Chapter 2
Jase
Two weeks later, Dylan and I were on a flight to Portland, Oregon. The plan was to catch a few home games of the Seawolves, who were in their first year as a Major League expansion club. My father, Chase Matthewson, was their bench coach.
With school on break and a few days off from our summer league, we were able to visit our dads at the same time as the MLB draft.
About a year before Dad retired from the MLB, Mom moved my sister, Cammie, and me to San Diego.
She signed me up for travel ball, where I met Dylan Statler, and we became best friends.
When my dad hung up his cleats, he moved to SoCal to be closer to us and met my coach, Gage, who was also Dylan’s father.
Turns out they’d been college roommates years ago who’d hooked up before Gage suffered an off-campus injury that led him to drop out of school.
Before too long, those former college roommates got married, making Dylan and me best friends turned step-bros.
We shared an apartment, a love of baseball, and, every once in a while, the same woman.
Like on the Fourth of July, when we had a threesome with the president’s daughter.
I still couldn’t believe she wanted us, but it had been an amazing night.
So much so that once Dylan and I got back to LA, I found myself on The Loop, a social media app, following the socialite with blue eyes.
After taking a sip of the water the flight attendant had given me, I pulled my phone out of my hoodie and opened the social media app.
As I scrolled, I stopped on a post of Faye and her best friend, Morgan, at a club.
They had drinks in their hands and were smiling as Faye took a selfie.
I could also make out the Secret Service detail in the background.
The memory of that night two weeks ago flashed in my head.
“That Faye?” Dylan asked, leaning over.
“Yeah,” I responded.
“You follow her?”
I lifted a shoulder. “Yeah.”
“Me too.”
“Think she’d ever be up for round two?”
“Only one way to find out.” He nodded toward my phone. “DM her.”
“And what? Ask her to fly to Portland and meet us?”
“I’m sure she can hop on Air Force One or something.”
“I don’t think it works that way.” I chuckled.
“Then tell her we’ll come to her. We can go to Boston once summer ball is over, or ask her to come to LA when we’re back.”
“You want me to be that direct?”
“Sure, why not?”
Faye didn’t seem to have a problem saying exactly what was on her mind, so maybe Dylan was onto something. I opened her profile and hit the button to write a message:
We want another night with you. We can come to Boston or meet up in LA. Let me know
I went back to the feed and kept scrolling through the app, but it didn’t take her long to reply:
Oh you think I’ll just drop my panties because you messaged me? That was one night. I have events, family, and a detail. I’m not on call for you. If I want more, I’ll reach out
Dylan leaned in. “DM her back and keep it chill.”
“I know.”
Fair. Take care
I wasn’t sure whether it was her rejection that bothered me or the fact that I even cared.
When we’d gone to Cape Cod, I hadn’t expected anything beyond a good time.
We’d had fun with Faye, and a part of me had really liked her.
Maybe it was for the best, since we all had busy lives and spent most of our time on opposite coasts.
I locked the phone and settled back, closing my eyes until we landed.
After getting off the plane with our carry-ons, Dylan and I headed to where Gage was picking us up. Dylan had texted him when our plane landed, and once we were outside, Gage pulled to the curb.
He hopped out and came around just as we were tossing our bags into the truck bed.
“Hey, Dad,” Dylan greeted as they hugged.
“Did you two have a good flight?”
“Nothing to complain about,” I responded, then stepped up to hug him too.
“Good. Let’s get you home, then we can head to the field early. Chase wants to see you two before batting practice.”
My father being a major league coach definitely had its perks.
We got to hang out in the clubhouse, meet all the guys, and get a glimpse of what our future could look like.
The draft was two days away, and our UCLA coach seemed sure we’d hear our names and get the call.
It didn’t hurt that my father had played in the All-Star Game three times, won two World Series, earned four Gold Gloves, and took home a Silver Slugger.
Scouts paid attention because of my last name, but ultimately the pick would come down to how I played, not my father’s accomplishments.
We got into the truck, with Dylan claiming shotgun, and then Gage pulled away from the curb.
