Chapter Ten
The cramped office is cluttered with stats and scores as well as a few moldy old baseballs that are long past their expiration date.
When I'd first been injured, I'd felt like a relic of bygone days, of victories I might never achieve again.
But I've realized lately that this isn't my final inning.
Amy, on the other hand, remains anxious about my first game since my injury—and that anxiety rolls off her in unseen waves.
I can feel those waves, though, and they're infecting me too.
I never would've guessed my tough coach would be biting her nails over me.
For the rest of the day, I steer clear of Phil's office, not ready to face him just yet.
I've never been able to read the manager's mind or even his expression, but he's never been malicious.
I shouldn't worry. Besides, he wouldn't fire me before my first post-injury game.
So I hit the gym, throwing my energy into a brutal workout, pushing until my muscles scream like they're ready to mutiny.
Eventually, exhaustion wins out. I trudge back to the locker room to find it empty except for the hum of a vending machine and the smell of sweat that lingers in the air.
A crumpled scouting report lies on the desk, mocking me with stats and figures that suggest one of two things.
Phil is measuring my mediocrity, or he's telling the team owner to ditch me right away.
Ray is a nice guy, but this is business to him.
Yeah, I've heard rumors that they want to trade me, and it's no joke.
Amy was involved in those discussions, but I have no clue what she told the big guys—or what they told her.
I pick up the crumpled sheet and smooth it out. The words on the page make my jaw clench. Send Braddock back to the minors now, he's toxic.
Who wrote those words? No idea. It couldn't be Amy.
I crush the paper in my fist and hurl it across the room. As I storm into the hallway, a familiar voice shouts, "Stop, Charlie!"
I freeze, turning to face Amy.
She stands in the corridor like she knows I'm already a goner.
My coach has the look of someone about to execute me in the most merciful way.
She must think Jared will whup my ass, and I'll lead the Admirals to a devastating defeat.
I remember the last time our team played against the Altitude, and how Jared grinned at me from third base like he was already three plays ahead, already knowing exactly how the game would end.
"See you next season, Braddock. Or maybe not!" he'd called out while grinning and blowing a kiss at me like a true shithead.
I glare at Amy. "Did you know about this report?"
She doesn't flinch or even shrug. Her arms are barred over her chest like armor, but the concern in her eyes looks real. "Yes, I found out this morning."
"They're sending me back to the minors."
"No, not yet. You have one chance to prove you're still the star pitcher."
"Were you part of this plan to send me down to the minors me?" I clench the paper tighter, making it crinkle in my palm. A breath gusts out of my nostrils, and I pitch the crumpled sheet across the room.
Amy's eyes widen, not with guilt but something else. Something that cuts into me like a hot knife. She steps closer.
"Forget about the scouting report." Amy nods toward the paper I destroyed. "Look at these improvements. Your ERA has dropped. Your fastball velocity is up by eight percent." Her tone is assertive, sure, like she's talking down a rookie on the edge of a meltdown. "I believe in you , not numbers."
I want to believe her, for sure. I need to believe. But the report feels like a death sentence, and she's holding the gavel. "If that's true, why was the report hidden in Phil's office?"
She pauses, and it's a loaded silence that lets me know she's digging deep to keep her cool. "Maybe because someone didn't want you to see it. Maybe because they wanted you focused on what you can do rather than what a sheet of paper tells you."
What she said makes sense. It's all she's been saying since the injury. It's all she's been wanting from me since the day she waltzed into my life. I need her to believe in me. Isn't that pathetic?
"Focus isn't the problem," I explain. "It's the fact that I'm getting iced. I can feel it. But I'm the last one to know, like always."
Her expression doesn't change, but there's a flicker of something in her eyes that I can't decipher. She steps closer, past the line of distance she usually keeps between us, the one that's been there since the night we had sex in the dugout.
"The only one who doesn't believe in you, Charlie, is you."
I let out a bitter laugh. "Maybe I've got a reason not to."
Amy's lips flatten, a sure sign she's frustrated. "Ray threw that paper away because he still believes in you, and he's giving you a chance to prove that faith is warranted. Phil believes in you too, and so do I. The only one who's lost faith is you."
