Chapter 12
12
[Bolan]
“ W hat’s this?” In the morning, a large calendar with the remainder of February into March hangs on the refrigerator.
“A calendar,” Ruthie casually states, like it’s obvious. But then she steps closer to where I stand, staring at the schedule of days with times written all over it. Her nearness gives me a whiff of her freshly showered scent, that combination of floral and spice, and I wish I’d been able to experience a shower with her.
My wife is damn tantalizing but aloof, disappearing each night like a mouse skittering into her hole. I hate it.
As promised, I’ve taken to sleeping on the couch, feeling a little stiff and sore already from the sagging middle cushion, because I don’t want to do anything to make Ruthie uncomfortable.
Last night, I’d really hoped she’d just hang out with me. I was getting itchy, anxious even, about the game today. My first one with the Anchors.
I fight the pull to look at her and keep my eyes on the rectangular page held by magnets on the fridge door.
Ruthie points at the paper. “These are your home games.” Written in red. “These are away.” Written in blue.
“You have really nice handwriting.” Her printing looks like a professional font.
“When I was younger, I wanted to be a teacher.”
The casual toss of what she once wanted to be turns my head. Even in profile, she’s so pretty. The length of her eye lashes. Her perky nose. The puff of her lower lip, slightly larger than the upper one.
Lips that kissed me and wanted my cock and?—
Fuck . I pull my eyes away and stare back at the color-coded sheet.
“But you don’t want to be a teacher anymore?” I ask because she hadn’t directly answered my question last night about working for ISM.
Ruthie can be whomever she wants to be, but something tells me sports agent, even sports assistant, isn’t her first job choice. For one, she’s too quiet for the position which typically includes strong personalities with loud voices.
She shrugs, keeping her gaze on the calendar. “I’m just not a teacher.”
Another vague answer and I hate it.
“Anyway.” She points at the calendar. “For some people, a month at a glance is too much information. But for other people, they need to see the big picture.” She spreads her hands wide to exaggerate the scale of the next thirty-something days. “I don’t want to overwhelm you, but I thought maybe seeing this on the fridge each morning might jumpstart your day. Let you know where you need to be when. If it’s too much, we can cover the rest of the weeks and look at this schedule week by week, or even day by day.”
“Like task by task?”
“Exactly.” Her tone says she’s pleased, and goddamn, I feel like a kid who got a question right in a classroom.
“I once had a coach who did stuff like this for me. Taught me step by step how to be a better catcher.”
Despite my father’s criticism of how I played, Matt Kincaid fostered my love of baseball. He was a model coach. He took the time to work with me on my stance. On my catch. On my throws. And my batting. He’d been an instrumental cog in the wheel to get me where I am today.
Ruthie smiles. “I’ve also included practice times, podcasts and interviews, and team meetings. I’ve made a digital copy, too, if you’d prefer that instead.”
“This is amazing.” I glance back at her, staring in awe, and struck again by how pretty she is.
She must feel me watching her because she slowly turns her head toward me. “What?”
“This was really thoughtful of you.”
Ruthie shrugs. “All in a day’s work. All puns intended.” She chuffs a giggle. “But that’s what I’m here for. To take care of you.”
My eyes widen and my mouth falls open just the slightest bit. No one has ever taken care of me.
“I mean . . . you know . . . it’s part of the job description.”
“Right. The job.” I look back at the schedule with the reminder Ruthie works for me. She’s my wife in title only. She’s my assistant and personal babysitter. And nanny to my kid.
My stomach sours.
“Can you do me an extra favor?” I slip my phone from my pocket. “Can you put this in my phone for me?”
Ruthie stares at the device in my hand like she’s never seen a cell phone before. Slowly, she lifts her gaze. “You trust me with your phone?”
“Yeah, why not?”
Ruthie stares at the device another few seconds before hesitantly reaching for it. I tell her the code, and she taps in the digits while I peer at the calendar, staring at today’s date.
“First game today,” I say, finding my throat thick as I tip my head toward the calendar. “I should probably get going.”
I wouldn’t say I need to rush out, but suddenly, I don’t want to stand here inhaling Ruthie’s intoxicating scent, remembering I’m just a paycheck for her.
There’s nothing wrong with getting to the stadium early. I’m not worried. I’ve been playing ball for decades, but every game comes with a touch of apprehension. Being new to the team, a pinch of unease mixes with the excitement of a new season.
The Anchors are a good group of guys, minus Valdez, and I want to prove I’m worthy of them.
“I know,” Ruthie says, her voice kind, drawing my attention back to her. Another smile curls that lush mouth of hers. “It’s on the calendar.”
Yeah, the calendar.
I take another look at the spread sheet, with evenly spaced squares for days, seven across, four rows down. Job or not, it was still nice of her to create this calendar to organize my days for me, even if I’m not certain it will help me keep things straight.
My phone dings and I glance at the screen as Ruthie hands it back to me. A notification has popped up.
Game Day. Need to leave in ten minutes. Catch all the catches.
The extra sentiment causes my lips to curve. Those little words of encouragement mean more than she’ll ever know.
Tulane wanders into the kitchen from the living room where she’s been pushing around her baby doll, and anything else she can pile in the fragile stroller Ruthie bought her, and stands between my bare feet, her little arms raised upward, signaling she wants to be lifted. She’s still wearing her pink pajama set from last night. Her hair is a riot of curls.
