16. Webber
I wakeup to my phone, ringing off the hook. Jonathan left practically in the middle of the night, and I rolled over and went back to sleep after a kiss that makes me miss him even now, a couple hours later.
I grab the offensive device and slide my thumb across the screen without looking.
Mistake number one.
”Hello?” I mumble.
”What the fuck is wrong with you, Greyson?!” my father”s voice yells down the line.
Nope. Too fucking early for this bullshit. I hang up immediately.
He calls right back, but I send him to voicemail.
Three times.
In a row.
He finally gets it, but then my phone rings again, and this time, I have to answer it.
”Coach?”
”Where are you?” he asks without preamble.
”Umm, at my condo. Why?”
”Get your ass to the stadium, Webber.”
”Yes, sir,” I answer.
I jump up and throw on shorts and a tee and barely remember to put on shoes before I zoom out the door, taking the elevator to the basement garage. Peeling out into barely any traffic – hell, it”s before rush hour – I drum my fingers on the leather of the steering wheel, wondering what in the hell has Coach so upset.
I knock on his door fifteen minutes later, out of breath from hoofing it through the facility.
”Come in,” he says, his voice muffled through the door.
Pushing it open, I stop in my tracks when I see the General Manager and Public Relations Director already in the two guest chairs.
What the fuck did I do?
”Coach?” I ask, confused.
Fields, the GM, turns and asks me point blank, ”You in a relationship with Jonathan Fox?”
My jaw drops. How? How do they know?
I swallow and nod. ”Yes, sir.”
”How long?” is his next question.
”Just before Spring Training.”
”Fuck,” Coach mutters. ”Webb, you knew better than this.”
”Knew better than what?” I ask, suddenly rankled. What does it matter that we”re together?
”You can”t just date somebody on another team in the majors!”
”I can”t? Where does it say that? Believe me, I”ve looked the damn handbook over from cover to cover at least three times.”
He stops his pacing and stares at me, slack-jawed. ”You”ve– Damn it, Webb. I don”t give a good goddamn what that handbook says. You”re fucking sleeping with the enemy!”
His face is red, his chest heaves, and his hair looks like he”s been running his fingers through it for hours.
”I”m in a relationship – a committed relationship – with Jonathan, yes. We”re fucking veterans, Coach. You don”t think both of us weighed exactly what would happen if y”all found out? Even if we never actually talked about it, which we haven”t. I know it”s the first thing on either of our minds every time we”re together, every time we make a conscious decision to say ”fuck it” to the expectations of every other fucking person around us. Hell, I barely play enough to know what the hell is going on with this team. I don”t even have ”trade secrets” to give away!”
He stands there, silent during my little rant, his hands on his hips. When I take a breath, he cuts in. ”You finished?”
I nod. ”Yes, sir. Sorry. I”m just a little... frustrated.”
The PR Director finally speaks up. ”It”s unorthodox, I”ll give you that. But he”s right,” he says, looking at Coach. ”There”s nothing in the rules that says it can”t happen.”
Coach sinks to his chair, dropping his head into his hands.
”If you don”t wanna deal with it, trade me. Hell, send me down to AAA. Birmingham is a hell of a lot closer to Nashville than San Antonio.”
The GM”s eyes snap to mine, wide in shock. What I just said sinks in, and I take a second, then nod. ”Yeah. If that”s what you need to do to feel better about this, send me down.”
”That”s not... well, that”s certainly not what we expected you to say,” Fields says.
”Didn”t exactly plan it myself.” I shake my head in disbelief, then smile at the prospect of being within driving distance of Jon.
”I don”t think we need to do anything that drastic,” Coach says, bursting my bubble. ”You”re an asset to this team in ways that would be nearly impossible to replace.”
”Of course, I guess there is one more potential fix,” Fields says, ever the businessman.
”What”s that?” I ask.
”Give me the day. I”ll have something by the first pitch.”
I nod, knowing I”m at their mercy.
”Go home, Webb. Be back here at one for the game. Try not to land in the tabloids between now and then,” Coach says.
”Yes, sir,” I say and turn to leave.
”One more thing?” Fields says.
”Yeah?”
”This is confidential, so you can”t say anything to anyone... including Fox.”
”Got it,” I answer and slip through the door before they can let any more air out of my balloon.