Chapter Three
The interior of the training facility feels like a jail cell, not that I've ever been in jail.
But this little corner of the hallway I've been relegated to feels almost as confining.
It's like I've been punished with a timeout in kindergarten, only worse.
I've lost my edge. Why? Because I worry my shoulder will never heal.
I deserve whatever punishment Phil has decided to heap on me.
I drum my fingers on my knees while I wait for my sentence to be handed down.
This crappy chair makes my ass hurt, and I swear somebody put needles in the padding.
The murmur of conversation filters out of Phil's office, too quiet for me to understand the words.
The door hangs half-open in a taunting invitation I don't dare accept.
"Charlie's recovery isn't just about his future," I hear Phil say. Every syllable feels like a gut punch. "It's the team's World Series dream, not just one pitcher's."
Whoever he's talking to, I still can't make out their words.
Speak up, would ya? Don't leave me hanging .
They shuffle around inside the office as if they've made their decision and informing me is an afterthought. I'm already out of the game. Because of my injury. My dreams don't mean shit anymore.
The quiet outside the office begins to feel suffocating, and I push up out of my chair. While I shuffle my feet on the concrete floor, I'm unsure whether I should stay and hear the truth or walk away and pretend I didn't. The door remains open as if it's daring me to make a decision.
I lean against the wall but can't stop tapping my foot.
A piece of loose thread on my shirt catches my attention, and I yank at it, unraveling more than I intended. It hangs there, like a visible reminder of everything else in my life that's coming apart. I can't let the team down, can't let myself become the guy who once had potential.
My skin itches, and I struggle against scratching.
"We need to do everything to help him recover—and not just physically."
That voice—a woman's voice—resounds clearly and firmly.
I slide closer to the doorway but still out of sight, straining to catch the rest of what's being said.
"Mentally too," the mystery woman declares.
Does she think I'm unbalanced or something? That's crap. Who is that woman, anyway?
The door swings open all the way, and Phil steps out, as calm as ever. "Charlie, come on in."
I freeze briefly before trailing him into the office. My heart thumps hard against my ribcage like it's trying to break free. Phil motions for me to sit while I size up his company. There she is—athletic build, chestnut hair tied back, hazel eyes sharp and almost…challenging.
"This is Amy Keller," Phil explains. "She'll be your new coach."
Whuh, what? I think my head might be smoking, like a cartoon character. Phil couldn't have said this woman is…my coach? The word slams into me with the force of a fastball. Maybe Phil gave me a pretty new coach with mesmerizing eyes as a test of some sort.
Amy Keller gives me half a smile, the kind that suggests she means business more than friendship. "Nice to meet you, Charlie."
Yeah, great, whatever . I slump down onto the chair, still reeling from what Phil's just told me. "You're kidding, right? About the coach thing?"
The words tumble out before I can stop myself. Smart move, Braddock.
Despite the tension in the room, Amy doesn't flinch. Her gaze bores into mine with unflappable determination. "No joke, Braddock. I've taken on bigger challenges than you."
I glance over at Phil, searching for a sign that Amy Keller's appearance is nothing more than a way to screw with my head. Phil's as steady as ever.
"The team needs you back in top form," Phil asserts. "Amy's got the experience to help you get there."
My thoughts scramble like eggs in a pan. A woman coach? How's that gonna fly with the rest of the guys? I open my mouth to argue, but Amy cuts me off.
"Don't worry about your teammates and what they might think of your situation," she explains, as if she's read my mind. "Your comeback is priority one. But if you can't hack the long hours of training, tell me now. You aren't so special that we can't bear to trade you."
Damn, she's tough—and she doesn't even blink when she says things like that. Her words bite, and I can feel their sting long after she's done.
"So, what's the plan, then?" I'm trying to sound more in control than I feel. This is my career, after all, and nobody else can save it for me.
Amy leans back in her chair, arms crossed. "We start tomorrow. Bright and early. Hope you like running at sunup, Braddock."
Sounds like the seventh circle of hell to me. But if I want back in the game—if I want to keep my place on the team—I need to show her she can't scare me away.
