Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Nate
“Baseball is ninety percent mental, and the other half physical.”
Yogi Berra
Present
“Morning, Nate.”
I glanced up from my phone and nodded to our newest security guard outside the clubhouse. Peter had been here a month. Solid guy. He kept people out who didn’t belong, but he wasn’t Jackson.
Jackson used to meet me at the gate with stats, a joke, or a bad pun about curveballs. He made baseball fun, even when we played like shit. The clubhouse felt emptier without his laugh and positivity.
Everyone missed him. Everyone but his daughter, apparently.
Cassidy Calloway.
I’d heard the name enough over the years, mostly from the younger guys who followed her online.
They’d show me her videos—outfits, lip gloss, vacation reels—and talk about how “hot” she was like she wasn’t the same woman who never once showed up to see her dad work his ass off for this team.
The man bled Gila Monster red, and she couldn’t be bothered to come to a game.
I’d met plenty like her—beautiful, polished, performative. The kind who chased followers, not meaning. Jackson deserved better than a daughter who cared more about lighting angles than his legacy.
Once, I asked him if it bothered him that she never came around. He just smiled and said she was busy “building something for herself.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that what she was building looked like a whole lot of nothing.
I’d seen a few of her posts when the guys shoved their phones in my face. Sure, she was gorgeous, but in that glossy, practiced way that felt fake. All filters and followers. The kind of woman I’d sworn off years ago.
I’d done the whole playboy thing early in my career—parties, endorsement deals, women who looked good on paper but cared more about being photographed in my jersey than actually knowing me.
America’s hottest pitcher. That’s what one magazine called me.
The same week another ran a story about the “mystery blonde” leaving my apartment.
It was fun until it wasn’t.
When one ex sold our love story for clicks, I stopped dating anyone who posted more than twice a week.
The tabloids ate it up, twisted everything into drama, and I let it happen—because fighting back only fed the fire.
I learned the hard way that attention’s a drug.
Once you start chasing it, you forget how to live without it.
So yeah, I knew who Cassidy Calloway was. The kind of woman who built a life out of being seen. The kind of woman I’d promised myself I’d never get tangled up with again.
“Ay, Nate-O, come here, man.”
The second I walked into the clubhouse, Anthony Garcia, our main catcher who had a great shot at starting the All-Star game next month, patted the large couch in the center of the clubhouse.
“I’ve been watching this Kingston guy, and he can’t hit shit if you pitch him fast and up.
He has the same mechanics as last year, but we found his weakness. ”
I dropped my duffel on the ground near my locker and joined him.
Garcia had an eye for calling pitches better than anyone I’d thrown with.
I played better when he was on the field.
I even asked our coach, Gibson, to only have me start with Garcia, but with the rate of injuries we’d had this season, I knew there was a chance I’d have to throw with our backup.
Higley was alright but didn’t have the same WAR as Garcia.
“Hey, Nate, how’s your sister doing? I saw her post about going to urgent care.”
Elliot Henderson clapped my shoulder as he passed, his grin wide. The guy led the league in stolen bases and never let anyone forget it.
I stiffened. “She’s fine. Just dehydrated.”
Garcia smirked. “Man, you always know before we do. You got her on post notifications or what?”
Elliot raised both hands. “Hey, she posted it! It was on her story.”
“Doesn’t mean you need to watch it.” My tone came out sharper than I meant, but the room stilled.
The idea of random people, even teammates, knowing where my sister was or what she was doing made my stomach twist. That’s why I hated social media.
Too many eyes. Too many people pretending they knew you.
Elliot blinked. “Uh, noted.” He gave a sheepish nod and moved to his locker.
“Damn, you scared him,” Garcia said, grinning as he hit play on the scouting video. “You know, for a guy who hates social media, you sure end up in the headlines enough.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, grabbing my glove. “And that’s exactly why I hate it. People think your life’s theirs to scroll through.”
Garcia chuckled, but he didn’t push it. He didn’t need to. I was the oldest guy on the team by a few years. I didn’t have to raise my voice to get respect—they just gave it, the way you did for the guy who’d been through every grind, every slump, every late-inning collapse.
Still, the air in the clubhouse was tighter than usual.
Everyone felt the pressure. Ticket sales had been trending down for the past two seasons, and ownership had just hired some new PR director with a “vision to reach younger audiences.” Her posters were all over the training complex—bright colors, new slogans, hashtags.
