Chapter 11
ELEVEN
COLBY
I thought I was arriving early, but the entire coaching staff is already sitting around the conference table in the debrief room as I walk into the clubhouse offices.
Their laughter filters down the hallway, as does the strong aroma of burnt coffee and donuts.
Coach Shuster spots me through the interior window when the main door slams shut behind me.
“Hi,” I mouth, holding up a palm.
He nods, and I think he’s smiling. But why are they all here already? We’ve had two Monday meetings so far this season, and nobody cracked that door open earlier than eight-fifteen. I know, because I was the first here both times. I arrived before eight. Just like I did today.
“Good morning, Colby,” Coach Shuster says as I enter the room.
“Morning,” I say, taking the nearly empty pot from the coffee maker, then dumping the remnants in the small utility sink and rinsing it to make a fresh brew. I’m not drinking that sludge.
This room serves a lot of purposes—break room, meeting room, interview space, and until my office was ready, my office. To be fair, this room is still nicer than my office, which I’m pretty certain was transformed from an old utility closet. Gotta love minor league ball.
The room is strangely quiet, and when I turn back around to take my seat, I can’t help but observe the way nobody is looking in my direction.
Rather, they’re all staring down at their pencils and papers, iPads and phones.
My armpits are starting to sweat. It’s actually a race between my pits and my hands.
I rub my palms on my pants, over my thighs, as I take my seat, the trickle of the next round of coffee bubbling behind me.
Coach Shuster clears his throat again as he shuffles a few papers at the head of the table.
I knew I would feel like an outsider, but something about the charged atmosphere feels specific.
My mind keeps rewinding back eight hours, to me sitting in row eighteen next to Jayden.
My hand on his. Our fingers clearly threaded together.
Every time I tried to pull my hand away, to let go, I just .
. . couldn’t. Everything about that indiscretion was my choice.
Not his. But it stopped there. The cab driver dropped me at the hotel before taking Jayden to his apartment.
We went our separate ways, and neither of us mentioned holding hands.
But maybe someone was on our flight somehow.
A social media post? A rogue phone video?
Nah, Jayden isn’t that famous.
But his brother is.
“I’d like to show you something, Coach Kessler. And I’m sorry for doing this in front of the rest of the staff, but I felt something at this level needed to be discussed with everyone.”
I can’t feel my face. And my arms feel heavy. Also, I taste bile on the back of my tongue.
“Yes, sir,” I croak.
Coach Shuster switches on the digital screen, and for a single heartbeat, the muscle keeping me alive flexes so hard I fear it might burst.
It’s . . . stats.
I squint as I read through the metrics:
.287 team average
17 runs
31 base hits
5 home runs
9 extra-base hits
“That’s all you, Coach. Those numbers . .
. we’ve never had a weekend performance at the plate like that.
We set a Mavericks record this weekend, and you are the Texas system Coach of the Week.
” Coach Shuster slides a certificate from underneath his stack of papers, and the rest of the room erupts into applause and whistles.
“Oh, my God!” I tap my palms against my cheeks, my grin so large it’s making my jaw sore. Also, I feel as if I’ve died and been brought back to life in this room. That was a wild mental swing, and it’s left me feeling overwhelmed.
“Well, get on up here, Colby!” Coach Shuster waves me to the head of the table, and I shuffle toward him, not certain if I’m quite ready to handle walking. I still feel light-headed from my panic attack.
“I called everyone in early today to make sure we did this right. I hope you don’t mind,” he says as he passes the certificate to me and shakes my hand.
“I minded,” Coach Bastion mutters. He’s been in Sweetwater for years, and he’s always been an assistant. He made it pretty clear when I got this job that he didn’t think this clubhouse was a place for a lady.
I ignore his bite, focusing instead on Coach Shuster’s warm smile.
“We’re lucky to have you. Keep this up and you’ll be moving up. You’re making a lot of people pay attention. Good for you.”
“Thanks, Coach,” I say, my voice still faint.
“You know who deserves an award? Vargas,” Coach Bastion pipes in. The other coaches nod, delving into the nitty-gritty of Jayden’s stats from this weekend as I head back to my seat. And just like that, my moment of greatness is over. No matter. I still had it.
