Chapter Seven
“Lefties are really struggling to even get a look at Palmer’s slider.
” Ed Loyola, the Caps’ pitching coach, examined an open folder on the desk in his little square of an office, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.
He ran a hand over his salt-and-pepper hair, which he kept almost in a buzz. “Let’s keep that up.”
“Absolutely.” Jake scrawled a line in his small leather notebook. He wore his practice shorts and tee and would hit the gym for a bit before team stretch.
“And finally, we have Agresta.” Ed cocked a smile, the creases on his wide face deepening. “You’re doing a bang-up job with him, Fitz.”
Ed was a trailblazer—one of the first African Americans to manage a professional baseball team—and had tried to retire but said he couldn’t stay away. He’d won the annual pitching award as a player, and knew more about the game than Jake ever hoped to. The praise felt damn good.
Returning the smile, Jake said, “He’s had some good outings. Kept his emotions in check. Well, mostly. More, at least.” There had been a near-meltdown, and Nico was still rattled when things didn’t go his way.
Ed smirked. “It’s only been a month. You’re one of the very best catchers in the game, but you’re not Jesus. No one expects a miracle, son.”
“Still, he worked through that jam in the third on Sunday and pitched another solid three innings.”
Eyeing his ream of notes, Ed nodded. “He did indeed. Like I said, you’re doing a fantastic job. Sometimes I think we should have kept him longer down in triple-A to get the maturity, but with that arm and ball control…”
“I hear you. And I’m working on it. We’re working on it. And obviously you guys are as well.”
“We are, but he really responds to you. Coming from me and the other coaching staff, I think sometimes it’s just a lot of words from old farts.
You’re out there on the field with him in the moment.
That connection can’t be beat.” He flipped a page in his folder.
“Agresta was asking again about trying his splitter on a regular basis. Said you’re in favor of it?
I assume so since you had him use it against Baltimore to get out Markson a few weeks ago. ”
Jake sat back in the guest chair, propping his left ankle on his knee, ignoring the usual aches and pains, his lower back flaring.
“I’m definitely open to it, especially in tense situations like that one.
He has so much confidence in the pitch, and confidence makes or breaks him. But I understand your concerns.”
Ed sat back as well, removing his glasses. “When you look at how many guys are having to get Tommy John surgery, I just want to do everything we can to avoid it. We thought it was the magic solution and ignored the root causes.”
Jake nodded. A quarter of the pitchers in the league had had the ligaments in their elbow replaced, and the debate raged over whether the surgery had lulled baseball into a false sense of complacency.
“I definitely don’t want to see Nico blow out his arm,” Jake said.
“But if he threw the splitter sparingly, it could be a great tool. McCrory in Seattle throws it about twenty-five times a game. But some of the guys in Japan rip it constantly and haven’t had problems. So who knows.
And there’s the school of thought that it’s all about the quality of the delivery, not the pitch itself.
And I do think Nico’s delivery on it is excellent.
” He smiled. “He was determined as a kid to nail it. And he didn’t neglect his other pitches. ”
“Hmm. That’s true, and there’s a new report that says there’s no evidence watching the pitch counts and babying a pitcher prevents injury. But I tend to think it can’t hurt. At any rate, stick with the game plan for Agresta’s start tonight. Let me think about the splitter.”
“Sure thing.”
“Again, great work.” Ed closed the folder. “The starters and the bullpen all speak highly of you. I think it’ll really benefit Baldoni as well having you to model. And the guys who catch Agresta down the line will undoubtedly be grateful.”
Jake smiled and said goodbye, then headed toward the gym, nodding at teammates and staff as he went. While he warmed up with an easy jog on the treadmill, the idea of Nico and other catchers strangely nagged at him.
It was ridiculous—Jake would be retired in a couple of years, and Nico hopefully had a long career ahead of him. Of course he’d work with other catchers.
Yet…it bugged him. He increased the incline and speed of the treadmill, breathing deeply as he tried to banish the sensation.
It felt a little like jealousy, which was insane.
He’d worked with dozens of pitchers over his career and had been friendly with many of them.
Sure, maybe he had a soft spot for Nico because he’d known him as a kid.
It was cool seeing that shy, serious little kid grown up into a man.
Jake jabbed at the treadmill controls, thinking about Nico’s rare smiles and the way a lock of his curly hair usually tumbled over his forehead when he wasn’t wearing his cap.
How his brown eyes were still so serious most of the time beneath those thick lashes, and how when Jake got close on the mound to talk to him, he could just make out light freckles across Nico’s cheekbones.
