Chapter 2
TWO
SHANE
I’m buzzing. My skin is alive. It’s like my blood is set on vibrate.
I’m in big league camp.
As in Spring Training with the literal Jetties. Major League ballplayers. I’m going to be doing drills side by side with them. Is this real life?
I lift my wrist to my lips and kiss my collection of bracelets.
It’s meant for one in particular, though.
The blue beaded bracelet—the blue is so faded at this point it’s a muted gray.
I’ve worn those beads since I was seven years old.
That bracelet has been restrung countless times.
It was the first bracelet Mom and I made together.
I start with some side-shuffles. I want to loosen up. I already hit the batting cages. I just need some fresh air to get into the right mindset before our first ever practice at the big kid playground.
I don’t remember it too well, but Mom told me I’d chosen the blue beads because they reminded me of her eye color. We have the same absurdly blue eyes. Blond, wily hair too. We’re pretty much the same person. My mom is a badass fucking woman. I’d be honored to grow up to be half the person she is.
It was hard for us to find time to spend together growing up, what with Mom working two jobs trying to keep us afloat.
Which meant we didn’t have much money to go around for activities or material things.
But we had our bracelets and beads. It gave us a way to carry each other around when we couldn’t be with each other.
Our promise to each other we’d never leave, that we’d always be there for each other.
Unlike him.
I change to some lateral shuffling with hip openers.
I’ve asked that man to come to my games, my championships, and he didn’t once show up.
Do I still write to him and ask him to come?
Obviously. I’m persistent like that. Never give up.
It’s what they drill into you. Though I’m not sure that phrase was supposed to apply to getting the attention of fathers who abandoned you for their secret second family.
This will probably be my last year trying.
Most likely. Depends on how masochistic I’m feeling.
I’m a professional baseball player, hopefully playing Triple-A this year, and he still has no interest in me.
That’s a sign, right? Nothing will make me good enough for him.
Which is fine. It’s not like I care. At all.
Nope.
Shhh. Let me live in my delusional world.
“Michaels!”
I turn, stretching open my hip as I do, and my attention falls on the stocky build of the one and only Paulie Nebiolo. His light-brown skin glows in the soft morning light, glinting off his neatly cropped dark hair.
“Nebssss!”
He waves me over, and I head in his direction toward the doors of the complex.
“Hurry inside. A certain cowboy needs saving, I think.”
I frown and pick up my pace. Cowboy is Easton Winters and…
I guess he’s my best friend. Never had one of those before.
East and I got drafted together, and that year, he’d gone through some seriously fucked-up shit with his long-time best friend.
It was like they’d broken up—and turns out, that’s exactly what it was. They were full-on heart-eyes in love.
East and I got really close while he was going through that. So now his best friend has taken boyfriend position, and I’ve slid into the best friend slot. I think we’re soul-bros. You know, like soul mates, but the best friend version.
“What do you mean?” I ask when I reach Nebs’s side.
“Nothing serious. You know how Winters doesn’t do well peopling. Think the nerves are getting to him.” He bounces his thick, dark eyebrows. “First time with the big boys, ya know? Something you’re clearly not fazed by.”
I dust off each shoulder and shrug. “Not sure why I’d be fazed when I’m clearly where I belong.”
Nebs throws his head back and laughs. “You’re such a cocky shit. I hate that you have reason to be.” We share a grin and turn down a hall that leads to the locker room.
Nebs was at big league camp last year too.
He started for the Triple-A team—the Providence Clippers—last season.
Winters and I were on Double-A. The three of us have kind of been in this together since the beginning.
We’ve moved up through High A and Double-A together, with Nebs getting the jump on us last year.
Not that being a non-roster invitee means I’m getting a spot on Triple-A this year. Being invited is a big deal, but they also need extra bodies for the Grapefruit League games—that’s the Florida Spring Training league. I have to prove myself while I’m here.
We pass the caf, and I glance inside. Players are milling about; most are done eating at this point since we have our team meeting soon and then practice will start.
I have to say, one of the biggest differences between the big league and minor league camps?
The fucking spread. Which of the seven deadly sins is about food?
Gluttony? Like, just picture me in a bathtub surrounded by pastries and fruits and every breakfast food imaginable.
I purse my lips. Actually, maybe nix that image.
Now all I can see is me in a bathtub of scrambled eggs.
But seriously, the food is unreal. I had a mean stack of pancakes this morning.
We slip into the locker room, and there’s Winters’s broad back.
He’s sitting in front of his locker, staring blindly into it.
His knee bounces in a jerky rhythm. Easton and I are sharing an apartment, so we arrived together, but I wanted to check out the field quickly while he was trying to hit out some anxiety with extra BP. I don’t think it worked.
I grab a free wheely chair and launch myself toward Winters. He doesn’t look my way, but his hand shoots out to catch the arm of my chair before I crash into him. The guy has ridiculous reflexes. Or eyes on the back of his head.
“Howdy, Cowboy.” I ruffle his toffee curls.
Paulie pushes a chair over and sits in it like a mature adult. Boringggg.
Easton’s knee slows, and he sends me a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his light blue eyes.