I pour myself a fresh cup of coffee while Coach Shuster pulls up video of Jayden’s best swings, pausing at his points of contact. I glance over my shoulder and smirk when I see him catching the ball exactly where he should, out front, his strong leg injecting extra power. Just like I taught him.
“Hey, sugar. Mind passing the creamer along with that?” Coach Bastion snaps his fingers at the steaming mug in my hands.
I halt my steps and scan the room, foolishly expecting to see another incredulous expression in the mix.
But not a single other set of eyes has moved from Jayden’s video.
Nobody speaks up. And Coach Bastion hasn’t even bothered to fully look at me, despite the sneer pulling up one side of his mouth.
I take a deep breath, and for a moment, I consider taking the easy route—serving him my coffee and then going back to fetch him creamer. A year ago, I might have. But I fought hard to get here, and if I’ve been reminded of anything in visiting my father, it’s that I have worth.
I’m the Coach of the Week. So instead of crumbling under pressure and giving in to the misogyny I was warned about when I took this job, I take my seat and blow across the surface of my coffee while my gaze settles on the good ole boy who doesn’t think I belong here.
When he finally meets my stare, I take my first sip, capping it off with a very audible, “Ahh.”
Jayden is taking hacks in the hitting tunnel when we break from our meeting, and while I’m a little eager to brag about the nice pat on the back I received from Coach, I’m also a little nervous about working with him alone today.
I hang back and watch him swing instead of rushing over, which doesn’t feel suspicious, so when Coach stops to study Jayden’s swing with me, I don’t even flinch.
“You’ve really opened up his power. He should be thanking you,” he says.
“I know,” I brag.
The two of us stand just outside the clubhouse exit as Jayden moves through the same warmups he’s been doing since he started workouts with my dad as a kid.
Nobody here knows about Jayden’s and my connection, about our past. Chet’s already on his way, joining the squad in Texas before their next road trip.
And I don’t think bragging about Adriel Vargas’s baby brother’s childhood friend being a hitting coach is high on his list. He’s looking to perform well before free agency. That’s his focus.
“I’d like you to sit with him today. Go through his video and really get into the nitty-gritty.
I’m thinking of moving him into the three-hole for the Arkansas series, but we’re going to face some tough arms. He’s going to need to be ready for anything.
If he performs there, he might just get some time in Texas this year. You can use the conference room.”
Coach is already walking away by the time he leaves me with those words. Meanwhile, my body is back to buzzing with nerves at the thought of spending the next hour in a room alone with Jayden.
Maybe if I stand still, he’ll never see me, and he’ll just pack up and leave after his workout. My eyes flutter shut at my own dumb idea. I take a deep breath and open my eyes just as Jayden makes solid contact with a ball off the tee.
“Back at it already,” I holler as I step toward him.
He smirks as he fishes another ball from the bucket and places it on the tee.
“I’m trying to impress the teacher,” he grunts out mid-swing, slamming the ball to the back of the tunnel before turning his perfect damn grin on me.
“She’s not impressed,” I deadpan.
It’s a lie, and he knows it.
“Look what I got,” I say, holding my certificate in front of me like a grade-schooler showing off their best piece of art.
Jayden rests the bat, dragging it at his side as he walks to the mesh wall between us.
“Coach of the Week. Well, damn, Colby. Good for you!” His grin, dimples and all, is genuine, and I swell with pride.
“Thanks,” I say, once more reading the bold font on the award.
“Your dad is going to love that,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say through a soft smile. I can’t wait to send him a picture, then call him with the news. But until then . . .“Coach wants me to review video with you. He may have mentioned moving you up in the order, too. So . . .”
“Up in the order?” As confident as Jayden can be, he still craves acceptance and praise. Looking into his eyes, it’s hard not to see flashes of a younger him, the cute kid wanting to hit it over the fence just once.
“Yeah. So what do you say? Get to work?” I squint my eyes as I tilt my head toward the clubhouse. Jayden peels apart the Velcro straps on his batting gloves and tosses his bat in the general direction of his gear bag.
“Yes.”
I chuckle at his eagerness then nod toward the spray of balls throughout the hitting tunnel.