“Did you two hit up the beach before you left?” he asked.
Dylan nodded. “Yesterday afternoon. The water was perfect.”
Gage merged left. “Is your mom still doing grill nights?”
I smiled. “Every Sunday. She sends leftovers home with us because she thinks we’ll starve.”
Gage laughed. “I don’t doubt that. How’s the apartment?”
Dylan shrugged. “Fine. The neighbor’s dog still barks whenever anyone walks by its door.”
“Figures.” Gage snorted. “You two sleeping enough or running on coffee?”
“We’re good,” Dylan replied. “Gym, food, sleep. Same as always.”
Chicks.
As we neared the house, rain spattered the windshield, the trees closed in, and the driveway came into view. We climbed out, grabbed our bags, and went inside.
“Twenty minutes, and then we need to head out,” Gage instructed.
I took the room I’d stayed in a few times and changed into a teal Seawolves home jersey and dark jeans. Dylan leaned into the doorway in a matching jersey and hat.
“We should take a pic for The Loop,” I said, sliding my Seawolves cap on backward.
“Hoping a certain blue-eyed blonde will see?”
I rolled my eyes. “She blew us off. Plus, we don’t need her to get laid.”
“I sure as hell don’t,” Dylan replied. “I’m hoping to find someone at the stadium.”
“Of course you are.” I laughed.
Gage parked his truck in the coach’s lot, and then we headed into the clubhouse, making our way to my father’s office. He was at his desk, engrossed in something, but when I knocked, he looked up and beamed.
“Hey, Dad,” I greeted.
He came around the desk and pulled me in. He hugged Dylan next then stepped back and looked us over. “You two look like you’ve been partying more than practicing.”
“It’s summer break,” I deadpanned.
“You’re still playing summer ball,” he stated.
He was right, but it was more relaxed for us than during the season. Or at least that was how Dylan and I treated it.
“Yeah, but it’s not as intense as the regular season,” I argued.
“No, but it’s for showcasing your skills to scouts and for your development.”
Before more could be said, Parker walked up behind us. “Look who’s here.” He clapped us on the back. “Word on the street is that this year’s draft might have some familiar names called.”
Aron Parker was the Seawolves’ manager and an eight-time All-Star who had won a World Series while playing for the San Francisco Giants. I’d known him since I was seven, when he was traded to the Colorado Rockies and played with my dad.
“Hope so,” I replied.
“I’ve put in a good word for you two. Who knows? Maybe you’ll be Seawolves next season.” He winked.
“That would be amazing!” Dylan boomed.
I wouldn’t mind being coached again by my father, and having Aron Parker as a skipper would be epic.
“The draft is nerve-racking, but the dream is worth it,” Parker said.
Two nights later, we were at my dad and Gage’s place, watching the draft on the TV, rain sliding down the kitchen window, and Gage lining the island with trays of sliders, wings, and vegetables.
Dad set plates beside the spread and opened a backup stream on his tablet so nothing stalled if the app on the TV glitched.
Dylan was pacing while I sat on the couch, my leg bouncing with nerves.
Gage handed me a bottle of water and a napkin. “Keep your hands clean. If a call comes in, you don’t want to wait to wipe your fingers off.”
“Then why did you make wings?” I teased.
He glared playfully. “Your dad and I can still eat them.”
“Dylan, sit down. You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” Dad said to him.
“I can’t sit. I’m too nervous,” Dylan answered, then continued to pace.
My phone buzzed with a Loop from my sister, Cammie. In the video-style app, she was pointing at the TV with the caption: Pick Jase and Dylan already, followed by a siren sticker. I sent back hearts and left the phone face up so the screen could flash who was calling.
The commissioner started his script, and the broadcast cut from the desk to a prospect’s home watch party.
They’d stacked lights in the guy’s living room and wired a mic under his collar.
None of that was in our house. No camera vans on our street, no producer at the door, no clipboard with our names on it.
We hadn’t asked for coverage, and no one had offered.
I told myself I preferred it that way, but I was becoming less sure.