East is what I call a gentle giant. He’s got a couple inches on me, but he’s hella built to the point his presence is giant.
But underneath all those muscles is a socially awkward, anxious sweetheart.
He’s an introvert to my extrovert. Yin to my yang.
He hates the initial meet and greet, and pretty much everyone is new this year since we’ve been bumped up. Not to mention, we’re surrounded by stars. I have baseball cards of some of these guys. But he’ll be fine. He’s got me and Pauls.
And actually…I know what will make Winters feel better and get a laugh out of him. “So, guess what I did earlier.”
Paulie and Easton immediately push away from me and lift their hands. “We were in no way involved,” they say at the same time.
I sigh dramatically and roll my eyes. “I didn’t do anything bad. Jeesh.” It’s like they think I get myself into trouble or something.
They both blink at me. I draw a halo over my head. Easton scoffs.
“The candle incident,” Pauls says pointedly.
“What was wrong with the candles! Scents are powerful, bro. They evoke emotion and can alter your body chemistry. We were dragging. Peppermint helps with focus and clears the mind. Citrus energizes.”
I point to Winters. “Have you been sleeping with the lavender satchel under your pillow that I gave you? Hmm? Lavender calms the nerves.” I turn back to Nebs and shoot him a glare. “It’s all about balance, about mojo, about setting the tone. You can’t win games with stale air and bad vibes.”
He crosses his arms. “Tell me, Michaels. How were the vibes when you had us light all those candles and the fucking sprinklers went off? We had to play in soaking wet uniforms!”
I wince. Okay, I’ll give him that. That hadn’t gone according to plan.
“And the locker room smelled like a Yankee Candle warehouse. It was scent overload,” Paulie continues. “And some scents were not meant to go together. Like jock sweat and citrus.”
I humph. I still don’t see the problem. My intentions were solid.
“That one doesn’t beat the golden thong incident, though,” Easton says, a goofy grin spreading across his face. “That was my favorite.”
I straighten and do a spin in my chair. “Right? Hey, it worked for Jason Giambi. That’s good enough for me.”
A high-pitched noise comes from Paulie. His shoulders shake as hyena-like sounds burst from him. “Oh God. Babs’s f-face.” Paulie squeaks. “W-when he walked into the locker room.” He wipes a tear from the corner of his eye and shakes his head. “All of us in the middle of putting on thongs.”
I bite my lip as my grin threatens to stretch off my face.
That was fucking fantastic. Our Double-A coach, Babs, walked into the locker room, half the team already thonged up—because, obviously, I sold the team on the idea that if we wore these golden thongs, we’d finally break our losing streak.
Giambi swore by it, and he’s not the only Yankee who’s said they’ve worn the infamous thong at one point.
Babs took one look around the room, turned on his heel, and called out over his shoulder, “You know what? I don’t even care. Just fucking win the game.”
We fucking won.
Golden thongs for the win, baby!
Nebs draws in a deep breath, scrubs a hand down his face, then releases it on a whoosh. “All right. We should head to the field for the team meeting. It’s starting in five.”
We grab our gloves and make our way out of the locker room.
“Wait,” Winters says. “What did you do? We totally went off the rails there.”
“I may have asked Jed Stone Junior for an autograph earlier.”
Nebs stumbles and bursts out laughing. “God, Michaels. Isn’t that like an unwritten rule? You don’t ask your own teammates for autographs? You’re worse than the Graphers.”
Ah, those dudes. There are people who hang around Spring Training—mostly the minor league camps—and collect players’ autographs.
Basically, they’re hoping to get an up-and-comer’s graph early and make the big bucks on it when the guy makes it in the majors.
They’re hoping they get a future Mike Piazza.
Piazza was a 62nd round pick and became a Hall of Famer.
Imagine getting his autograph? He was the biggest steal in MLB history.
I got a little starstruck, if I’m being honest. Jed Stone and Jed Stone Jr. were everywhere when I was growing up.
The kid was on the cover of Sports Illustrated in high school, standing beside his old man.
It’s intimidating. He’s my competition: the guy who was the number one overall pick straight out of high school—and turned it down.
Everyone knows he’s next in line to take over shortstop for the Jetties.
So, where does that leave me? It’s no secret that talent gets stuck in the farm systems, blocked by the starters who are going to be there for fuck knows how long.
Like, what if this guy is the next Derek Jeter?
He played for the Yankees for twenty seasons.
That’s why the Rule 5 draft exists, so other teams can pick up the talent being hoarded in the minor leagues.
Speaking of…I’ve hit eligibility this year, which means, come December, I could be claimed by another team. You would think that’s good. Get picked up by a team that actually wants me as their starting shortstop in the big leagues.
I glance over at Easton and Paulie. But…I like it here. I think I’ve finally found my people. I’ve never had that before. Best friends. People who seem to actually like me—all of me, without condition. I don’t want to lose that.
The only way I can ensure that doesn’t happen is by securing a spot on that 40-man roster before the season ends. If I’m put on the 40-man, I’m safe from the Rule 5 draft.
Which means, somehow, I need to prove to the Jetties organization that I’m better than Jed Stone Junior.
I spin the faded blue-beaded bracelet on my wrist. Wish me luck.