Chapter 2 #2
I cleared my throat. “Okay, yeah. What about her?” I hated that my curiosity was piqued. Gallagher was pitching a no-no, and I should’ve been locked in on that.
“She’s blowing up right now,” Pavin said. “Cassventures. Everyone’s talking about it—she’s doing this ‘Nine Dates, Nine Games’ thing. It’s hilarious. The fans love her.”
I frowned. “You follow her?”
“Man, everyone does,” he said with a grin.
“Half the bullpen’s hooked. It’s kind of a thing.
She’s funny—makes fun of herself, her dates, even us sometimes.
She did a bit last week pretending to understand the infield fly rule, and I nearly choked on my drink.
Jackson always told us about her, to help promote her.
Not that she needed help. She’s taken off with followers. ”
Garcia, a few seats down, nodded. “It’s like … I don’t know. It’s not influencer crap. It’s more real. You can tell she misses her dad.”
I scanned the seats, looking for—Ah. Found her.
She sat behind home plate, blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders, some kind of bandana top tied around her, leaving way too much skin on display. Jesus. The way she leaned into her date, laughing like she didn’t have a care in the world—it grated. Probably fake.
And yet, I kept looking.
He jutted his chin toward the center of the ballpark. Sure enough, there was blonde hair and a large sea of people staring at them. “See all the shirts with Cassventures on them? Looks like she brought extra fans to the park tonight, brother.”
A flicker of annoyance rooted in my chest and spread fast. Baseball wasn’t supposed to be a spectacle.
It was grit, precision, rhythm—an art built on patience.
Jackson had known that better than anyone.
He’d sat in those same seats for years, steady as a heartbeat before he worked for the team.
Seeing his daughter there now, laughing too loud, waving for the camera … it felt wrong. Disgusting.
He wouldn’t have wanted this. Not the selfies, not the hashtags, not her turning his favorite thing into some stunt for views.
The crowd roared around us, phones held high, and I caught sight of her again—smiling, leaning close to her date, camera trained right on them. The “Cassventures” circus in full swing.
My stomach turned. Whatever brief moment of sincerity I’d thought I saw at the funeral had been just that—a moment. Maybe she cried because it looked good. Maybe she was performing even then.
So yeah, the stands were fuller tonight, the energy louder. But it didn’t feel like baseball. It felt like noise and she was disrespecting the sport for clicks.
I rubbed the back of my neck as Pavin cat-called our guys as they came into the dugout.
Gallagher retired the side, three up and three down.
Good. I loved winning series against Chicago.
If we had a real shot at making a playoff run this year, and I believed we did, then we had to win as many series as possible.
Especially against the teams that were in the running for the wild card.
Fuck. My chest ached with that familiar pang of what if. Despite starting the season 7–2, it still didn’t feel like enough to guarantee another year. Too much depended on every pitch, every outing, every split-second decision.
In years past, I could brush it off—tell myself there’d always be next season, another chance to chase the ring. But now? One bad game, one tweak in my shoulder, and it could all be over. The kind of over you don’t come back from.
I rolled my neck, forcing the thought down. No point in dwelling on the inevitable. Guys my age didn’t talk about decline—we ignored it, outran it, pretended the fire in our arm would never fade.
I focused on the field instead. Safer to stare down the next inning than the truth creeping up behind me. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Cassidy Calloway in the stands!”
The camera guys zoomed in the Jumbotron to show Cassidy.
She beamed at the camera, waving and smiling as she leaned into the guy next to her.
He waved too, but he looked like a dork.
Rolling my eyes, I avoided staring at the way her half shirt dipped down or how it clung to her.
Even through the Jumbotron, her beauty was clear.
“Damn, I hope this makes her smile. She’s had it rough,” someone said, smiling.
“I love Cassventures!”
My teammates’ voices carried over from the other end of the dugout—all of them debating which of Cassidy Jackson’s “Cassventures” had been their favorite so far.
“She’s hilarious,” Pavin said. “That zip-lining video? Gold.”
“Please,” Garcia snorted. “The one where she tried to make a cake and set her sleeve on fire? That’s Emmy material.”
I tuned them out, or tried to. I didn’t get the appeal.
Sure, she was beautiful—anyone with eyes could see that, but going viral as a job?
That didn’t sit right with me. I’d spent two decades earning every inch of this career, every callus and scar, and she got millions of views for laughing at herself in good lighting.
Still, I had to admit, whatever she was doing, it worked. The crowd buzzed like we were in the playoffs, and the jumbotron lit up with her face.
“Alright fans, we’re here with the one and only Cassventures tonight.
” Eddie, our in-house entertainment host, grinned at the camera like he’d just found the cure for boredom.
He’d been around a long ass time and honestly annoyed me.
“Cassidy, we’ve all seen your viral dances and adventures online: the hikes, the cooking fails, the skydiving thing!
Tell us why you’re here supporting our Gila Monsters tonight! ”
Her voice came through the stadium speakers, light and practiced. “Well, my dad loved this team, and I’m here to keep that tradition alive.”
I stared at the field, jaw tight.
For years, Jackson had guarded this place with quiet pride. Now his daughter was turning it into a backdrop for a marketing stunt. He’d given everything to baseball and she just had to smile for five minutes to become more famous than anyone in the dugout.
It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. It felt personal.
“In two decades, he only missed three games as a season ticket holder,” she said, her voice softening. “He also worked with the team the last few years and his heart and soul are in this place.”
“Fans, let’s give it up for Cassidy’s dad. That is incredible.”
Everyone clapped, and I swore, even the umpires tuned in.
“So, in a way to honor my dad, and have a little fun, I’m bringing a different date to nine games this season.”
“Any reason why nine?”
“Because of Nate O’Brien, of course. He was my dad’s favorite player, and he wears number nine. I realize he didn’t start tonight, but that’s the goal. I’m watching Nate O’Brien pitch to feel closer to my dad.”
What? What?
A warm, unpleasant feeling rooted in my gut. I was Jackson’s favorite player? I never knew that. I had no idea why and it hit me I’d never get to find out.
She would attend when I started on the mound? The warm feeling shifted to anger when I realized what it meant: distraction.
I didn’t want that. Couldn’t afford it. My contract was up at the end of the season, and every pitch mattered. If I wanted to stay in Phoenix, end this run on my own terms, I had to have the best season of my life. No room for distractions. No noise.
But that’s exactly what Cassventures brought. Noise. Attention. Cameras where there should’ve been focus.
This team meant something to me. Jackson’s team. My team. We’d fought through losing seasons, bad trades, and worse headlines, and I wanted to give the Gila Monsters, and maybe my own career, the sendoff it deserved. Not fade out in the background of some viral circus.