Chapter 23
Jase
One Month Later
My name was on the spring training lineup card with the big guys, and I kept pretending I wasn’t checking it every time I walked past it in the dugout before the game started.
Camp was full of guys like me on non-roster invites, trying to crash the party from the minor-league side.
I’d already picked up a few innings here and there, put in as a late substitute after the big-league guys got their work in.
This was different, though. This was my first start, and it mattered a hell of a lot more to me than it ever would to the standings.
I glanced at the other card posted beside ours for the visiting team.
2. Statler, CF
The Crushers and Red Sox were in the same division, which meant Dylan and I would see each other a lot during spring training and the regular season—probably a hundred times if we stayed in the same minor league division.
But seeing his name on the Crushers’ roster threw off my focus, because I wasn’t used to Dylan being on the other side.
Back at UCLA, I’d always known where he’d be: center field behind me, covering my ass on anything that got through, and in the dugout next to me, talking shit, laughing, making everything feel easy.
Since we were kids, we were always together, from the start of our day, when we’d have breakfast before heading to the field, to the end of our day when we’d settle in at the address we shared.
The more I stared at the lineups, the more I remembered that in a few short weeks, I wouldn’t see him every day.
We’d already compared our schedules, trying to guess where we would start depending on which minor league club we landed with, and circling any windows when Dylan and I could be in the same city, as well as opportunities to make it work with Faye too.
It was going to suck, but playing professional baseball was what Dylan and I had strived for our entire lives.
We never imagined we’d be dating, and being apart was going to suck on a whole different level.
Cruz, the Sox’s veteran second baseman, came up behind me, his cleats clicking on the dugout’s concrete. He glanced at the board, then at me. “You know it’s not going to change,” he said. “Hill isn’t out here changing his mind.”
“I’m just making sure I didn’t dream it,” I answered.
“If you had, you would’ve hit higher than eighth,” he teased, slapping me on the back.
I would also have dreamed of Dylan and I playing together.
We lined up for the anthem, caps off, eyes forward. Dylan stood across from me on the other foul line. When I looked over, he caught my eye and winked. I nodded and faced forward again.
As soon as the music ended, Cruz jogged toward second.
I peeled off to short, Palmer went to first, and Smith to third.
Cline finished warming up on the mound while we tossed the ball around the infield.
A few times, my gaze drifted to the visitors’ dugout, where I caught a glimpse of Dylan putting on his helmet and batting gloves or talking to a teammate before he needed to be in the on-deck circle.
We’d grabbed dinner the night before, then sat in my car and video-called Faye.
“Hi,” she answered, smiling at the screen.
“Hey, Princess.” I grinned back.
“Whatcha up to?” Dylan asked her.
“Murder shows and comfy clothes.”
I snorted. “Trying to learn how to off us?”
“Mayyyybe,” she teased.
“Damn. Should we be worried?” Dylan questioned with a slight chuckle.
“No. You two have nothing to worry about.” She tilted her head. “I wouldn’t do that to my guys.”
“That’s a relief.” I winked at the screen.
Faye’s smile shifted. “Are you two ready for tomorrow?”
Dylan nodded. “We’re ready.”
Were we? It was going to be strange to play against each other.
“Yeah, we’re ready,” I echoed. Pointing at Dylan, I added, “He’s going to try to show off, though.”
He scoffed. “I’m going to try to win.”
“And probably try to take the extra ninety feet every chance you get.”
Dylan shot me a look. “If you give it to me, I’m taking it.”
“Perfect,” I replied. “I’ve been waiting to turn two on you.”
Faye blinked. “I hate that I understood none of that.”
Dylan’s mouth twitched. “It means he’s already planning to ruin my day.”
“Only if you want to test my arm.”
Dylan held my gaze. “We’ll see.”
I took a grounder from Palmer, then watched as Dylan stepped onto the field and into the on-deck circle. Our gazes locked for a few seconds, and I moved over to second base. The Sox catcher, Westcott fired the ball to me for the mock tag.
The Crushers’ leadoff hitter dug in, and Cline came set.
Cruz looked over. “In.”
I shaded a step toward the hole between short and third, locking on the hitter’s hands.
First pitch caught the edge for strike one.
Second pitch missed low. Westcott framed it, and the ump kept his arms down.
Cline came back with another fastball, and the leadoff guy chopped it hard to the left, right at me.
My feet moved on instinct. I got behind the hop, fielded it cleanly, and fired to first.