The accusation hangs in the air like a foul ball, its spin undecided. "You can't pretend you haven't thought about life without me dragging the team down."
"I don't need to pretend anything." Her voice has an edge now, the kind that slices clean. "You know what I've thought about, Charlie? You running down bases. You back at the top of your game. You carrying your team to a World Series victory."
I'm pacing, my feet slapping on the linoleum, every step matching the frantic beat of my heart. I can't stop moving, like if I do, everything will catch up to me and crash over me in a tsunami of regrets.
"Look at the numbers again," she pleads. "This isn't about getting rid of you. It's about you turning it around the way you've always done before—until you met me."
I halt mid-step, rotating my head to stare at her. My heart pounds as if this moment could change everything, for better or worse. "What are you saying, Amy?"
She rubs her arms, avoiding my gaze. "You don't need me anymore. Your fastball is back, and you'll lead your team to glory, I know you will."
Amy thinks I don't need her? She's crazy. I never would've been on the verge of a comeback without her. I reach her in two strides, grasping her shoulders, pulling her so close that our breaths mingle. "What happened in that meeting? Tell me, Amy, please."
She worries her lip as tears begin to gather in her eyes. But she straightens and lifts her chin, wiping away the wetness. Amy meets my gaze head-on. "Don't you get it? That sheet of paper was crumpled because Phil convinced Ray not to trade you or send you back to the minors. As for me…"
"What about you?"
"Ray ordered Phil to fire me."
"What?" The solitary syllable came out as a half-whisper. "But you're my coach. They can't fire you right before our first big game."
Amy shakes her head. "Ray is one tough bastard. When he makes a decision, it's final."
I don't know what to say. Too many words crowd my mind.
Too much is coming at me all at once. Ray ordered Phil to fire Amy?
He's nuts. She's the best damn coach the Admirals have ever had.
I study her freshly wiped eyes, the sudden calm in her features, and that's when it fully sinks in.
She's made her peace with the situation.
"Why didn't you tell me, Amy?"
She pulls a tissue out of her pocket and gently blows into it. Then she squares her shoulders. "This is your one chance to show Ray you still belong in the major leagues. My dismissal shouldn't stand in the way of your success."
The implication makes me wince. Amy thinks I'm better off without her, that's clear. But I could never have come this far on my own after my injury.
"No way," I insist. "You're coming with me to every game—as my coach. Otherwise, I quit."
She draws in a slow, ragged breath and hesitates just long enough for doubt to creep back in. Then she rips it away with words that sound like they sear her throat. "I can't let you do that, Charlie."
I gape at her, the shock twisting into anger. "You can't stop me."
Despite her bleary eyes, her voice remains firm. "This team is your life. I'm just a coach you had a fling with."
She's trying to make it sound like it never mattered, like she never cared, but I know better. "I thought you were the one who told me not to give up."
Amy swallows hard, and for a second, I think she might change her mind. But then she looks at me like she's engraving my face in her memory. The finality in her gaze hits me harder than any pitch ever could.
"I'll be fine," she assures me, her voice barely above a whisper.
I stagger backward a step, my mind racing to find something, anything, to say. Words tangle in my throat, refusing to come out.
"Amy," I manage at last, her name loaded with everything I want to say and can't.
She says nothing, simply watching me. The silence stretches between us until it snaps something inside me.
"Fine," I spit out, sounding bitter and broken even to my own ears.
With a last look, one filled with too much feeling for me to bear, she walks away. Everything inside me wants to run after her, make her listen until she understands. But I can't move, can't think. The world's spinning like a wild pitch careening toward the dirt.
Phil's office door slams shut behind her.
"Charlie! There you are!" Jared's voice snaps me out of my trance. He strides down the hall like he owns the place.
"What do you want, Morris?"
"To grab a beer with my favorite rival." Jared leans against the wall, smirking.
I'm not in the mood for his crap. "Get lost."
Jared saunters away, whistling the song "Take Me Out to the Ballgame."
That jerk means nothing to me. I need Amy back—now—and I know exactly how to make that happen.