CHAPTER 30
”Is she doing okay?”
I look at the man leaning over the arm of the chair next to me. If he were anyone else, I’d ask him why he thinks I would know anything. Dante looks at me with round eyes that know too much but are full only of concern, so I say nothing. My nostrils flare from the effort to keep my mouth shut when I’m pulled in opposite directions, simultaneously wanting to tell him everything and beg for advice and wanting to deny all the questions he hasn’t asked.
“You ran out of the stadium real quick.” He leans closer–conspiratorial, but not quite obvious. “They all think you’re just pouting about losing.”
“I am–”
“Really? You haven’t yelled at Williams once.”
I glare at him because we both know he’s got me with that one. “He’s already sulking over there with his tail between his legs. What’s he need me yelling for? I gave my we win as a team, we lose as a team, we aren’t out of the running yet speech. Whether I like him or not, I’m his captain, and now’s not the time for me to rub his nose in the dirt.”
“Mhmm. Alright.” Dante’s chair squeaks when he stands. He tosses his bag over his shoulder and fist bumps me. “I gotta get home to the family. You got my number?”
“You know I’ve got your fucking number–”
“Good. So, remember you can use it. You know,” he glances toward the closed door separating us from her tiny locker room, “if you need to talk.”
He exits the double doors with the last of the stragglers. There’s not a lot of hanging around the locker room after a loss like this, especially one in front of our home crowd. Everyone’s out the door quick to go lick their wounds in the privacy of their own homes. Or find distraction in someone else’s.
Her door is still shut. It’s unusual for her to be so far behind the rest of our teammates, but I tell myself not to worry.
She seemed fine. Her hand was swollen, but Alex and the team physician both cleared her, and aside from that little hiss when Alex removed the ice, she didn’t show any signs of pain.
I worry anyway. It’s new, being on this side of things. Oliver comes to mind, unbidden as usual. All those nights of him hovering around worrying about my post-game aches and pains. If only he knew how much worse things have gotten in the three years since he moved out, and I bought a home that didn’t hold traces and memories of him. He’d probably find a way to move my entire family down here, so they could all keep an eye on me.
To my surprise, I laugh. It comes easily, bubbling in my chest without irony or bitterness.
It feels good to think of Oliver this way. It’s taken long enough.
It also feels good to stand without my knees and back screaming, but I’m not ready to admit that. If we can just make it through this wild card race and turn things around in the post-season, a Series ring is within reach. Then I can think about a move to first. Or even consider a career without baseball, or at least one where I’m not on the field.
“You good in there?” I knock on her door and tune out all of the what-if scenarios I’m not ready to consider.
She shouldn’t take my breath away. Ramirez opens the door with her long, straight hair tied up in a messy bun–her flyaways damp from a quick body shower–and her body swaddled in a baggy hoodie and joggers. But her cheeks are golden-brown and glowing, she blinks up at me with those whiskey eyes that tempt me to make all sorts of bad decisions, her bubblegum and strawberry scent is intoxicating and stronger than ever.
And the hoodie she’s wearing is mine.
“You don’t have to keep checking up on me, you know.” She turns and walks back to the bag laid out in disarray on the wooden bench.
She doesn’t shut the door on me, so I follow her. Not all the way inside. I don’t want to make her feel trapped; I can’t tell if I’m misreading the situation because I still don’t know what the situation is. Leaning against the open door, I watch her sort her items into neat piles before filling her bag. It’s cute, the care she takes with each item, filling little pink packing cubes covered in flamingos and tropical foliage, just to pack up her duffel bag for the ride home.
Outside of my family, I haven’t smiled watching someone do something so mundane in years. I had almost forgotten how nice moments like this could be.
“Isn’t your family waiting for you?” She tucks away another flamingo and interrupts my thoughts.
“They’re used to my post-game PT. They’ll already be on their way home, ready to commiserate with me over coffee and dessert.” My mouth waters just thinking about my mom’s cassava cake.
“You don’t need to wait for me. I’m fine, really. And you need to stop giving me special treatment.”
“Special treatment?”
“Running to my side like that. Snubbing post-game interviews to come check on me. That moment in the PT room–”
“You admit there was a moment?” I take one step closer and let the door swing shut. Regardless of where this conversation is headed–and the stone in my gut already forming from the impending rejection–the last thing we both need is a forgetful teammate running in to grab his phone and catching an earful of our business.
“I know better.”
“Know better than what?” I ask even though I don’t really want the answer. Part of me knows I should cut my losses and walk away now. Let her remain a teammate and a friend without putting her on the spot over a few kisses, no matter how much she’s made me feel in spite of the fact that I know better, too.
“Than getting involved with a fucking ballplayer.” She snaps the words, but it isn’t anger on her face when she slumps back in her chair.
“Are we? Involved?” I’m not trying to be difficult, but I can’t figure out how to ask her anything outright. I’m acting like a nervous kid, not a thirty-five-year-old man, but it’s been so long since I dared to really want anything off the diamond.
“Look, let’s not make this weird, okay? I don’t date ballplayers. By all accounts, you don’t date at all–”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” she asks with defiance and something I can’t name. “You think I haven’t seen the gossip about all your one-night-stands?”
“Is that the real problem?” I ask, heat rising in my cheeks even though I know I don’t have anything to be ashamed about. The sleeping around was always protected, and I never led anyone on. Even though I’d let Oliver go, I’d never been ready to risk getting hurt by someone new, and the people I let into my bed always knew that they were just with me for a good time and bragging rights. “Because here you’ve been saying it’s that you don’t date ballplayers.”
“Please, Reyes. Just let it go.” She looks scared, almost. I’m about to let myself out, worried I’ve pressured her, which was never my intent, when she tugs at the collar of her hoodie–my hoodie–and clears her throat. When she speaks again, her voice is distant, smaller than I’m used to, and her eyes are staring right through me, letting me know that I’m not the one she’s thinking of as she says, “I don’t do hook-ups.”
“Good,” I say. All I want is to lighten the shadows on her face, even if it’s only ever as a friend. The kind who doesn’t get carried away making out with her under the stars. “I don’t want to hook up with you.”