Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lucas
The air’s drier in Arizona, and the ball doesn’t stick the same. I rub it against my pants, blow into my hand, reset my grip. Sweat slides down my back and forearms, baking into my skin instead of leaving me tacky.
I barely notice, though.
“Good finish,” Mel says.
Mel Turner is older than dirt and looks like he’s been sunburned since before I was born. If he says something’s good, it’s good. He doesn’t waste syllables, and he definitely doesn’t waste praise.
I dig my toe into the clay, settle my back foot, lift, drive.
Thwap.
The mitt pops sharp and loud. A couple guys down the row glance over.
We’re on the bullpen strip along the first-base line—four mounds in a row with chain-link behind us and coaches drifting from one to the next like they’re browsing aisles in Costco.
Two big-league starters are a couple lanes down, and the closer’s on the other side of me, working through a clean inning simulation.
“I like that high-leverage mindset,” Mel tells me.
I nod and blow into my hand. Logan could write a paper on what a high-leverage mindset is. Liesel could whip up some new stat to capture it.
I just know it’s me. And just to prove it, I throw another ninety-eight mile per hour fastball, hitting my spot perfectly. Easy.
“You don’t see guys this consistent coming out of Triple-A every day,” another coach mutters to Mel.
I smooth the dirt with my cleat like I didn’t hear him.
Logan and I are twenty-six. Two years older than the average call-up. Two years of watching other guys bounce up and down while we keep stacking.
Last year was big.
This year has to be bigger.
The catcher flashes fastball, so I give him a fastball, painting the edge of the strike zone with a solid ninety-eight. Two mounds down, the closer hits ninety-nine and someone behind the fence gives a low whistle.
Pfft. Ninety-nine?
Next pitch, I let my arm go a little. Not all the way, but enough. I’m not trying to embarrass the guy, but my stuff’s better than ninety-nine, and I want someone to know it.
My shoulder opens up; my fingers rip clean across the seams.
Thwap.
The catcher jerks his mitt down and glances at the radar gun.
“Hundred,” he mutters.
A couple heads turn, including Mel’s. He looks at the gun and then at me. “What was that?”
I flash him a grin. “Got bored.”
He doesn’t smile back, but his eyes narrow. “You should get bored more often.”
I could.
For a split second, I think about it, think about how good it felt to unleash in the tunnel a couple of weeks ago. Seeing the gun flash one-oh-two that night.
Should I let myself hit it now?
I wind up, start to reach for it—
And that’s when I spot Logan looking at me. He should be worrying about his own pitches, not mine.
I turn back to the plate—and that’s when I spot Scottie cutting across the back of the complex toward the stadium entrance, phone in hand, not watching. Then a mitt cracks, and her head comes up, her eyes finding mine.
For a second we’re both just there.
I feel the next pitch in my shoulder as I wind up—the full version, the real one, one-oh-two sitting right there waiting—the thing that would make her know how serious I am—
Where Logan could see—
Thwap.
Ninety-eight.
Clean. Controlled. Exactly what they asked for.
Mel nods. The bullpen coach makes a note. Scottie looks at me for one more second, then looks back at her phone and keeps walking.
She saw. She saw the gun and she saw me pull back.
Two mounds down, Logan lets out a low whistle through his teeth—a signal only we share. When I glance over, he isn’t focused on his own catcher. He’s looking at my radar readout.
Then he looks at me.
He doesn’t say anything, but he knows I’m holding back.
He just doesn’t know why, not on the mound, not off.
But Logan’s knuckleball goes sideways when he’s got too much in his head, and I’ve watched him tie his shoes twice this morning already.
Even if I hadn’t sworn to Scottie I wouldn’t say a word, handing him my mess on top of his own, in the middle of Spring Training, with Doug watching both of us—it wouldn’t be honest. It would be cruel.
My burden would double on his shoulders.
I’ve been trying to save him from that my whole life.
I throw two more at ninety-eight and try to convince myself I know what I’m doing.
That you don’t unload everything on day one. That there’s strategy in restraint.
“That’ll play,” Mel calls to me. Then I hear him say to the bullpen coach. “He’ll be a good bridge.”
Bridge.
I step off the mound, grab a towel, and wipe the back of my neck, letting the word sit. It’s not an insult. Being the bridge means every pitch I throw matters—and then I hand it off when it’s done.
It’s an important job.
And if they ever decide they want more, maybe I’ll show them what else my arm can do.
