Chapter Twenty-Four
Madden brought the chest guard down over his head, shifting it into place. His helmet went on next. Leg guards. Forty-five
minutes to game time and he needed to be on the field, warming up. Most of his teammates were in the tunnel now, although
some of them lingered behind him in the locker room, including Ruiz, today’s pitcher and the motherfucker responsible for
the black eye that had finally returned to normal.
Without Ruiz on the field, Madden had no reason to be out there himself. Hard to warm up as a catcher without someone to throw
the ball.
Glancing back over his shoulder, Madden noted the pitcher didn’t seem inclined to budge any time soon, lest he lose his staring
contest with the floor. Madden opened his mouth to ask the veteran if he was all right, but the man’s forbidding energy had
him closing it again, reaching for his phone to kill a few minutes while the pitcher got his head together.
Kill time.
Right.
He went straight for his Eve folder. Pictures of his wife.
Anything to remind him why he was sore and exhausted and returning to this hellhole of a locker room, day in and day out.
With their losses mounting and the press calling for a restructuring of the coaching staff, morale was at an all-time low.
There was none of the camaraderie and jokes Madden was used to in the locker room setting.
Just a lot of bitching and mouthing off.
Before he could swipe to his Eve folder, a text popped up from Elton.
Surprise, it read. With a picture attached.
Madden tapped immediately, his heart knocking loudly against his ribs at the photo displayed on his screen. Elton was holding
up the phone, taking a group selfie that included him, Robbie, Skylar, Veda. And Eve.
Eve was there. At his game.
Madden fumbled the phone, the device bouncing off the locker to the ground and skidding a couple of feet. “Fuck.”
“That bodes well for the game,” Ruiz drawled.
“Throw the ball well enough and I’ll bloody catch it.”
Ruiz ignored the jab for once, pointing to the phone, which was still on the floor with the selfie on display. “Who is that?”
“Some friends. They’re in one of the boxes,” Madden grumbled, crouching down to scoop up the device. “My wife is there too,”
he tacked on, for some reason. Maybe he just loved saying my wife in his head and couldn’t stop himself from seizing the opportunity to say it out loud too. This man wasn’t going to give
a shite and he’d repeat it to no one, because Ruiz had proven to be nothing more than a narcissist who thought the entire
world revolved around him.
“You’re married?”
Madden did a surprised double take. “Yes, but it’s . . . complicated. I’d rather not—”
“Guys, did you know Donahue was married?”
“Nah,” responded an unseen teammate.
A couple of locker slams. “Where you been hiding her?”
“I’m not hiding her.” On the other side of the locker room, a couple of official Yankee reporters lingered, comparing notes. They didn’t seem to be paying attention to the conversation, thankfully, but that could easily change. “Would you mind keeping it down?”
“You don’t want people to know you’re married?”
Now one of the reporters’ heads popped up, splitting his interest between Madden and Ruiz, giving Madden no choice but to
take a spot on the bench beside Ruiz. “I’d rather keep my personal life to myself,” Madden said in a low voice. “That’s all.”
“Don’t worry, man. No one gives a shit about catchers.”
“Thanks.”
Ruiz sighed. “Ah, I’m only fucking with you.”
“It’s becoming a pattern.”
“Well. You’re an easy target. It’s nice to be able to hit a target these days, you know? Any fucking target.” Ruiz tapped
the tip of his glove against the inside of his knee. “Starts used to be so easy. I knew what was expected of me and I executed.
My ERA was two my second year in the league. Two. Soon as it started to slip, everyone around me lost faith.” He shook his head. “I had no idea my personal faith was so tied
up in theirs. Can’t even find it anymore. Can’t even find the fucking point of this.”
Sure, Ruiz was talking about himself. Not exactly shocking. But he’d never gone this long without blaming someone else for
his performance and that was worth noting. Normally, Madden would walk away now. It wasn’t his place to counsel anyone. What
could he possibly offer by way of wisdom? He didn’t feel like keeping quiet anymore, though. Didn’t feel like blending into
the scenery. Maybe . . . he had something of value to offer here. More constructive than calling Ruiz an overpriced crybaby
this time.
“To be fair, your whole life, you’re working toward being a professional. Then it’s about winning championships. Leaving a legacy behind. But once you’ve secured that, once they’ve put that crown on your head, some of that drive is . . . diminished.”
“Good talk.” Ruiz wiped away a fake tear. “I’m feeling so inspired.”
Madden sighed, but he didn’t let the sarcasm deter him. “Why did you play? In the beginning.”
