Stealing Forever (Bridgeport Jetties: The Call-Up Years #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

JED

This is my year.

I nod at the greetings flung my way by my teammates as I head to the field, but I don’t stop to talk. There’s no room for distraction.

This is my year.

To prove I still have it. That throwing out my arm didn’t affect my ability to play.

My skin prickles, and my stomach tightens.

My return late last season said otherwise.

After missing half the season to rehab, I was finally able to start playing some Triple-A games in July.

But when I got out on that field, it was like I was moving in slow-motion, like I was throwing underwater.

And then…I pulled my fucking groin. Out for the remainder of the season.

I step into the dugout. Muted chatter, balls thwacking against glove leather, and the thump of cleats against earth swirl around me.

The sound of comfort. Of routine. Everyone is milling around, warming up and getting loose before we have our team meeting to kick off the first day of Spring Training.

I plant my ass on the bench in the dugout that looks out to the field of the Jetties’ big league training facility. It’s what I do before every practice, every game. Those thirty minutes or so before a game is when every guy falls into his ritual.

Some people only chew a specific flavor of gum or eat one flavor of sunflower seeds.

I knew one guy who would talk to each person on the team, but only in a specific order.

If you broke that order, it would totally kill his game.

Me? I sit on the bench, tune out all the noise, drop my head in my hands, and talk to Dad.

Life has shoved a universal truth down my throat, made me choke on it until my lungs finally gave out. You don’t know what you have until it’s gone is permanently etched into the front of my skull.

In. Big. Bold. Letters.

Me and Dad? We were set to be the next Ken Griffy and Ken Griffy Jr. Jed Stone and JJ—that’s me, Jed Junior—father and son playing major league baseball. Everything was in motion, hovering just before me, our dream only a few years away.

I was drafted my senior year of high school, but Dad convinced me to have the college experience. He was drafted straight out of high school too, and he knew I had what it took to make it out the gate, but he didn’t want that for me.

Be a normal kid, JJ. Just for a little while.

You have your entire life to be a major leaguer, to live in the spotlight.

Go to college, be a kid, drink too much, do foolish things, have a little privacy.

Then join me on that field. I’m not going anywhere.

These old bones have a few years left in them.

Old bones. I snort even as I try to swallow down the lump in my throat. It’s no use; it’s like fucking pine tar.

He was thirty-five.

I’m not going anywhere.

It was always assumed he’d retire somewhere in his early forties, barring any injuries.

Life had other plans.

He was thirty-five.

And a drunk driver speeding the wrong way down the highway stole him from me.

My eyes sink shut as the all-too-familiar pain lances through my ribcage. I was in my first month of college when I got the call. Life irrevocably altered. My dad—my best friend—gone.

I lost my father. I lost my dream. I lost my world.

All in a split-second.

The burn builds behind my eyes, and I squeeze my skull. The first day back in Spring Training is always the hardest. The wound that won’t ever heal, the freshest. My gaze falls to the metal bench I’m sitting on. To the space next to me. Empty. Vacant. He was supposed to be here with me.

It was a dark four years after that phone call. Drink too much, do foolish things. And boy did I. I jeopardized my baseball career, tempted fate over and over. How far could I push the limits before it’d take me too?

I begged it to.

Let me be with Dad again.

But apparently the Grim Reaper isn’t interested in me. He only wanted Dad.

What saved me was trying to find a connection with Dad again through the game.

I resented it for the longest time, which doesn’t even make sense.

It’s not like baseball had anything to do with losing him.

Maybe it was because it served as a constant reminder of what fate had stolen from me.

My therapist worked with me to reframe that way of thinking:

I won’t ever play with Dad. But I can play for him.

It took years of therapy, but I’m finally moving forward. I’m not sinking any longer. I’m treading water, still a long way from steady ground, but healing, I guess. I settle my hand on the cool metal, and a shiver slides up my arm.

I don’t know if he’s out there watching me.

I don’t know what to believe when it comes to that shit—heaven, God, faith.

