Chapter 4 #2
The scout explained that they put all the draftees joining the Surge for the remainder of the season in an apartment together, that way we’re with others in a similar position as us.
Helps with getting acclimated. There will be four of us in each apartment, two to a room.
The Surge is one of the few teams where their Low-A team is in the same city as their Spring Training facility.
So, I’ll report there for all the necessary onboarding paperwork, physicals, and orientation.
Then…we play ball. Professional baseball. Damn.
My fingers tap an erratic rhythm on my thigh, watching the bags slowly crawl along the carousel.
I hate this part. Meeting new people. Once I get into the groove, once we start playing ball, it gets so much easier.
But the initial interaction, having no idea if these guys will be nice and take my quirks in stride…
or be straight-up assholes, has a nauseous burn building in my gut.
There’s the asshole jock stereotype for a reason.
We’re not all like that. Obviously, look at lil awkward ol’ me. But some people wear it like a badge.
Independence. I suppose Maddy had a point.
I don’t think I realized until now how much I’ve come to rely on him.
How whenever life gets uncomfortable, I turn to him.
Like right now, wanting reassurance. I’m a ballplayer.
I should probably grow a pair of my own.
I laugh at my horrible joke, and the person next to me shoots me a side-eye and steps away.
My laugh dies a quick death, and I pull my ballcap lower over my face.
Nothing to see here, sir. Just laughing at the conversation I’m having in my head. Totally normal.
My gear bag finally decides to make an appearance.
I throw my backpack over one arm, haul my gear bag that weighs a fuck-ton over the other, and somehow manage to grab my rolling-suitcase handle without losing the bags on my back.
I head toward the automatic doors. They slide open, and I’m hit with a wall of Florida humidity.
I try to inhale, but, shit, this air is thick.
It’s not like I’m not used to humidity living in CT, but August in Florida is like a wet blanket you let tumble in a dryer for a while.
I scan the area. Cars whizz past; others are parked, waiting for arriving travelers. I have no idea what or who I’m even looking for. I somehow manage to fish my phone out of my pocket and tap call next to Shane’s name. He answers after one ring.
“Yo, Roomie! I’m pulling up to arrivals now. Orange jeep with the soft top down. I hope that’s okay. It’s fucking saucy today. Ah, I see you! Gotta be you with the behemoth of a gear bag, right? See ya in a sec.”
He hangs up, and I blink at the phone. That was…a lot. I think I like it, though. I have a feeling he’ll be able to fill in my awkward silences.
An orange jeep comes rolling to a stop in front of me, The Hell Song by Sum 41 blasting.
A man wearing aviators with windswept near-shoulder-length blond hair jumps from the car and heads my way, a bright white grin flashing at me.
He’s got on a sleeveless Billabong shirt, board shorts, and flip-flops.
He looks like…a surfer bro. Or like he could be the mascot of the Tampa Surge.
My stomach twists with nerves. Time to be social. I wish I had sunglasses on. At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about eye contact. I clear my throat.
“Hey-ho howdy.” I wince. What the fuck was that?
His grin widens, and he chuckles. “Howdy, cowboy. Aren’t you from Connecticut?”
I laugh nervously. “Uh. Yeah. Don’t think I’ve ever said howdy before in my life. So, yeah.”
He grabs my gear bag from me and swings it into the back of his jeep. I hover silently, shifting back and forth. “So, Connecticut cowboy, what do you go by? Winters?”
“Oh, right. Um. Easton or Winters is fine. Friends call me East.”
The guy flips up his aviators to the top of his head and holds out his hand, his blue eyes crinkling at the corner. “East, then. We’re obviously going to be friends.” That’s when recognition hits.
“Oh, shit,” I say. “You’re Shane Michaels.” He’s a fucking killer shortstop. Played for the Florida Gators and went in the third round of the draft. We never played against each other, but I’ve watched some of his games.
That toothy grin flashes again. “The one and only.” He waves his hand that’s still waiting for me to shake it.
Right. Be human, East. “Nice to meet you.” I shake his hand. I should probably just get this over with. “I’m a little awkward, but I promise I’m normal.”
“Eh,” he says. “Be awkward, Cowboy. Normal is so overrated.”
Shit. Did I just gain the nickname Cowboy?
And do I kind of like it? All I know is the tightness in my gut is gone.
I think me and this Shane guy will get along just fine.
Plus, I’m also a huge 2000s punk rock junkie.
I get into the passenger side of the jeep and snag my sunglasses out of my backpack.
With my shades on, I feel a bit more confident, kind of like I have a mini shield on. Shane pulls out of the pickup lane.
“I’m mostly normal when it comes to baseball,” I say. “I’m just not the best with social situations outside of baseball.”
He glances at me quickly, the sun reflecting off his aviators, before his stare is back on the road.
“Well, I’d say they paired us well then.
Charisma is my middle name. I’m a fucking social butterfly.
To the point, I’m probably too much. Pretty sure my teammates wanted to bash me over the head with their bats because I wouldn’t shut up. ”
“Well, I did pack earplugs. So, I’ll just stick those in if you get to be too much.”
He barks out a laugh. “Awkward, but feisty. I like it, Cowboy.”
I shake my head, a breath of laughter escaping me. I think we’re going to get along just fine. “Lost in Stereo” by All Time Low comes on.
“Shit. You’re an All Time Low fan too?”
He holds up his fist. “Fuck yes, I am.”
I dab him.
“Think we may have just become best friends, Cowboy,” he says, his grin flashing even from his profile.
I relax further into the seat and let my free hand play in the wind whipping through the open Jeep.
The golden Florida sun and the wild wind swirling around me soak into my skin and settle in my chest. We spend the rest of the drive sharing small talk, getting to know each other a bit, bonding over our similar taste in music.
There’s a twinge of homesickness in my chest as we discuss bands, a reminder of Maddy.
Comfort shadowed by a pang of melancholy.
Shane fills me in on our other roommates, Mark Phillips and Carlos Rosario. I’m the last to arrive in our apartment. I tap out responses to my mom and Shelby, who’ve texted back to wish me luck and call when I get a chance.
Half an hour later we’re pulling to a stop in front of a half-brick, half-beige-stucco apartment building.
It’s slightly worn, clearly nothing fancy, but I’ll take it.
It wasn’t that long ago that the minor leagues didn’t provide housing at all for their players.
Shane tosses me a key, and my hand whips out to snatch it.
“Nice reflexes, Cowboy.”
“What kind of ballplayer would I be if I couldn’t catch?” I wing a brow, and he shoots me that surfer grin.
“Touché. We’re in 2B. Come on, I’ll show you the digs and introduce you to the other draftees. There are eleven us put up here. The last three are arriving in the next couple days.”
“Sounds good. Lead the way.” I like this Shane guy. I can see why the team agreed to let him pick me up. He has a natural leader quality to him. And I know he’s a hell of a ballplayer. I’m looking forward to playing with him.
My phone lights up, and my gaze snaps to it. I swipe open the screen and tap my text messages. My chest deflates a little. Another text from Mom. Still nothing from Maddy. He hasn’t responded even though it’s been on read since we pulled out of the airport. I’m sure he’s busy.
I switch over to my photo gallery and tap the Meast folder. The smile that splits my face is instant as I swipe through the photos of me and Maddy, like I so often find myself doing. Just like that, everything turns warm, light, and full of promise. My little dose of happy.
“You coming, Cowboy?” Shane calls.
I quickly pocket my phone and hurry after him.
I can’t wait to fill Maddy in on everything.