Chapter Eighteen
We sit across from each other, a bottle of wine between us and the city lights playing off the river outside the window.
The bar is warm and intimate, the opposite of what I'm used to lately thanks to my life on the road.
Amy goes with me to every game. But since players usually don't get more than one day off every ten days, she mostly serves as my coach—not my girlfriend.
Well, except at night. She's my girl all the way when we're under the covers together.
I lean toward Amy. "I couldn't have won that game this evening without you."
Amy looks like a different person, out of her element in this romantic setting.
She probably wouldn't like it if I said so, but she seems more feminine in the subdued lighting.
I love her tough-coach side too, don't get me wrong.
She must think I look like a waiter, with my tie and spiffy slacks.
I feel a little off tonight, probably because it's been at least five hours since my coach yelled at me to hustle. She hasn't called me Braddock either.
I can't remember the last time I talked with someone instead of getting talked at. Hence, our private dinner.
"Finally realized I'm not the enemy, huh?" she says, one corner of her mouth curling up. She tilts her head, studying me, the edge of a grin still playing at her lips.
"I'm reserving judgment." I say with a straight face.
She lets out a small, genuine laugh.
To see her like this, as lovely as an angel from heaven—it takes my breath away.
I glance at the big picture windows, my gaze roving the entire dimly lit room.
I feel a bit uncertain now that I can't just hide behind my usual dumb jokes.
I try to relax into the chair and ignore the nagging instinct that this silence needs to be filled with stats and strategy.
"Things were rough for a while," I admit.
"Losing nine games in a row? I felt like I was stranded in the middle of the ocean with no life preserver, about to sink into the depths.
Nothing worked. I was swinging at air." My fingers drum lightly on the table.
"You sure as hell turned me around, though. "
"I told you individual practice would fire up your fastball in no time." She slides a hand onto my thigh under the table. "But it was the pitching drills, customized warm-up routines, and specialized strength and conditioning that turned the tide."
"Easy, baby. Get me too worked up under the table, and I might fuck you in front of all these high-toned diners."
She moves her hand up to my groin.
I cough into my fist.
As I pick up my glass, the stem feels cool in my hand.
I'm buying a moment to gather the words I need to tell her what I want.
The kind of words that don't come easy. I can feel her watching me, waiting.
"I can get awfully caught up in the game—in winning.
Alicia always complained about that. She wouldn't even go to home games to watch me play. "
"You think you're the only one who gets too caught up?" Her voice has an edge in it, a challenge, but she doesn't back off. "I've always felt I'm chasing my father's shadow." She gazes past me, into someplace I can't see. "He was a legend. I feel like I have to live up to that."
"I get that. It can be hard to live up to a legend.
Wanting to succeed for someone else can be a huge weight.
" I take a sip of wine, then delicately swirl my finger in circles.
"My grandfather was a huge baseball fan.
He took me to games as often as possible, and Granddad's love of baseball inspired my love of the sport.
Unfortunately, he died before I worked my way up to the majors. "
"I'm sure he's watching you, somehow, some way." She rubs her cheek against mine. "The ones we've lost motivate us to be more than we thought we could be."
While Amy and I sip from our glasses, the alcohol warming our veins, I begin to wonder if wanting something is enough to make it happen.
She's quiet, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her glass, the set of her shoulders a little looser now.
I can't remember ever seeing her this relaxed, and I hope this mood won't fade away too soon.
"Did you have someone to cheer you on while you chased your dreams?" I ask. "Or just guys like me making your life hell?"
"My mother has been my biggest fan and my best friend." Her voice is hushed now, and her eyes have turned softer too. "She's supportive, but…since my dad passed, it's been just the two of us. No brothers or sisters, just me and Mom."
"Two women on their own. Must've been tough growing up that way."
"More like one woman trying to keep up with her tomboy daughter," she corrects, a hint of a smile ghosting over her lips. "How about you? All baseball, all the time?"
"Yeah, pretty much. It's always pulsed through my veins." I smile slightly as I remember my childhood. "I had my parents and three sisters to keep me in line."
