Chapter 3
Alex
Annoying, distracting thoughts keep tumbling through my mind as I struggle to remain professional.
For example, the drop of disappointment sitting low in my stomach that Tenny’s mullet is gone is absolutely absurd.
It’s not like I didn’t know that he keeps his hair in a more traditional cut now—though it’s still playful over the top.
Equally obnoxious is the relief that his stubble remains unchanged, that his eyes are still the same shade of brilliant blue.
Not that I should be focusing on any of that.
Tenny releases his necklace, flexing his hand as he lowers it to his side. My gaze remains on the stones, slightly distracted. Ultramarine sapphires have always been my favorite because their blue is as deep as the ocean.
“Uh, fundamentals.”
Part of me wants to sigh, but I know it’s my fault that the chattiest MLB player is suddenly monosyllabic.
“Any new drills or routines to help with that?” I tilt my head into an attentive listening pose.
“Nothing flashy, just getting reps in. Making sure the timing is right.”
I know—I fully understand—that Tenny is talking about baseball timing, but something inside me whimpers at how the wrong timing can ruin everything.
Unconsciously, my free hand shifts to the base of my spine, rubbing my surgical scar.
When his eyes follow the movement, I clear my throat, smoothing out the fabric even though the lumpy line is hidden beneath my dress.
“Let’s reset,” I tell Daphne.
“From the top?”
“No, I’ll respond to his last statement.” Taking a settling breath, I focus back on Tenny. “Ready?”
He nods, his brows furrowed slightly.
I wait a few beats and then ask, “Speaking of timing, how are you feeling about the lineup change with the loss of Aaron Lawson and—”
Tenny snorts, and I struggle to keep my lips from twitching up. He’s not the first player to have this reaction. Trevor Chapman nearly did backflips when I asked how he felt about Lawson’s departure.
“And Jace Sawyer?”
His face softens at the mention of last season’s right fielder.
“I already miss Jace,” he says, honesty apparent in his words. “But I get why he jumped at the opportunity to play near home.”
“And where exactly is home for you?”
When his jaw twitches, a wash of nostalgia overtakes me.
I’m suddenly back in San Diego at a time when I thought I understood devastation.
A desperation to shake my past self, to tell her to be more careful, floods through me.
I press my eyes closed with an exhale, reminding myself that I’m fully recovered, that I’m stronger than I ever thought I’d be.
“Arizona,” Tenny says slowly, his gaze bouncing all over my face.
The corner of my eye catches how his fingers drift toward my free hand at my side. I straighten, setting a dazzling smile on my lips and pushing back a lock of hair to avoid contact.
“That’s the name of your youngest sister, right?”
I already know this—as does half of the nation. His youngest sister has quite a social media following with her handle @UnfortunatelyTennyIsMyBrother. She also lives with Tenny and posts hilarious, if not occasionally revealing, content about her major-league brother while attending college nearby.
Her most viral video is a compilation of all of his epic fails as a Little League kid before a clip of him crushing his first home run for the Waves.
That video is closely followed in views by the one of him asleep halfway off his bed with clothes strewn all over the room.
Discarded water bottles, half-filled mugs, and protein shake containers clutter his nightstand.
Her voiceover talks about her “slob of a brother,” but Arizona clearly didn’t realize that everyone would focus on Tenny's bare chest. Most of the comments on that video are downright indecent.
“We were all named after our birth states. My oldest sister is Georgia. Tennessee”—he points to the chest I definitely haven’t seen on my phone screen—“and Arizona.”
“How is Arizona doing now that you’re at camp?”
“How is my twenty-year-old sister doing, having free rein of my oceanfront mansion?” His mouth tugs up, and I have to control my response when his dimple pops out. “I’d say she’s just peachy.”
A chuckle escapes my lips before I can stop myself.
Though, honestly, I shouldn’t be stopping myself. If anything, I should be laughing more to make this interaction seem more casual and friendly—like I’ve been with every other player. I’m coming across as rigid, which means this entire segment will probably get scrapped.
I don’t have the luxury of making mistakes.
The fact that I’ve crawled up the ladder in this tight industry in three short years is nearly unheard of.
Being a beat reporter for an MLB team doesn’t open up often, and when it does, there’s stiff competition.
Add in that I’m a woman in one of the oldest boys’ clubs in America and it’s no wonder why I now go by Alex, instead of Alexis.