It reeked of desperation. We didn’t need slogans. We needed wins.
That’s where I came in.
My arm wasn’t what it used to be, but I still had control.
Still had command. And after fourteen seasons, I could feel the window closing.
This year might be my last real shot, not just to pitch well, but to make it count.
To get that ring, the one thing that would prove the years, the sacrifices, were worth it.
And yeah, part of me wanted to stay here in Phoenix for more than baseball.
My kid sister, Amanda, was twenty-two, single, and seven months pregnant.
With the age gap between us, I’d always been more of a parent than a brother.
I didn’t want her going through that alone while I was on the road or—worse—traded across the country.
So yeah. Legacy, family, one last season to get it right.
Garcia pushed play again, and I forced myself back into game mode.
Focus. No distractions. No headlines.
Just baseball.
I was lacing my cleats when my phone buzzed against the bench. A text from Amanda lit the screen.
Amanda: You seeing this?? #Cassventures is everywhere.
Attached were screenshots—Cassidy Calloway in a Monsters jersey, leaning against the dugout railing, her caption bright and bubbly: Date 1/9: honoring Dad with a little ballpark magic.
The comments were insane—fans arguing about who her next date should be, others joking about camping outside the stadium until they got noticed.
I rubbed a hand over my jaw. Unreal. Jackson’s daughter had managed to do what our entire marketing department hadn’t. She helped fill seats.
“Hey, Nate-O, you good?” Garcia walked by, glove tucked under his arm.
“Fine,” I muttered, slipping the phone into my locker. “Just catching up on the circus.”
He snorted. “You mean Jackson’s kid? The internet’s losing its mind, man. She’s got the Monsters trending for the first time in, what, two years?”
“Yeah, and it’s for all the wrong reasons,” I clipped.
Garcia grinned. “You sound like my dad. Come on, old man, you should be thrilled someone’s getting people to the park.”
I didn’t respond. The whole thing rubbed me wrong. Turning grief into content. Turning baseball into a prop. It cheapened what the game meant to her dad, hell to all of us.
I grabbed a handful of sunflower seeds from my bag and popped a few into my mouth, letting the salt bite down some of the frustration.
The rhythm of cracking and spitting grounded me, something I’d done since I was a kid watching games with my old man.
He used to let me eat them in my room sometimes, as long as I never told my mom.
I used to smoke in my rookie years, before the fines and the PR talks. Seeds were cleaner. Safer. Less self-destructive.
“Let’s go,” Garcia said, tossing me a ball. “Warm-up time.”
I followed him out, already hearing the growing rumble from the crowd. The noise was louder than usual for a Tuesday night.
By the time I hit the bullpen steps, I didn’t need my phone to know why.
Cassidy Calloway had shown up.
It was the top of the fifth when I noticed the extra buzz in the stadium.
Pavin Porcello, our other starting pitcher, leaned back on the chair next to me.
He’d thrown a gem last night against Chicago and was still riding the high.
I’d known him for years, liked his fire.
Reminded me a little too much of myself at twenty-four—cocky, fearless, and convinced baseball and youth was forever.
I poured another handful of sunflower seeds into my mouth, focused on the mindless rhythm of crack, spit, repeat. The salt stung the corner of my lip where I’d bitten it earlier.
Pavin grinned, elbowing me. “Cassventures is here.”
“Wait, who?” I slid him a look. With Pavin, that could mean anything—a girl, a viral video, or a bar he planned to close down later.
“You know—Jackson’s daughter. Cassidy.”
I froze mid-chew.
He kept going, oblivious. “She’s here. Out in the stands, fifth row behind home plate. Has a camera crew with her or something. The fans are going nuts.”
I spit another seed into the cup and didn’t look up. “Of course she is.”
“Remember Jackson?”
A brief hit of sadness punched through me. “Yeah, of course. Miss that guy a lot, actually.”
“His daughter, Cassidy, got his season tickets. Can you believe he kept paying for them even after he started working security? I think he did it for her.”
Just hearing her name tugged at something.
I flashed back to the funeral—her shaky voice, red eyes, the way she clutched that baseball before tossing it in.
She’d been raw and real in a way that didn’t fit the image I’d built of her in my head.
For years, I’d pictured Jackson’s daughter as the type who didn’t show up for anyone but herself.
But that day … she looked like someone who’d lost her whole world.