"Three sisters?" Her smile broadens, and I find myself mirroring it. "That must've been a wild upbringing."
"Nah, not really. Mom and Dad kept us from turning into heathens." A sly grin stretches my lips. "But I found lots of ways to harass my sisters. They harassed me right back."
Amy laughs delicately. "Wish I'd known you then. We would've gotten along like peas in a pod."
This is what it means to be off the field, truly off the field, and away from the pressure of games and reporters. "You should meet them. My family, I mean. You could see how a big family does things."
"Yeah?" She seems caught off guard, the hesitation making her appear younger as she draws out the solitary word.
"Three sisters, two parents, lots of chaos. It's a little different from what you're used to."
I expect her to say something cutting, but the vulnerable admission has stuck, and for once, she lets it. "We'll see."
A companionable silence settles over us. I don't think I've been this open, this honest, with anyone in a long time. It makes me uneasy and peaceful at the same time.
"Charlie Braddock," someone says. That voice interrupts us, and I turn to see a kid of maybe seventeen. He's barely holding back his excitement. There's a small group at their table, shifting awkwardly, not sure how to start whatever it is they want to do.
A couple guys in baseball caps and a couple women with eager, open expressions approach us.
Fans, unmistakably. The Jacksonville type that made the trip all the way here.
It's always a shock to see them when I'm not wearing my uniform, like someone is catching me in a lie.
They hover nearby but not too near, seemingly undecided about whether to talk to me or Amy.
I smile, the expression a little lopsided, aiming for reassurance. "Hey, c'mon over here. We don't bite. Usually."
One of the guys pushes a ball cap forward and hesitates. "Would you mind…?"
"Signing?" I finish for him. "Yeah. Sure."
The table is quickly flooded with caps and Sharpies.
Amy glances at me, wide-eyed and bemused.
I make quick work of the first ball, nodding toward her.
"You gotta meet the real star behind my comeback.
" There's a rush of embarrassment in the group.
I can almost hear the collective oh . "This is my coach, Amy Keller. "
I watch her, waiting for the reaction. It doesn't disappoint.
"Wow." One of the women elbows the others, then beams at Amy. "You're amazing. Could we have a photo with you, Coach Keller?"
She clearly doesn't know what to say at first. There's something different about being seen like this. "Don't let him fool you. Charlie's the one who does all the work. I just keep him from making an ass of himself."
The ladies giggle and grin.
We both sign the merch piled in front of us. There's a shift in the air, the awkwardness lifting as everyone begins to talk at once. Amy joins in with them, answering questions, quick and confident, a new ease in her movements. She handles herself like she's been doing it all her life.
"Did you really bring Braddock back from the dead?" one of the male fans teases.
"Wasn't easy," Amy throws back. "He's stubborn."
She casts a glance my way, and I wink.
"You're lucky to have her," the youngest one says to me, wide-eyed.
"Don't I know it," I answer, maybe more sincerely than I meant to.
The women are all looking at me with "awwww" eyes. That's what I like to call it. Ladies always love me.
The conversation grows more boisterous as fans talk over each other in a buzz of questions and laughter. I catch Amy's eye across the table. There's a shared feeling between us, an unspoken acknowledgment of what just happened. It feels good.
The group trickles away with waves and promises to cheer us on, leaving us alone again with our drinks. The space they leave behind is warm, less like absence, more like anticipation.
"I think I'm starting to like it when people pester me," Amy says, leaning back and stretching her arms. "As long as they don't ask about RBIs."
"Think you'll be ready for family gatherings pretty soon?"
"I don't know." She lifts her glass, rolling it between her palms. "Will I have to sign autographs at your parents' house too?"
I chuckle. "You never know. My sisters are big fans of the Admirals."
"And they hate the Altitude, right?"
"Got it in one, coach."
The bar grows louder as the night stretches on, glasses clinking and laughter spreading out into the darkness beyond the river.
Amy and I agree that we'd rather go home and entertain each other instead of heading to a nightclub.
Bedroom play feels like the kind of game I can win.
And our last game before the World Series might change the Admirals' fortunes for good—if we can beat Jared Morris and the rest of the Altitude team.