I’ve spent years covering the minors, building up credibility and connections, but I have something most reporters don’t. We all have strong writing skills and are comfortable working ridiculous hours, but I know how to come back from the brink.
I’ve already lost one career.
There’s no way I’m losing this one.
Especially after my producer threw me for a one-eighty on our call this morning. After giving me a speech about how he wants to “shake things up this season” and really “dig deep,” he told me to focus on the more personal aspects of certain players.
“I want more dirt than what they get on their pants from sliding.” When I protested, he responded with a patronizing, “Sweetheart, I didn’t hire you because you were the best. I hired you because you were hungry. Now use that hunger to get us the story no one else has.”
I ignore the unease scratching down my back as I say, “Back to the topic of roster changes, it seems you’ve changed your personal roster again.”
Tenny’s brows scrunch.
“Last night, you were photographed with your arm around a red-headed woman at a Scottsdale hotspot, but it’s been less than a month since your breakup with makeup mogul Kiera Brown. Are you hoping a new woman will help with the new season?”
A part of me cringes as my journalistic integrity dies, but it’s well-established that Tenny is even more of a player off the field than he is on it.
His first year in the minors, he had eight public relationships and a staggering twelve the following season.
Numbers like that aren’t just a red flag; they’re a flashing neon caution sign visible from space.
Had a younger version of me felt betrayed and a little heartbroken when the man I shared an earth-shattering kiss with turned out to be a huge womanizer? Absolutely. But did I also dodge a missile-sized bullet by not being able to get in touch with him that fall semester? Undoubtedly.
It’s the one positive thing that came from my accident.
“What are you asking, exactly?”
“I’m just pointing out that you had…what, six public relationships last season?”
I don’t miss how his shoulders tighten, how he stands a little straighter. “You’re keeping score?”
“It’s not hard to notice the pattern. With relationships imploding off the field, one begins to wonder if that kind of turmoil might eventually spill onto it.”
Tenny rears back like I’ve slapped him. “Nothing affects my game. I’m a professional.”
“You’re admitting that these relationships are meaningless to you? Is that why you move on so quickly?”
A flare of anger flickers through his eyes, and he looks past me—briefly—to the camera.
“That’s not what I said.”
His voice is even. Controlled. It’s nothing like the version of him that does charity hospital visits and stays twenty minutes longer than he has to, signing autographs.
“Then what are you saying?”
Behind the lens, Daphne shifts her weight. I can feel the subtle disapproval in that tiny moment. This line of questioning wasn’t on the pre-interview rundown.
Tenny exhales slowly through his nose. His lips tilt upward, but it’s a sad excuse for his normally jubilant smile.
“What I’m saying,” he replies carefully, “is that who I date has nothing to do with how I perform on the field.”
“But you’ve talked about growth this season.” I keep my tone measured, almost conversational. “That requires stability. Accountability.”
A tendon jumps in his neck.
“I show up every day,” he says. “I put in the work. I don’t miss games. I don’t cause problems on the field or in the clubhouse.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Tenny’s stony silence feels like a shove to the chest.
“My personal relationships are none of your business.”
Heat crawls up my neck, but I push through it. “You’re saying every breakup has been mutual? Clean? No fallout?”
When Tenny looks to Daphne for help, I feel slimy, like I’ve been dipped in a vat of expired hair grease.
Then something in him hardens, and my breath gets trapped in my lungs.
“I’m done,” he tells me, voice icy. “If you want to ask about baseball, I’ll be happy to answer any question, but leave my personal life out of it.”
He reaches the door in three long strides.
“That was…” Daphne doesn’t finish her sentence, just lets it hover in the tense air.
I cross to the table under the guise of checking my notes, trying to steady my shaking hands.
“Rhett Wells is our last interview. I’ll see if a staff member can bring him to us.”
Daphne nods, setting her camera down. “I’m just going to run to the restroom first.”
Once alone, my face falls into my palms with a groan.
I might not personally agree with Tenny’s laissez-faire dating style, but it has no place being in an interview about baseball.
If this is the kind of segment my producer wants on a regular basis, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep this job.
Uncertainty and unease braid down my spine as I let out an exhausted exhale.
Only one thing is as clear as Tenny’s blue eyes…
I’ve just made myself an enemy.