CHAPTER 2
Long before anyone could have imagined I would ever make it this far, people warned me to never meet my heroes. The advice must have been easy enough to give when I was a little girl stepping up to the tee while my moms insisted the Little League coach give me a chance to play with the boys. But now? It’s impossible to heed their words when I am sitting in a makeshift locker room, one wall and a very acoustic vent away from some of the biggest names in the sport that has consumed my life since the first time my parents put a ball in my hands. Especially when one of those names is written on the rookie card in my wallet, even if he was an asshole about it yesterday in the dugout.
In all fairness, he was a cranky ass to everyone on the team. I was just the only one foolish enough to talk to him anyway.
I pull on my lucky socks and adjust my pants. Tie my cleats. Untie them. Tie them one last time. Left first—double knot, tuck the laces against the tongue—then the right. I pull my hair back in a ponytail, tie it with my lucky red ribbon, and tug it through the royal blue cap. I rub the saint medal that my abuelita embroidered into my belt and cross myself even though the baseball diamond is the closest thing I have to faith, pressing a kiss to my knuckles and then to the scorpion wrapped around the T on my cap.
I reach for my headphones and scroll to my pre-game playlist. My thumb hovers over the screen when I hear my name echoing through the vent. It’s all the more reason for me to press play and turn up the volume. This isn’t my first rodeo, and I know locker room talk about me is rarely complimentary. But this isn’t just any game, and these aren’t just any players.
“Must be nice to not need talent when you have a pretty face,” one of my temporary teammates says.
“Too bad you wouldn’t know anything about either, Smith,” someone I’m pretty certain is Dante Santos snipes back.
Everybody laughs, but I don’t need to be in the locker room to know that most of their laughter is at my expense, not Smith’s. Teasing is an expectation among teammates. Usually it’s lighthearted—at least superficially—and serves to bond a team closer together. Sometimes, it’s more aggressive—slights, mistakes, and personal grievances that we tuck beneath our caps on the playing field, finding voice in the locker room. But there’s something altogether more sinister about being the butt of the joke when I’m not even there to hear it, much less defend myself.
“We’ll see if you’re still laughing when we’re staring at a losing scoreboard because someone decided we need a photo-op of the pretty girl choking on the mound more than the rest of us deserve a win,” Smith says.
“Oh, shut up.”
I would recognize Mateo Reyes” voice anywhere. Not that I’d ever admit how many of his interviews I’ve watched over the years. Especially not after his reaction about his rookie card.
The painfully attractive Filipino-American catcher”s voice is every bit as gruff as his personality, but there’s a smooth undercurrent that makes me shiver despite the heat of July in southern California. Every word he speaks is drawn out, not a drawl like I’m used to, but the simple slowness of someone who’s had to be the most mature person in a room of twenty-somethings for a long time.
“This isn’t some kid league with trophies for everyone. None of us deserves the win unless we go out there and earn it. Yeah, Ramirez might choke. So what?” Reyes says.
I really should have stopped listening sooner. There’s nothing to derail a pre-game ritual like hearing my sports idol commenting off-hand that he thinks I’ll make a fool of myself on the pitcher’s mound today.
“She’s young, and she’s new. We’ve all been there—” he continues.
“Some of us a lot longer ago than others!” someone shouts, and everyone laughs—easier this time.
“Very funny, Santana. Better get your shots in while you can. Because once this game is over, we go back to being rivals, and we are going to mop the floor with you next month,” Reyes says. “But we’ve all been there, and we’ve all choked. So, stop worrying about how pretty you think Ramirez is, and focus on your own damned game. If the game’s so close that one inning of her pitching makes us lose, then we really don’t deserve to win. Now do we?”
When I finally yank my headphones over my cap, they seal in the heat of my burning ears, and it takes all my willpower not to tear them off and crouch by the vent to continue eavesdropping.
I touch my toes and remind myself I should be grateful anyone defended me at all. I should be glad that of all the players to—sort of—have my back, it would be Reyes. Not only because I’ve idolized him for the near decade and a half since he joined the league, but because his experience gives him influence over the rest of the team. I can almost convince myself that his lack of faith in me is because of my rookie status, and not because he is among so many who don’t believe I belong on the field at all. Shaking my arms out as I stand, I glower at my reflection in the dimly lit mirror.
I don’t want to be grateful that in a room of over thirty men, only two of them spoke up.
I really don’t want to think about the fact that even Reyes assumes I’m going to choke today. We play complementary positions on rival teams. I’d have to stick my head in the sand to believe he hasn’t watched me pitch. And I’d need something a lot stronger than stadium beer to forget just how many times I have choked on the mound since Texas brought me up to the majors two months ago. There’s a part of me that almost hopes I won’t get a chance to pitch today.
But the one thing they’re all right about? It doesn’t matter how hard I work, or how much I’ve earned my place in the league, and it doesn’t matter how well the rest of them pitch. I am only on the All-Star team because I am a fan favorite. When it comes to putting me on the mound in this particular game, I am a publicity stunt.