Chapter Three #3
“Sounds good.” Jake had gotten to know the pitchers in San Fran well over the years, their quirks and habits and the best way to keep them focused and effective.
It was daunting to start from scratch again, but that’s why they were paying him millions.
In the past, he’d loved to take on a new challenge. When had that fire died out?
When you fucked up the best friendship you ever had.
Jesus, it had been five years. How had he let himself get so complacent?
So bored? He’d always liked control, but he’d cut out spontaneity and risk on the field—and in the bedroom.
The arrangement with Ron had been safe and uncomplicated.
Playing for a team that didn’t contend year after year had been safe too.
Pushing away thoughts of Brandon’s easy smile, Jake cleared his throat. “Thanks for your faith in me. I’m really excited to join the team and see what we can do together.”
Tyson grinned. “We’re going to make this a winning ball club, Fitz.”
“Damn straight,” Skip agreed.
There were voices outside, and the clubhouse door opened. Diego Garcia walked in with a few front office staffers, his handsome face breaking into a grin and his arms going wide. “Together again, Fitz!”
The guilt flared, prickly and sharp, as Jake met Diego in a back-slapping hug. Diego was just over six foot, his white smile straight and almost blinding, stubble on his tan skin, his thick hair neatly coiffed, swooping back gracefully from his forehead.
He smelled like pine with a hint of citrus.
Jake was struck by the memory of sitting together in a bar on the road in Minneapolis or maybe Detroit, their shoulders brushing in the booth by the pool table, heads together and voices low as Jake had confessed his secrets, too much tequila loosening his tongue.
“It’s good to see you, brother,” Diego said as he stepped back with another slap, his smile warm.
“You too.” By all rights, Diego should have cooled considerably to him after the way Jake had distanced himself over the years and blown off Diego’s attempts to keep in touch.
The last time San Fran had played in Houston, Diego had once again invited Jake over for dinner with his family, but Jake had canceled with a lame excuse. “How are Liz and the kids?”
“Good.” Diego shot a glance at Tyson and Skip. “Obviously a bit upset at the moment, but we’ll figure it all out. School year’s just ending, but they’re going to camp, so they’re staying in Texas for the time being.”
“Like I said, we’ll do everything we can to help the transition,” Tyson said. “Diego, here’s your locker just over here. The equipment manager’s going to talk bats and gloves and everything with you both.”
A rectangular screen on a thick post in the middle of the room displayed that night’s starting lineup, scrolling through different information, including weather and the start times of the anthems and first pitch.
Diego’s name was on the lineup, and he tried on his cap, wearing it as the tour continued into the players’ lounge through another set of doors.
The carpeted lounge was like a small cafeteria, dotted with tables for four, salt and pepper shakers on top of each.
A huge glass-fronted fridge with soda, water, sports drinks, juice, and several varieties of milk stood against the wall by the door next to shelves of nuts, candy, a vast array of gum, and sunflower seeds of every variety imaginable—including barbecue, bacon ranch, and dill pickle.
Tyson motioned to the industrial kitchen area beyond a wide pass-through, where several people chopped vegetables. “As you’d expect, there’s a big spread here after every game, and you’ll eat before the game after BP as well. If you have requests, just let us know.”
Diego eyed the arcade-style video games against the walls, which also featured two TVs and framed pictures of Capitals players in action.
Since the team was only in its second year, the same people cropped up in most of them.
Diego said, “Jake, we definitely have to take the Golden Tee machine for a whirl. I bet I can beat you by three strokes.”
Jake answered the way he was supposed to, with a grin. “You’re on.”
The double doors opened, the team streaming through, fresh from batting practice. Turning on his smile and being his best self, Jake shook hands and slapped backs, the room filling with chatter as he and Diego did the rounds.
Jake’s cheeks ached from smiling, and a headache throbbed behind his left eye and vibrated through the little scar on his temple from a nasty foul ball in the minors that had jammed the corner of his catcher’s mask into his face and gouged out a chunk of flesh.
He was just about to excuse himself when Skip caught his arm. “Fitz, come meet Agresta.”
Ah right, Marco Agresta’s gangly little brother. But when Jake turned, the man he saw frozen by the lounge doorway was most definitely not the kid he remembered. The mop of curls had been tamed, kept short on the back and sides, with a few locks tumbling over his forehead.
Nico had grown like a weed and had to be six-one or two now.
Long and lean like many pitchers, he filled out the red and white uniform with sculpted muscles and narrow hips.
He opened and closed his mouth, then licked his thick, red lips.
A small cleft accentuated his strong jaw, and the white of the caps uniform set off his clear, golden skin perfectly, dark hair dusting his arms.
No, aside from the familiar intensity of his dark stare, Nico was not the child Jake remembered.
So he turned out hot. It’s irrelevant. You have a job to do.
Jake realized he was staring, and jumped into action with another smile. “Hey, Nico. It’s been a few years. You’re all grown up now, huh?”
Nico swallowed hard. “Um…yeah.” He extended his hand.
Chuckling awkwardly, Jake shook it and pulled him into a half hug and requisite back slap, inhaling the musky smell of cowhide, dirt, and sweat. “Good to see you.”
Nico stepped back, breaking contact. “You too.” Jittery, he wriggled his fingers and dropped his gaze.
Skip laughed. “You’re not facing a firing squad, kid! Don’t worry, Fitz’ll take real good care of you.”
Jake laughed on cue, wondering at the turmoil in Nico’s dark eyes. Nico was a man now, but a surge of protectiveness had Jake reaching for his shoulder to give it a squeeze. “I’ll go easy on you, I promise. How about we practice early? We’ll work out our signs.”
“Great.” For a fleeting moment, a smile dimpled Nico’s cheeks. He glanced at Skip and waved his hand. “I should…you know.” With that, he bolted for the drink fridge.
Skip leaned in and murmured, “He’s a weird kid. Doesn’t say a whole hell of a lot until he gets mad, and then you can’t shut him up. You’ll get a handle on him. We’re counting on you, Fitz.”
“Absolutely.”
“All right, make yourself at home. We’ll talk more later.” Skip headed to the kitchen, calling out something about a peanut butter sandwich.
Tyson and Diego were in conversation across the lounge, and Jake’s gaze zeroed in on Nico Agresta sitting by himself at a table in the corner, peeling the label off a blue Gatorade, his broad shoulders hunched.
Nico was having an outstanding rookie season by the sound of it. He should have been on top of the world. Maybe he was partying too much. Jake had seen it before—guys getting swept up in the excitement of the big league, spending too much time at the bars with girls, too many late nights.
The headache was now accompanied by an uncomfortable flush over Jake’s body, and he escaped into the hall to pop a couple aspirin, leaving his new teammates behind.