Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Decker
I’m still coming down from seeing Penelope here.
I don’t have a better word for it than that because it always feels like a high when I see her.
I’ve been chasing the dragon named Penelope for the majority of my life.
I wish I didn’t still feel that thing that shall not be named the second I saw her.
I’ve been in Ripley’s office enough times that I know how to avert my eyes from any pictures of Penelope, so I take the chair in front of his desk, keeping my focus on him.
Last year, I made a bumbling fool of myself because he has a picture of her with a younger Hazel, both laughing at something just off camera, and I couldn’t stop glancing at it.
At one point Ripley asked me a question, and I gave him an answer that had nothing to do with what he’d asked.
He finishes his phone call and leans back in his desk chair. “Glad you got my note.”
“Janet came down personally.” Which is why I’m sitting here with uncombed, damp hair. When the manager’s assistant comes down and says he wants to see you, you don’t take time to fuss about your appearance after your shower. You just go.
“Hope I didn’t pull you away from anything.”
If he only knew how boring my life is now. I’d rather be in here for whatever he needs than thinking about my poor performance on the field—or worse, his daughter.
“Film got delayed.”
He nods as though he already knew that. Not surprising. Ripley knows everything that happens in this facility. It’s one of the things that makes him hard to get anything past and easy to trust at the same time.
He steeples his fingers. “Hand still good?”
I flex my left hand. The one I jammed sliding in the final game of the Atlanta series. “Fine.”
“Good.” He picks up his water bottle and holds it without drinking from it. “I want to talk to you about something.”
Dread settles low in my gut. Here it goes. Harkins just won my spot. “Okay.”
Apparently, I’m breaking out in a sweat and look like I just came down with the flu because he laughs and shakes his head. “Relax, Deck. I’m on your side. Your bat is carrying us in the lineup. I’m not gonna say you don’t need to work on your fielding, but the spot is still yours.”
One reason I’ve always loved Ripley is that he’s not one of those coaches who gets a kick out of watching you sweat. He’s a straight shooter.
“Thanks.”
He leans his forearms on his desk and stares at me. Now my mind is racing with scenarios as to why I’m sitting across from him. And the only thing I come up with is that if this isn’t about my position, it must be about his daughter.
“Whitaker wants the Colts to be one with the community. Since we’re made up of mostly single guys, we don’t have a WAG group. He sees this as a problem and wants to fix it.”
“Is he going to start arranging marriages?”
Our team is relatively young, and we do have a lot of guys who aren’t anywhere near even wanting a steady relationship.
Our starting shortstop, for one. All three outfielders as well.
The closest is Torres, but he and his girlfriend are still doing long distance, and from an outsider’s perspective, it’s not going well.
“I wouldn’t put it past him, but he’s asked that we plan more community events, and I need a player who will be accountable for the guys.”
Oh fuck. He’s asking because he knows I’m a yes man. I’m not stupid enough to say thanks for the great offer, but I’d rather sit this one out. Not during a contract year anyway.
“I need a player to be the point man for the team side. Someone the guys will listen to and who won’t treat it like a burden.” He twists the cap off the water bottle. “I want that to be you.”
I wait a beat to play it off as if I’m considering, when all I can think about is that this is the last thing I want or need this year. “You want me to plan parties?”
“God no. I want you to be the liaison between the team and the coordinator. Show up, rally the guys, make sure nobody skips the events because they think they’re optional.” He gives me a dry look. “Because it’s not optional—for anyone.”
Last year, two guys showed up forty minutes late to a charity dinner, and Ripley’s face twisted into something none of us wanted to see again. They got traded. He doesn’t tolerate disobedience.
“I can do that.” It sounds easy enough. I was picturing myself on hold with a catering company, arguing about whether the chicken or the fish is the better option for forty grown men, and hot gluing centerpieces in my limited spare time.
Making sure the guys get to the facility and do what they’re supposed to do is easy.
“I know you can. That’s why I’m asking you.”
He nods, satisfied, and reaches for a folder on the corner of his desk. He slides it to me, and I open it. A calendar of our schedule with stars next to the dates events will be planned for rests inside.
I flip to the second page, and my gaze pauses on the name listed as the contact.
Event Coordination: Penelope Ripley.
I keep my eyes on the page for exactly one second longer than I need to before I glance at him.
Ripley is finishing his bottle of water and looking at the whiteboard as though he’s debating switching the lineup around. The guy never stops working. Which is what you want in a manager.
“Penelope is running the coordination side?”