Not that any of that mattered or had a thing to do with baseball. Maybe Nico was his pet project here in Ottawa, but he was just one part of the job.
“Whoa, what did that treadmill ever do to you?”
Jake jerked his head to the left to find Aaron Crowe on the treadmill beside him.
He hadn’t even noticed Crowe come in and realized he was pounding the treadmill, breathing hard and stabbing the console to go faster, faster, faster.
Pressing the down button now until it was a light running speed, Jake forced a smile.
“Lost in my own world, I guess.”
Crowe jogged. “No problem, man.”
After a minute of silence as they ran, Jake glanced around the gym. Alvarez was on a bike listening to headphones, and a couple guys pumped iron and spotted for each other in the corner.
He asked Crowe, “Hey, what’s your take on Agresta?” His pulse spiked, and he was stupidly nervous waiting for the reply. He wanted the rest of the team to like Nico.
“Wound pretty tight, but he’s not a bad kid.”
“He talk much when you guys go out to the bars and stuff?”
Chuckling, Crowe shook his head. “Nope. Usually just sits there and gets drunk until he leaves with a chick. Rinse and repeat.”
The sharp twist of jealousy returned. Jake barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes at himself. Clearly he needed to get out more, because not only was Nico a teammate and too young for him, he was clearly straight. Not that it mattered. Jake said, “That’s good he’s got a stress release.”
“I think Agresta could bang every single woman in Ottawa and still be ready to snap. He’s going to burn himself out if he doesn’t unclench.” Crowe hopped his feet onto the side of the treadmill and turned it off. “I’m going to do a leg set before team stretch.”
Later, after the stretch and batting practice and the usual rhythm of a home game, Jake got into uniform. It was quarter after six, and he bypassed a couple of guys playing a game on their tablets and talking smack to each other, a few others shooting the shit and listening to the new Jay-Z album.
The music faded away as the bathroom door swung shut behind Jake. He pissed at the urinal and thought he was alone until he heard a small cough. He realized the last stall was occupied, not thinking anything of it until the telltale splash.
Sure, maybe someone was just dropping a load, but after his father had been diagnosed, the aggressive chemo had made him nauseous all the time. Jake had stood by uselessly too many times to count while his father vomited.
Nico hadn’t been in the locker room, and Jake’s own stomach clenched. Was Nico sick? Had he eaten something off? He hadn’t said a word, but some guys tried to tough out illness, usually to disastrous effect. Shit, if he wasn’t feeling well, they had to tell Skip and get the bullpen up now.
Jake asked, “Nico? Is that you in there?”
Dead silence. Then a cleared throat. “Uh-huh. Be out in a second.”
Jake waited by the sinks, and when the stall door opened, Nico gave him a flicker of a close-mouthed smile and said, “Hey. Almost ready?”
“Are you sick?” Nico’s face was slightly flushed, but he looked fine otherwise. Jake stepped closer. “Did you throw up?”
“What?” Nico scoffed and brushed by him. He waved his hand for the motion-sensor tap to pump soap into his palm. “I’m fine.”
“I’d be more convinced if you’d look me in the eye. Seriously, are you sick?”
Nico met Jake’s gaze in the mirror as he scrubbed his hands. “It’s not a big deal.”
“So you did puke. Look, if you’ve got a bug or this is food poisoning, you’re not going to have the stamina you need. You may feel okay right now, but come the third inning, you’ll be on empty.”
Drying his hands with one of the fluffy towels stacked on a shelf, Nico shook his head. “I’m always fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“Wait, what?” Jake stepped in, lowering his voice. “What does ‘always’ mean? How often do you get sick like this?”
Nico shrugged. “Just before starts. It’s better to get it out now so I don’t hurl out there.”
Jake’s heart beat a little too fast. “Do you stick your finger down your throat?”
“No.” He rolled his eyes. “Stop looking at me like I’m bulimic or whatever. I get nervous, okay?”
“You throw up before every start?”
Nico shrugged again. “Some actors blow chunks before they go on stage. That’s our stage out there.” He tossed the hand towel into the laundry basket. “I’m good to go now.”
Jake tried to process it. “You don’t feel depleted? When I puke I just want to crawl into bed.”
“Nah. I drink Gatorade. I’m good.” He shifted from foot to foot. “We should get back out there.”
“You never throw up other days?” Worry gnawed. “You don’t force it?”
“I swear I don’t.”