“What else? The promise of greatness.”
“You’ve achieved greatness now,” Madden said. “Let’s say you allow yourself to stop chasing that. What else is there?”
“Nothing.” Ruiz opened his mouth, closed it, looking at Madden curiously for the first time. “Why do you catch?”
Madden hesitated, never having voiced the truth out loud. “The goal at first was to be accepted in a new place, to blend in
with new people. To observe from behind the mask. Although I’ve resented the sport for a long time for those exact reasons.
The mask kept me quiet. Hidden. Like I was . . .”
“Growing up,” Ruiz finished for him, with an astute squint.
Madden nodded in affirmation, staring straight ahead. “Anyway, now a lot of this is for her. The sport gave me something to
offer her and . . . I guess that broke up the resentment. More and more, I’m seeing baseball with fresh eyes.”
“You’re talking about your wife.”
My wife. “Yes.”
The veteran sighed. “That’s admirable, man, but, dude, playing the game has to be for you too. You have to want to win. Guess
we’re both a little lost.”
“I’m finding my way, slowly but surely.” Madden observed the pitcher in his periphery. “Do you want to win?”
“Yeah. But . . . I don’t need to win. It’s not do or die anymore. I’m too . . .” He searched for the right word. “Comfortable. I think that’s the problem.”
“You’re comfortable being a has-been.”
“Easy, Irish,” Ruiz said. “Words hurt.”
“Sorry.” Madden’s lips jumped. “Who do you think about when you’re on the mound? Who do you want to see first after a win?”
“Haven’t you heard a word I said? I’m playing for me.”
Madden shrugged. “Then go out there and imagine twenty-year-old Franklin Ruiz is watching you from behind home plate. Play
for him.” He was surprised to see Ruiz set his jaw as he considered Madden’s words, the light of competition filtering back
into his eyes. “Within reason, Ruiz. You’ve got a whole team to consider too.”
Someone came into the locker room and gave a two-minute warning before they took their field, prompting Ruiz to stand. “Is
that your way of telling me to stop going rogue on the mound and start listening to your fucking pitch calls?”
Madden didn’t even blink. “Yes.”
They shared their first laugh.
“Fine. Let’s do it your way today, Irish.”
“It’s about goddamn time.”
Eve didn’t expect the immense pride that inchwormed its way into her chest watching Madden assume his position behind home
plate. This was the big show. She’d put his ascension to MLB in the Huge Deal category. She’d known he’d reached the pinnacle
of his career, but to see it in real life? To watch his face captured fleetingly on the giant screen, his hat backward—hot—that
hand she knew so well clutching the catcher’s mask to pull it down over his face . . . she could barely breathe around her
pride in him.
Every person in the stands was occupied, organ music pumped through the loudspeaker, interspersed with the announcer’s voice.
Men sold beer in the aisles, little kids sat in the crowd with gloves on their hands.
This was entertainment. The highest level of baseball.
And it was so very far from Cumberland. From what Eve knew.
“I’m already bored,” announced Robbie, Skylar’s professional hockey player boyfriend, proceeding to be shoved simultaneously
by Skylar and Elton. “I’m kidding!” he said, laughing. “How could I be bored with all this free food around?”
The hulking redhead wasn’t joking. Eve had already eaten a shrimp cocktail, two filet mignon steak skewers with fingerling
potatoes, and a mini carrot cake. Now she stood by the giant wall of glass overlooking the field with a flute of champagne
in her hand, the air-conditioning making her wish she’d brought a sweater, instead of opting for a navy-blue strapless sundress.
The last thing she’d expected was to be cold on a warm spring day.
Or to be surrounded by so much wealth in the VIP suite.
Men in expensive suits and their tastefully accessorized wives were at ease in these posh surroundings, absently accepting
personalized cocktails from the waiter. Taking up space. They didn’t think twice about dropping their Chanel bags on the sleek
white leather sectional and striking up an animated conversation—and Eve envied that. Aspired to that kind of comfort in her
own skin. As it was, she still had her own black envelope clutch wedged tightly under one arm and she’d positioned herself
out of the way.
Who does she think she is?
That’s what everyone in Cumberland would say if they saw me here.
“Dude,” Veda whispered, appearing at Eve’s elbow, just in time to help her avoid a serious case of impostor syndrome. “This
box is noice. A bitch could get used to this.”
“I know.” Eve glanced over her shoulder at the sterling silver buffet. “I’m trying to wait an appropriate amount of time before I have my second and third dessert.”
“Fuck that math. I’ve had four.”