Chapter Fourteen
The day before Amy and I will be heading for Cooperstown, I see my worst fear splashed across newspaper headlines and sports radio stations across the country.
Well, my second worst fear. My name is on the trade block, and I won't be surprised if that's my fate.
It's better than going down to the minors.
I'll probably wind up joining the White Sox.
Last year, they had their worst season in the history of the team, so I'll fit right in.
Every reporter in the press area is either losing their mind or running in circles. Maybe both. I'm half an hour from showtime, headed into the stadium for our matchup against the Altitude.
Every camera is trained on me and not the field.
"They're talking Philadelphia," one reporter hollers. "They want him bad."
Sure, I believe that. The pitcher with a bum shoulder is wanted by every team.
Though I've got my game face on, I think about a dozen reporters see through it already and know I'm toast. Before I can shove through the horde, I hear the familiar voice of Seb Hudson, the only sports anchor who doesn't hate me for being injured.
"The Philadelphia Panthers are ready to trade for Charlie Braddock," Seb announces.
He's usually right about these things. But I pray he's wrong this time. I don't need a fucking sports anchor to tell me the trade makes sense for everyone involved. Every time I step up to the mound lately, I'm batting about .050 under my own weight. That is not good, to put it mildly.
I glance up at the breaking news feeds playing out on TVs near the concessions area.
The banner under the anchor says, "The End for Braddock?
" and another news ticker declares, "Breaking: Braddock on Trade Block.
" They're only saying out loud what I've been thinking for months. What I wish was all in my head.
When I finally get into the locker room, I feel like I've survived a pack of sharks that want to devour me alive.
My teammates offer encouragement and slaps on the back, but it all feels hollow.
Their whispers and side glances are like knives, cutting into me deeper than any physical injury.
I know they mean well, but the tension is getting to me.
"You're gonna be fine," Nate says, but even he looks like he's not so sure.
I aim for humor to lighten the mood. "Trying to get rid of me already?"
"Never," he says with a laugh, but his eyes say maybe. Nate is our best batter and a genuinely nice guy. He heads off toward his locker, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the room.
I sit down, pretending to go through my routine.
The weights above my locker mock me—packed boxes without a place to land yet.
I haven't seen Amy since our workout session yesterday.
She has a life outside coaching me, I'm sure, so I couldn't reasonably expect her to be here the moment I arrived for the game.
I rub my shoulder, feeling the dull ache spreading into my chest. But it feels like phantom pain, like I'm talking myself into it.
Amy knocks on the locker-room door. "May I come in?"
"Yep. Nobody's here but me and my trade rumors."
She walks in, hesitating halfway to me. Then she marches straight up to me and sits down beside me. "Charlie, don't let them mess with your head. Trade rumors are just that—gossip."
"Seb heard about it quick like he always does. And he's usually right."
"It's not a done deal," she insists. "We have time."
But does she really know that? Amy is standing right in front of me, shoulder to shoulder, like she's ready to fight this battle for me, with me.
I want to believe her, but seeing her here only reminds me of what I stand to lose.
It's not just my career on the line—it's everything we started rebuilding between us.
"I should handle this myself, Coach."
"Come on, Charlie, we both know I'm more than your coach." Amy clasps my hands, something I've never seen her do before. "I care about you. A lot."
"I feel that way about you too."
"Good." She stands up, still holding my hands, and waits until I get up too.
Then she smiles. "Now, forget about the trade rumor.
We have the rest of today and all weekend to explore Cooperstown.
I don't want to see any more frowns or bummed-out looks.
Let's go to your place and grab whatever you'll need for the weekend. "
"Amy, I should be practicing for—"
"No arguments," she declares. "If I see a baseball in your hand before Sunday, the trip is off."
I grin. "You're amazing, Amy."
She winks and guides me out of the locker room. I shove thoughts of trades and defeats behind us. Maybe this will be our last trip together if Philly seals the deal. It might also be the break I need to clear my head. When she's not watching, I catch myself rubbing my shoulder again.
We drive in near silence until we hit traffic.
"Want to talk about it?" she finally asks.
I try to understand the look in her eyes. It's not pity. She wouldn't do that to me. So I tell her, "Just thinking. Philly might want to take me on, but that's only if my injury is healed enough."
"Relax. Your shoulder will be fine."
She squeezes my thigh reassuringly. The way she's acting, I'd almost think she'll pack everything up and bolt with me if I get traded tomorrow.
When we arrive at my apartment, I don't even pretend to pack. Amy sees right through me but keeps up her determined hustle anyway and fixes me with a teasing glare. "You're going to spend all weekend looking like you got traded to the worst team in the league."
I can't help it. I laugh. "But isn't that exactly what…" She cuts me off with two fingers, sealing my lips. "Don't say it. No negative thoughts allowed this weekend. Remember?"
"Right, because you're just so laid back and easygoing."
"You bet I am." Amy sets down an armload of clothes I never intended to wear and ticks off the contents on her fingers. "Toothbrush, check. Warm jacket, check. Goofy smile for photos we're going to take at the museum? Double-check."
"You are singular and amazing, Amy Keller."
She stops rushing around and looks at me like she's seeing something deep inside, a truth about us that even I can't quite put into words yet.
Then she nods and smiles, like we've reached an understanding that doesn't require either of us to speak another word.
We leave my overstuffed suitcase sprawled open on the floor and jump in the car, craving spontaneity the way only two people living on a ticking clock can.
We drive north, letting go of everything except the road ahead, and make it to Cooperstown by midmorning.
The first thing we do is find a room at a quaint little bed-and-breakfast. A cheerful older lady greets us and asks if we need one room or two. Before I realize what I've said, I'm telling her, "One room."
Amy's brows shoot up, but her lips curl into a sweet little smile.
Our hostess leads us upstairs to a beautifully decorated room that has all the charms of upstate New York. How have I never been to Cooperstown before? It's a travesty.
After breakfast, Amy announces it's time to explore America's Hometown, the nickname for Cooperstown.
It boasts less than two thousand residents, but the little village houses the Baseball Hall of Fame.
Amy insists on driving because she wants me to gaze out at the scenery instead of watching for other drivers.
But soon, she finds a good parking spot, and we switch to walking down Main Street to reach the Hall instead.
The adrenaline rush of being here in this place—all baseball, all the time—lights something inside me.
I could live in this town for a summer and whisper sweet nothings to the stadium grass if they'd let me camp out at Doubleday Field.
When I tell Amy that, she grins and kisses my cheek.
Her gentle laughter makes my chest ache in a good way.
We take photos next to sculptures and case displays.
She stops in front of the "Women in Baseball" exhibit.
It's inspiring to see all the women who once made history, but I only have eyes for one girl.
"We should add you to this display," I joke.
"No thanks. I prefer coaching."
After an amazing lunch at a baseball-themed diner—complete with chocolate-covered waffle cones—we head back to our bed-and-breakfast to regroup.
Amy insists on strolling hand-in-hand along the lake until we need to wear our jackets.
The air has become crisp and cool, but I like that.
It's refreshing. We head back to our room before dinner, and she pulls a bottle of wine out of her bag.
"Glasses?" she asks.
I pop open the bottle with her keychain corkscrew. "We'll improvise."
She pours us each a generous portion in big ceramic mugs that says "Cooperstown or Bust!" We sit wordlessly on the bed, and I watch her sip her drink delicately as she studies me with a tender gaze.
"Charlie, can I ask you something?"
"Of course you can. Go on, ask away."
Amy scuttles closer to me on the bed. "What would make you happy? Really, truly happy?"