***
I spin my sunglasses around to the back of my head when Logan and I walk into the stadium dining area. I’m jumping like we’re headed for an amusement park while he trudges like we’re going to a funeral.
“If you’re trying to make it easy for everyone to tell us apart, well done,” I say.
He takes the towel from over his shoulder, spins it, and snaps it at me.
I jump out of the way. Baseball pants are decent protection from getting whipped with wet terry cloth, but Logan could go pro in snapping towels at people.
“You’re such a baby,” I say.
The dining room smells like grilled chicken, sunscreen, and so much protein powder.
Folding banquet tables stretch across the room, covered in black tablecloths with the Firebird’s logo stamped in repeating gold.
Nutrition charts are taped to the walls next to framed photos of last year’s postseason run.
Protein shakes hum in blenders near the back, and a couple rookies hover awkwardly near the veterans’ table like it’s a high school cafeteria with multimillion-dollar contracts.
Up ahead, Logan nudges me, drawing my attention to Coop, who has two empty seats saved at his table for us.
Of course Logan’s going to sit with him instead of sitting with anyone else we know.
Coop is an extension of family now, and Logan prefers the known.
I give Coop a nod, but I see someone I’d much rather sit with, someone who’s been the fixed point in every room since the moment I met her.
Someone who’s pretending she didn’t notice me, if her sudden fixation on her sandwich is to be believed. One of the big leaguers grabs Logan, and I use it as an excuse to rush through the buffet line and join Scottie at her table, where Diego and Darius look like they’re already swapping stories.
“Well, good afternoon, Flaps,” I say as I approach. “How is everyone this fine day?”
Diego raises his fork. “Setup Man! Heard you lit up the gun.”
Darius grins. “Yeah, man, you trying to make the closer sweat?”
“It was a good morning,” I say, sliding into the seat across from Scottie.
Mel passes our table on his way to the coaches’ section. He slows just enough to drop a hand on my shoulder. “Good stuff out there today, Fischer.”
“Appreciate it, Mel.” I’m already reaching for my water when Mel moves on. I take a drink.
“You’re feeling pretty good about some pretty good pitches, huh?” Scottie asks.
“Well, yeah. Mel likes them.”
“Oh, Mel likes them,” Scottie says. “I guess that’s all that matters. Do you always strut around the stadium after throwing less than your best?”
Um.
“I’ve been told I should be careful with my arm.”
“Yeah, during late-night bullpen sessions, not when you’re trying to prove yourself to the team.”
Something about our conversation reminds me of the feeling I got when I was a kid and put an entire pack of Big League Chew in my mouth. I felt like I was going to choke on it the whole time. “It’s the first day. I have time still.”
“To impress them or to change your attitude?”
I spear a piece of chicken I’ve lost my appetite for. “You don’t unload everything on day one. That’s how you blow a gasket in July.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I glance at Diego and Darius, suddenly aware they’re listening.
“It’s camp,” I say. “You build. You don’t beg.”
“You’re not fighting for it.”
Her voice isn’t loud, but it cuts. Diego looks between us like he just wandered into a couples therapy session.
I lean back in my chair. “You think I don’t fight?”
“I think,” she says carefully, “you’re holding back.”
“I’m not.”
“Your one-oh-two would suggest otherwise.”
Diego’s eyes go huge. “You hit one-oh-two?”
I take a bite of the chicken on my fork, chew, and swallow, giving him a wry look. “Yeah, when no one’s watching. Maybe I’m nervous.”
“You don’t get nervous,” Darius says with a chuckle.
I shrug and take another bite. “Then maybe I’m trying to get a feel for how serious they are about me.”
“How can they know how serious they should get about you until you’ve shown them what you’re capable of?” Scottie asks.
“I’ve shown them plenty.”
Scottie’s holding my gaze through her glasses, clearly frustrated. “You show up for everyone else. Why not for yourself?”
The air gets sucked from my lungs. I’m not sure what we’re talking about anymore.
“You don’t have to be the setup man forever,” she adds.
“I’m not even the setup man now,” I remind her, keeping back irritation of my own. “I’m getting groomed for a bullpen role that’s not mine yet, and I have a catchy social media handle. I’m playing the long game here, okay?”
I can feel her blue eyes burning into me, but I turn back to my meal, eating slowly, casually, like this whole conversation is between me and my player coordinator. Like she isn’t making me second-guess a lot more than my fastball.
The long game.
I’ve been telling myself that for a year.
Around us, the dining room is alive with the sounds of players laughing and one-upping each other, and I’m willing to bet Diego and Darius wish they could be at any of those tables right now.