That sounded casual, right?
He smashes the plastic water bottle and tosses it in the trash can as if it’s a basketball. Sinks it with ease.
“She’s got some background in event planning, charities, fundraisers.” He glances at me as if I’ve said something mildly interesting and he didn’t hear the hitch in my voice. “She knows the calendar, knows the families. Better than someone on the outside.”
“Right.”
“You’ll work together on the logistics. She handles the vendors and the venues, you handle the players and the communication on our end.” He picks up a pen and twirls it around his fingers. “Should be straightforward.”
I close the folder.
Straightforward. Yeah. That’s not a word I would use, but hey, everyone’s different.
“Sounds like it.”
I think about Penelope in the hallway minutes ago. The way she held that folder against her chest like a shield over her heart. The way she looked at me twice, thought better of it, then invented an excuse to get as far away from me as she could.
She must know I’m a part of this. And yet she agreed. I turn that over for a second. I don’t know if it means something or if I’m doing that thing where I find meaning in things that have absolutely no meaning at all.
She might not care I’m on this project with her. She’s moving on. Dating and looking for the right person to spend the rest of her life with. Maybe it’s about time I try to do the same.
Ripley studies me for a moment as if he’s surprised I have no other questions.
“Good.” He drops the pen on his desk. “We have to meet with Whitaker first. He has some stipulations. The meeting date and time are on the second page.”
“Okay.”
In a boardroom with the woman I love, her clueless dad, and a man who wants me off the team. Sounds like a good time if I’ve ever heard one.
“Does Shane know you’ve chosen me?”
“I told him I’d take care of it.” He leans back in his chair again, linking his hands behind his head.
“Listen, Deck, I think this is a good opportunity for you. Show the front office the guy you are. Or I guess, remind them of the guy you are. You’re a Colt.
You bleed red and blue. And I believe you’re the guy for third base.
We need to show them they need you in the clubhouse and in the game. ”
I smile. Ripley has believed in me since I was eleven—longer than my own father.
“Thanks, Mark.”
“We’ll show them how wrong they are if they don’t sign you next year.”
“Sounds good.” I stand and pick up the folder.
Ripley is already turning back toward his laptop. Meeting adjourned.
When I reach the door, he says my name, and I turn around.
His eyes are trained on the monitor now, not on me. “She’s working hard to build a life here. Her and Hazel both.” A pause that lands a little heavier than it should for a sentence about event planning. “I’d like to see this go well.”
I tell myself it’s not a warning. It’s a man talking about his daughter moving to a new city and settling in.
That’s all it is.
“Understood.” I nod.
He returns my nod, and I leave, pulling the door shut behind me.
The hallway is empty. I stand there for a moment longer than makes sense, as though I expected something different. Of course it’s empty. Why would Penelope have stuck around?
I walk toward the locker room and try to figure out what just happened.
Ripley asked me to run point, and it makes sense. I’m reliable, I’m respected in the locker room, and I won’t embarrass the organization. He could have asked Hayes, but Hayes has enough on his plate as honorary captain.
He asked me.
In a contract year where the front office isn’t sure I’m worth keeping, that means something. Ripley just handed me a reason to be visible in a way that has nothing to do with my fielding percentage. I should be thinking about that. Not thinking about her.
But he made his daughter the event coordinator.
He knows our history. Why would he want to throw us together?
And he mentioned it like an afterthought.
Except Ripley doesn’t forget details. He manages a roster of forty different personalities through a hundred-sixty-two game season without losing his grip on a single man.
He called me by my full name when he stopped me at the door.
He’s only done that one other time. The year I won my first Gold Glove.
He pulled me aside and told me not to let it go to my head.
He only uses my full name when he wants to make sure he has my complete attention.
Were his words deliberate? A warning to keep my distance?
Is he nudging us together or just filling a job?
I genuinely don’t know.
At some point in the next few days, Penelope or I will send a message that says something like “hey, coordinating the first event, let me know what you need from my end, and it’s going to be completely normal and professional and fine.”
It’s just work.
I look at the folder in my hand.
Right.
Just work.
I reach the locker room and tell myself to believe my delusions, and I almost do. Then I remember the look on her face when she stepped out of her dad’s office. How desperate she was to get away from me.
She couldn’t pretend either.
I don’t know what to do with that. So I do what I always do. I file Penelope Ripley somewhere she can’t do any damage. I’ve done nothing about it for three years, and I’ll keep doing nothing about it for however long it takes to get her out of my system. Out of my head. Out of my heart.