Palmer caught it at his chest, with his foot on the bag for the out.
Dylan stepped into the box next.
I tried to tell myself he was just another player on the other team, but I knew better. I also knew where he liked his pitches, high and inside, so he could get a good piece of the ball.
Cline got the sign. He threw a fastball inside, and even though Dylan liked it inside, he took it for a strike.
The second pitch came in again, and Dylan stayed back and hit it toward the hole between me and third base. I dove too late, and the ball shot past me and rolled into the grass for a single. I knew right away he wasn’t going to let me live it down that he had gotten one past me.
Glancing over to him at first, I saw him chatting with Palmer, but I couldn’t hear what was being said. The grin on his face told me I was right; their conversation was absolutely about him hitting it past his stepbrother.
The next batter, a lefty, stepped into the box. Cline glanced over at Dylan, and he took a lead that was a little bigger than it needed to be.
Cruz pointed his glove toward second. “He’s thinking about it.”
“I know,” I answered, ready to cover the bag if he broke.
Cline threw home, and Dylan took off.
Westcott popped up and fired to second.
I sprinted to the bag and slid in behind it as the throw came in. The ball hit my glove on a short hop, and I swept the tag down quickly.
Dylan came in hard, popped up even faster, and his eyes cut to mine.
The ump punched his fist. “Out.”
Dylan stared at him for a second, then shook his head and backed away from the bag.
“Stay on first next time,” I jabbed, grinning like a fool.
Dylan headed toward their dugout. “Make me.”
Cruz barked a laugh beside the bag. “You two done?”
“Yeah,” I answered. I was used to our ribbing even though it wasn’t usually about baseball.
The lefty dug back in, annoyed now. Cline got the sign and went right at him. The hitter rolled one to Cruz, who gloved it and threw to Palmer for the last out.
We jogged in, and I took a spot leaning on the railing while our lineup went to work, waiting until it was my turn to bat.
It didn’t take long for me to realize I wasn’t hitting in the first inning.
Not from the eighth spot, and not with my teammates batting the way they were.
Three quick outs, and I never left the bench.
We finally got something going in the bottom of the second—a walk, a single, a pop-out, then another guy got on base.
When it was my turn, I stepped into the on-deck circle and took a couple of swings, eyes on the pitcher, trying to time the pitches. Then I looked up toward the seats behind home plate.
And there she was.
A few rows up, Faye sat alone wearing sunglasses and a ball cap pulled low.
Agent Pederson, in plainclothes, was a couple of seats away, watching the crowd more than the field.
She lifted her hand and gave me a small wave, casual enough to be for anybody.
I froze for half a beat, then waved quickly and forced my eyes away before I got caught staring.
The hitter in front of me struck out and headed back to the dugout. I walked to the box, dug in, and locked in on the pitcher.
The at-bat went quickly. I battled, got a pitch I could handle and hit it hard, but the left fielder caught it.
As I reached the top step of the dugout, Cruz leaned in with a grin. “Your girlfriend’s here?”
I shot him a look. “What girlfriend?”
Not once had anyone mentioned they’d seen the article about me and Faye in St. John, so I’d assumed the guys didn’t know about her.
He tipped his chin toward the stands. “The one waving at you.”
“That’s not my girlfriend,” I lied.
His brows lifted. “All right. Your very supportive friend in a hat, then.”
Smith snorted from down the bench. “She didn’t take her eyes off you. You’ve got an admirer.”
I shoved my batting glove into my cubby. “You two are full of shit.”
Cruz chuckled. “You also forgot where you were for a second.”
“I didn’t forget anything,” I fired back, grabbed a cup of water, and stared out at the field. “Watch the game.”
Cruz leaned back, pleased with himself. “Sure, Matthewson. Be sure to get her number before the game ends.” He didn’t sound starstruck. He sounded entertained, which told me he had no clue who she was.
Nobody else on the bench reacted either. No double takes, no heads turning. To them, she was just a girl in the stands waving at a guy she liked. Cruz saw my face for half a second and did what he always did: he talked shit.
The game ended in a tie. There were no extra innings in spring training games. Just nine innings, high-fives with our teammates, and everyone heading in.
I’d gotten another at-bat in the fifth and finally barreled one—a line drive that carried to the gap and smacked off the fence in right-center. I hit second standing and tried not to look into our dugout for any reaction, but I couldn’t stop grinning when I heard our bench pop off anyway.