I straighten up and stare directly into her eyes. "Fine. See you then, Coach."
Phil pats me on the shoulder as I stand, his touch almost reassuring.
Almost. Amy just nods, a silent acknowledgment that feels more like a challenge than anything else.
I'm not used to dealing with women like her.
Women who look hardball in the eye and don't blink.
I'm almost impressed—but not quite. I can feel the intensity rolling off her, and I'm not sure if it charges me up or cuts me down.
Phil claps a hand on my shoulder, squeezing hard, though not enough to cause pain. "You two will be spending a lot of time together over the next few months."
Amy lifts her brows. "Not if he keeps stalling."
Now she's got me cornered. It's a crafty tactic.
I recognize it from facing every smartass batter who ever thought they had my number.
Pressure me until I crack or rise to the challenge.
I force myself to sit even more upright, ignoring the pain that shoots through my shoulder like someone's jabbing it with a hot poker.
"I'm not stalling," I squeeze out between gritted teeth.
Her half-smile returns, the one that suggests she doesn't believe a word of anything I've said. Phil waves us off with an easygoing grin. Amy's already ahead of me, her strides quick and confident as we leave the office.
"Good luck, Charlie," Phil calls after me, which is either encouragement or a farewell before my execution. Not sure which is the worse option.
The air outside the office feels like the sweetest, cleanest oxygen after an undersea dive to the bottom of the ocean.
I can breathe again, only now every breath reminds me of what tomorrow holds.
Amy walks briskly just ahead of me, not bothering to check if I'm keeping up.
She expects me to trail after her, I'm sure, like some rookie who got called up too soon.
I trot to catch up with her, desperate to regain some ground. "Do you always assume your players will crumble like cookies?"
She doesn't even glance back. "Only when they act like they might."
Great, now I'm hungry for chocolate chip cookies. I manage to stay by her side as she pushes open the doors to the parking lot, the sun hitting us like a stadium spotlight. "You do realize you've got your work cut out for you, right? I'm not exactly known for going easy—on coaches or myself."
She lifts her chin, those beautiful hazel eyes sparkling with a challenge aimed directly at me. "I never said I wanted it easy, Braddock. Let's see what you've got."
With that, she heads toward her car, leaving me standing here more riled up than ever—and more confused than ever too.
I watch her driving away and wonder how someone so sure of herself could knock me off balance when I barely know her.
This is going to be one hell of a fight, and it's too late to pretend I'm not ready to swing with everything I've got.
My shoulder protests as I shuffle up to my car.
Tomorrow looms in my head like a mountain I'm expected to sprint up before breakfast. But fear and adrenaline knot together inside me, pushing back against the doubt I couldn't shake this morning.
Working with Amy will be rough. Maybe impossible.
But even if she's a hard-nosed ball-buster, I can handle it. I have three sisters, after all.
Amy's taillights disappear as she peels out of the parking lot, leaving me to stew in the heat and my own second thoughts. I crank the engine and lean my head back for a few minutes to ensure I won't crash my car because I'm still fuming over Amy's comments about me.
A figure dashes up to the driver's side window. I glance up and groan.
Jared Morris knocks on the glass and keeps knocking until I give up and roll down the window. "What do you want, Morris?"
"Heard you got a girl for a coach. That sucks. Wittle Chucky needs a bwankie to cry on, huh?"
"Go suck a lemon, jackass."
Jared grins and chuckles.
I roll up the window and ram my foot down on the gas pedal, swerving out of my parking slot backwards, just barely missing another car.
In the rearview mirror, I see Jared still grinning.
Somehow, I manage to get home without killing myself or anyone else.
By the time I tumble into bed, only a sliver of light hovers on the horizon, about to vanish.
I try not to think about how soon I'll be hearing my alarm clock or how much I'd rather just turn it all off and let sleep swallow me whole.
If Amy Keller thinks she can lob an underarm throw at me, she's got another thing coming. My lids shut on that thought while exhaustion wipes my brain clean for a few blessed hours.