and the kids ever come to stay.
After two weeks of no communication with his elusive infatuation, that far-fetched dream made little sense, even to Madden.
Dropping the heavy baseball equipment bag from his shoulder, Madden unlocked the mailbox, pausing before he swung open the
slender brass door, issuing a prayer that this time there would be a letter from the New England Donor Council informing him
that his donor was ready to be identified. That they were open to meeting him or at least accepting some form of thanks, be
it a phone call or an email. Every day that passed without expressing his gratitude seemed to make it deeper and more urgent.
He opened the mailbox door.
Nothing but a takeout menu for the falafel joint down the block.
Clearing his throat hard, Madden locked the mailbox once more, nodding at the smiling older man in the peacoat who opened the inner entrance door that led to a small, carpeted lobby with elevator doors.
“I hope you had a productive practice, sir.”
“You don’t have to call me sir,” Madden muttered as he passed. “Like I said.”
The doorman hummed. “I don’t know if I mentioned this, but I’m a Mets fan.”
“You mention it every time I enter the building.”
“Ah. Sorry about that.” The man tapped his temple. “Short memory.”
“Huh.”
Madden tucked his tongue into his cheek to hide his smile from the doorman while the elevator doors snicked shut, but his
amusement dropped like a stone as soon as his reflection looked back at him from the polished steel doors. Professional baseball
wasn’t what he’d expected. To be honest, he hadn’t spent a lot of time thinking about the hours, the expectations, the physical
toll, and how all that would differ from the AAA level.
On the heels of messy trades, bad press, and demanding fans, a lot of the pro players seemed to have developed a cynicism.
Unlike his AAA teammates, the pros were guarded and calculating. The pitchers liked things done a certain way and that meant
his signals were often being ignored or criticized in practice. And honestly, he was struggling to find the motivation to
try and break the tension. To make an effort with his teammates and learn the peculiarities of each pitcher, so they could
connect on the field.
He’d always played the sport to belong.
For a long time, that sense of belonging had been enough to overshadow his niggling resentment for the sport.
This sport that had so easily given him a new identity.
Poof. No longer the black sheep. No longer the bastard, scourge of the household.
In baseball, he was renewed, absorbed into the fold.
Now, far from the comfort of camaraderie, the Madden he’d left behind became harder to ignore. An unresolved version of himself
that wasn’t so content with hiding, going with the flow. Letting the past fade into nothing.
The part of himself that had been numb for so long was experiencing signs of life again. More and more, while on the field,
he found himself wanting to . . . fight. Speak up. Stop living in the background. To claim the sport, instead of the sport
claiming him.
Madden unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped inside, dropping his equipment bag just outside the kitchen to his right.
After rooming with two AAA teammates in Florida, having so much space to himself disoriented Madden for a moment until he
got his bearings.
Two weeks without speaking to Eve. His jaw seemed to tick in time with that thought. Two weeks was too long. He’d given Eve
some distance so their conversation could settle, but it was time to check in on her.
Madden sat down on one of the boxes he’d yet to unpack, extending one leg so he could slide his phone from the pocket of his
sweatpants. Her name was number one on his speed dial, before Elton. Before anyone. He liked this acknowledgment that she
was number one to him in this way, a way he could see with his own two eyes and not have it be a dream, even if he was the
only one who knew.
Swallowing over the anticipation of hearing her voice, he dialed.
Three rings.
Then, “Mad. Hi.”
A rush of heat nearly took him down. “Hello, Eve.” There were voices in the background. Was she breathing a little hard? “What’s going on?”
“It’s like you knew to call.”
He stood up. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. Uh.” There was a patch of silence, followed by a door closing and a noisy fan coming on, as if she’d closed herself
in a public bathroom. “It’s just that Landon and Lark are sick. They have the flu. In the spring. I thought he was just trying to get out of class—he tends to do that. No joke, he once said his desk was haunted. But they
tested him, and Lark to be safe. Both of them are positive.”
He could already hear Eve pacing—and he’d heard enough. Madden picked up his equipment bag and walked straight back out the
door. “What is this costing you?”
“That’s for me to worry about.”
“Eve.”
She was silent a moment. “I’m glad you called. You always sound so composed and practical and together.” Dazed laughter. “It’s
calming to know that’s possible.”
“After how we left things, I’m not together. But I will be, for you.” Against his ear, he listened to her breathing change.
“Where are you now, love?”
Her exhale bathed his ear and Madden pretended she simply enjoyed the endearment.
That it soothed her in some way. “I’m at the clinic with my new babysitter, Veda.
She’s going to watch the kids while I open the club tonight.
” Eve’s voice caught, ever so slightly, and Madden almost lunged through the elevator doors before they finished opening.
“I’m a little overwhelmed, but I’ll get everything under control,” she said, in an uncharacteristic admission that she was struggling.
That was enough to make him move faster.
“How is New York?” she asked, obviously trying to change the subject.
“It’s not Rhode Island. It’s not where you are.”
A pause ensued. “Madden,” she warned. “Don’t come all the way h—”
He ended the call before she could finish launching her protest.