“Breathe,” Gage reminded us in a low voice.
Round one rolled by with a couple of surprises and no UCLA Bruins selected. Early in round two, a catcher who’d been hyped since February went off the board, and the Mariners grabbed a right-handed high school pitcher.
My dad folded his arms and watched the crawl without blinking, checking who still needed a shortstop, who needed an outfielder, and where our names might land.
I looked from the screen to the plate in my lap and back again, then slid the untouched slider onto the coffee table. I was too nervous to eat.
Gage leaned an arm on the back of the couch, resting a hand on my shoulder, then on Dylan’s. “You’re not numbers on a ticker.”
“I know,” I answered, keeping my eyes fixed on the names rolling past.
“Do we?” Dylan asked. “Or are we just pretending because we have to stay hopeful?”
“I know it’s hard, but you’ll make a team,” Dad stated.
An hour later, neither Dylan nor I had been selected.
My phone screen lit up, and for half a second, my heart felt as though it had stopped. I held my breath, glanced at the screen, and saw that it was my mom video-calling me.
“It’s Mom,” I said, grabbing the phone and swiping my finger across the screen to answer. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, honey. We’re watching and just wanted to check in on how you’re doing.”
I lifted a shoulder. “You know, I’m about to drink my worries away.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think that would be smart. Do you think a team will love it when they call and their prospect is slurring their words?”
“No.” I lowered my head.
I tilted the phone slightly to show Dylan the screen. “Hey, Jamie.”
“Hey, sweetie. Cammie and I are rooting for you both.”
“Thanks,” he replied.
Gage leaned over the back of the couch to come into view of the camera. “We’ve got them, James. You just keep Cammie from starting a riot on social media.”
Mom laughed. “I’ll try. Love you, boys.”
“Love you,” Dylan and I said, and I hung up, then flipped the phone face up on the coffee table again.
Round two bled into three. I tracked every pick, watching teams select players I’d never thought would be drafted. Why hadn’t either of us been selected?
“Eat,” Dad ordered, not looking away from the TV. “Low blood sugar makes everything worse.”
I took a bite of a slider, but I couldn’t taste it.
The next shortstop went at the top of the third round to a team I’d thought might pick me. Two outfielders later, Dylan swore under his breath and scrubbed both hands over his face.
“This is stupid. We worked our asses off, and we’re just … waiting to be named.”
“You’re not just names,” Gage said. “You’re ballplayers. That hasn’t changed.”
We kept watching until finally I said, “If we don’t go tonight—”
“If.” Dad cut me a don’t-borrow-trouble look, but his thumb kept rubbing over his wedding band and didn’t stop.
“A lot of guys don’t,” Gage stated. “A lot of great players. Then they go back and make teams regret it.”
“Or sign as undrafted free agents and still make it,” Dad added. “There are several ways in. This is just one.”
Dylan tapped his heel against the coffee table leg. “Feels like this is the only one.”
Dad leaned forward. “It’s not. There’s always the next draft. If you don’t make it this year, we’ll get you in front of the right people. I promise.”
I wasn’t sure how he could promise that, except that he was obviously well-known in the MLB world. Maybe he’d pull some strings and get us onto a team in Japan or Korea. But was that what I really wanted?
However, as the first day of the draft ended, we had gotten no phone call.
Dylan didn’t move. My own breath pressed hard against my ribs, as if I’d run and never stopped.
“That’s it?” he asked, even though the answer sat in a neat graphic:
DAY ONE COMPLETE.
“That’s Day One,” Dad said. “Not your finish line.”
My laugh came out thin. “Sure feels like it.”
Gage came around the couch and crouched so we were eye-to-eye. “Look at me.”
I did. Dylan did too.
“You are the same players you were three hours ago. Any team would be lucky to have either of you. So you weren’t first-round picks—”
“Or second or third,” I mumbled.
“But you may be fourth or fifth.”
“Or not at all.” Dylan exhaled.
“We won’t know that until tomorrow,” Gage argued, reminding us that we still had another day.
But by the end of the draft, we still weren’t selected.