“Up.” I state, setting my phone on the counter, and lifting Tulane high above my head. My large hands are still bigger than her belly. “Tulip. Do you know what today is?”
I wiggle her between my outstretched arms as she stares down at me. “Game day, girl. You gonna bring Daddy good luck?”
So far, Tulane has been my special charm. First, her coming into my life; then us coming to America.
I lower her and press a raspberry kiss to her covered belly. Tulane giggles, a sound I never knew I needed in my life and feel grateful every time I hear the rippling tinkle.
I catch a glance of Ruthie watching us with a weird expression on her face. One that looks like someone pinched her hard. Her brows cinch. Her eyes are sad a second.
“Oh.” She shakes herself from whatever thought she had. “And there is chocolate milk in the fridge for you. I didn’t know if you had a game day ritual about it or something.”
Fucking thoughtful .
As I reach for the handle of the refrigerator, my phone buzzes again and I glance down at where it still rests on the countertop. Then I arch a brow at Ruthie and laugh. “Really? Every minute.”
Ruthie shrugs. “Don’t want you to be late on your first big day.”
My first big day with the Chicago Anchors .
Hope my wife brings me luck as well.
The Anchors spring training stadium is not as grand as their home field in Chicago. Still, the scaled-down baseball arena has nostalgia about it with a red marquee sign that mimics their home one and raised lawn seats that run from left field to right like their iconic bleacher section.
I can’t wait to walk into Anchor Field for the first time as an Anchor. But that’s a month away, and for now, I need to take things day by day.
In my new uniform of royal blue and Anchor red with the number 12 on my back, I’m ready for the opening game. The sky is cloudless. The temperature is moderate. And I’ve had a nice warmup in batting practice. Until I prove my worth to the team, I’m lower in the batting lineup. However, my batting average is one of the things that keeps me valuable.
I’ll never admit that I’m getting slower on the uptake from squat to stand behind home plate. My hips ache a little more. My knees sometimes throb with pressure. I don’t know what I’ll do without the game, so I’ll continue to power through any twinge or tweak. Ice baths after games. Heat treatments. Massages. Stretches.
The one thing I do not want to rely on is pills, knowing all too well the lure of addiction.
With my head focused and a little swagger in my step I take my position behind home plate, nod at the umpire who I’m going to get up close and personal with for spring training games and settle into my stance, squared up with the first batter, knee down in the dirt in hopes to convert low pitches to strikes.
Flynn Royal is on the mound. As a rookie, these first games are all about testing who works best where. Only a few veterans are in today’s lineup, including Ford Sylver and Romero Valdez.
The tension between these two has been high but Ford is an exemplary captain. He ignores Valdez most of the time, which is difficult to do when you’re supposed to be teammates .
The opening pitch happens, and the stadium erupts. The excitement of a new season fills the air.
But in the third inning, the craziest thing happens.
A ball hit by the second baseman from our Chicago southside rivals, the Agitators, goes high toward left center. Valdez hightails it backward on nimble feet from his position at shortstop while Sylver rushes forward from centerfield. As the ball begins to drop, both players have their heads up, gloves up, and then they collide like kids in a tee ball game. Ford falls over, clutching his shoulder which he had surgery on last season. He’s been looking good in practice, even getting a few balls from mid-center to home plate but seeing him on his knees concerns me.
Like Ford, I’ve crossed the line of thirty-five, which makes us nearly geriatric in baseball terms.
Standing, I sling back my protective face mask to give myself a better line of sight to the outfield as our coach heads onto the field behind the medical trainer.
Words are exchanged.
Once Ford is standing, the crowd goes wild in support of one of their favorite players.
When we finally get out of the inning, Ford tosses himself on the bench in the dugout.
“You okay, man?” Maybe he feels the signature clock of Anchor Field is ticking for him and his career. I certainly feel that way.
“I’m good.” His answer is tight, his jaw clenched.
Standing at the railing along the dugout, I pay attention to the field, watching as the lineup starts at the top again. If their pitcher goes three up, three down, I won’t be batting this round, but I’m hoping that doesn’t happen. We need a win at this opener.
I consider myself a good team cheerleader and I easily shout out words of encouragement to my teammates .
Suddenly, Ford is standing beside me at the rail, but his concentration is directed toward the lawn section. The grassy area that runs along the curve of the outfield is full of people plopped on the grass or seated on spread blankets. Ford stiffens and stands taller beside me, and I glance in the direction of his focus, where a slight commotion happens among the lawn patrons.
A woman in a ball cap stands among three little girls I assume are Ford’s kids. I haven’t interacted enough with the team to learn all their wives and girlfriends, kids and pets, yet.
However, my attention falls on the woman sitting in the grass beside that bubble of commotion. The woman with a blonde ponytail and a little girl with vibrant red curls seated on her lap.
My ribs constrict like my chest protector is fastened too tight.
I’m never one to peek into the crowd in hopes of finding someone there for me. Someone rooting for me.
My granddad had been my biggest cheerleader.
But Ruthie brought Tulane to my game, and I can hardly breathe from the rush of appreciation in my lungs.
I’d like to think Tulane is my number one fan.
I’d love to grow my personal fan club members to two.