But it helps to believe in something, that he’s out there somewhere, inside me.

I’ll always carry him with me. So, I sit here and talk to him every day.

Talk strategy, vent out frustrations, whisper my deepest fears.

Will my arm ever be the same?

Do I still have what it takes?

I moved up to Triple-A in my first full season. Then it was just a matter of waiting for my moment, for the shortstop position to open for me. The dreaded “when will he retire” had started popping up in sports articles two years ago for our current Jetties’ short. I was ready.

Until I wasn’t.

I toe the dirt beneath my cleat, but it’s not the dugout dirt that’s clouding my vision.

I’ll never forget that game. The ball took a weird bounce, and to get it, I ended up with my back to first. But I was getting that out.

I spun on my jump throw and whipped my arm across my body.

There was a small pop, but there wasn’t any pain.

I got the out. My arm was tight, but strains happen. I was fine, right?

Except during the next inning out on the field, my first throw just…didn’t go where I threw it.

Partial tear to my UCL. I was on the operating table a week later for Tommy John surgery. Can you hear it? The adage?

You don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

I’d been the one trying to throw baseball away with my reckless behavior years earlier. Baseball and I had finally called a truce. And life decided it was going to take it from me.

I was fucking livid.

Does that make me a hypocrite? I can ruin my own life but fuck fate for being the one to do it? My therapist says it makes me human. The best we can do is learn and grow from our mistakes.

I’m not making that mistake again.

I’m not taking baseball for granted.

I’m going out there and proving to the Jetties’ organization that giving up a 40-man spot to protect an injured player from the Rule 5 Draft was worth it.

This is my fucking year.

Nothing is standing in my way.

“Noooo. You’re Jed Stone Junior?”

I glance up and am immediately blinded by a smile too bright to be real.

It’s like looking at fresh snow on a sunny day.

I blink rapidly, trying to pull the man in front of me into focus.

He’s got blond curls peeking out from beneath his baseball cap.

I don’t think I’ve seen him before, not that that’s out of character for me. I stick to myself mostly.

He’s gotta be a more recent draftee—maybe first time at big league camp.

Most minor leaguers go to the facility next door for Spring Training.

The big guys—our Jetties—and the rest of us on the 40-man, plus some non-roster invitees, will train at big league camp.

Around sixty to start, gradually whittled down to the final twenty-six-man major league roster.

“I mean, obviously, you are. I knew you played for the team.” He lets out a chuckle and sticks out his hand.

I reach out automatically to shake it.

“I’m Shane Michaels. Shit…is it weird to ask for your autograph?”

My mouth moves, but no sound comes out. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve been asked for an autograph—though it is the first time I’ve been asked by a teammate.

He takes off his cap, and the sun glints on the shell bracelet he’s wearing—one of many: shell, yarn, and woven bands are stacked along his wrist. He runs a hand through his curls, his smile turning lop-sided.

“Sorry. That’s totally weird. But damn. You’re a legend.

Your father, man? He was my favorite player growing up. ”

I smile tightly—or try to. Mine too, kid. Mine fucking too. “He was a hell of a ballplayer.”

He straightens his cap back on his head and snaps the gum he’s chewing.

“Damn straight. Sorry to hear about your arm. I’ve got big shoes to fill if I want any shot at short.

” His gaze sweeps over me and halts at my feet.

“Dude, literally.” His blue eyes ping back to mine.

“How big are your feet? You’ve gotta be at least a size fourteen? ”

What…is happening right now? “Fifteen,” I say slowly. Shot at shortstop position?

“Well…catch you on the field.”

I don’t respond, and his smile falters slightly, but I blink, and it’s back in full-blinding force. He salutes with the tip of his cap and heads for the field.

He looks like he just rode a wave straight into Spring Training camp. He’s a non-roster invitee, which means the coaches see something in him. The question is, how good is this kid? And considering how awful my few games went last season, is my spot at shortstop actually at risk?

Fuck.

This is my year.

Apparently, there might be something standing in my way after all.

Shane Michaels.