“Right, I guess I’m too old to get away with not picking up after myself.”
I kick one of the balls toward the bucket, then wander toward the back of the cage to collect more.
“Remember how my dad used to number the balls for your practice?” I recant.
“Ha, yeah. And if we were missing one, whatever number it was equaled the number of laps we ran. I got so pissed when we were missing twenty-four. I’m pretty sure I threw up my entire pizza lunch after that practice.
” Jayden flattens his palm on his stomach at the memory, and I do the same.
I was at the practice helping out, and I threw up in sympathy.
Or rather, from the disgusting odor of Jayden’s second-hand pizza.
Jayden gathers his gear after we’ve collected the balls, and the two of us head into the clubhouse to review the videos from this past weekend.
I’m mindful about how everything looks, my body seeming to remember every phase it went through when I got here this morning, and thought I was about to endure a lecture for fraternizing with a player.
Or worse, get fired. I slide the stopper into the door, ensuring it stays open just enough for anyone to get a glimpse of the room as they pass by.
Somehow, though, that little sliver to the outside world makes me more nervous.
And the longer Jayden and I go without speaking about the flight home, the more my pores sweat.
“Hey, by the way. Last night . . . I just wanted to make sure you weren’t nervous. That’s all,” I say.
Jayden’s brow draws in as a slight smile pulls at the edges of his mouth.
“You didn’t want me to feel nervous,” he repeats.
“Yeah. You know, about flying,” I say, biting my lower lip. I instantly turn my attention to the iPad and the cord that connects it to the large digital screen so I can mirror the video.
“Ah, right. So that’s why you held my hand,” Jayden says after several quiet seconds. I glance at him, and his expression is still puzzled, and perhaps amused.
“Exactly.”
My lips form a tight smile, one that I mean to express my wish to drop this subject.
Jayden, meanwhile, licks his lips then tucks his bottom one under his teeth, seeming to hold a laugh at bay.
“So, like a child. You were holding my hand because you were treating me like a child.” His gaze is waiting for me when I turn to face him again, and his lifted brow clearly expects an answer.
“I mean, no. Not like a child. I was trying to be nice. That’s all. Now, let’s focus.” I turn my back to him again and focusing on the various settings on the digital screen.
I pull up each of Jayden’s clips, loading his first at-bat when I sense his body move in behind me. My eyes close in anticipation, and I hold my breath as he gently tickles the bare skin along my neck.
“It was very nice of you, Colby.” His nose grazes along the curve of my neck, and my lips part with a soft gasp. I really should have closed that door.
“Jay—”
“Colby,” he says, cutting me off. His fingers tickle their way down the length of my arm until they’re flirting with my knuckles, then sliding between my own.
I flex my hand on instinct, not out of habit, but due to something entirely out of my control.
I open my hand to his because of years of wanting to, because I’ve dreamt about this for half my life.
“You should know. I am not a child,” he says, his words vibrating against my skin, his mouth barely touching me and sending shivers down my spine. My skin beads up everywhere. My heart is racing.
“We should really focus on your first swing,” I say, moving my free hand to the screen.
Jayden quickly covers it with his palm, pressing my hand against the screen and splaying my fingers apart as his tongue teases my neck.
His lips press a soft kiss into my skin, and a faint cry leaves my lips.
The sound shakes me to my core and I quickly step to the side, away from him.
“This is my job, Jayden. This is where I work. Where you work. And they sent me in here to get you ready for Texas.”
I shouldn’t have mentioned it to him. It’s not my place, because Coach Shuster could easily change his mind. And it’s not totally his call. Texas has to want Jayden. They have to need him. But the mere mention of the idea is enough.
“Texas,” Jayden says, his lips quivering with the word, with a completely different emotion than he was acting with a second before.
“Yeah, and I probably wasn’t supposed to tell you. But . . . Jayden, we just can’t. Not only is this my shot, but it’s yours.”
I suck in my lips to quell the tingling that’s rendering them nearly numb. I want to kiss him. He was just kissing me, though not on the mouth. I want to remember his lips, to make my memory from years ago more real, more grown up.
“Okay,” Jayden says, taking his seat. Listening to me. Choosing the game. Just like I do. No matter how fucking hard it is.