Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
JAYDEN
It was easy for me to say fuck this game. Colby was right about one thing—I have the luxury of being a bigger investment. It’s not right, but it’s true. The hard part, though, is that of the two of us, she might just be more valuable. At least, if people were honest about things.
Sure, she spent one day with my brother.
She said a few things to him and had him make a small tweak.
It was a thing a dozen players and coaches likely noticed, and something he’s been told all season by other coaches.
But when Colby said it, he made the change.
I don’t know if it was out of respect or pride, but her words got through to him.
Probably because other people talk to him like he’s a celebrity, some sort of God, and Colby talks to him like he’s her annoying older brother.
Because when you boil it down, he is.
And in the three weeks Adriel’s been back up with the team, he’s been killing it. I know not all of that is Colby. Hell, ninety-nine percent of it is him. She just got him out of his own damn way.
They’ve paired her with Jake and Adler pretty much exclusively, and I can tell she’s miserable over it.
She puts on a good face, and I know Jake appreciates her, but Adler’s one season away from being forced into retirement because nobody wants his toxic ass.
She’s babysitting him more than coaching him. He’s uncoachable.
“Jayden, I’m going to try you in leadoff today,” Coach Shuster says as I step into the dugout after taking my round of BP. My muscles zing with adrenaline and my heart kicks harder as I pull my water bottle from my mouth to utter, “Sounds good.”
He nods, and I try to keep my big-ass grin in check.
Leadoff. I’ve been itching to show off my speed.
I love batting leadoff. I glance toward the field, where Colby is sitting with her foot propped on the backstop and her iPad resting on one knee while Jake takes some healthy hacks.
I stare at her until she glances in my direction, and I give her a thumbs up.
She shrugs, so I walk over. There’s nothing wrong with us talking. Hell, there’s nothing wrong with us being together, period. But the mood around this place is so stifling, and the optics are important to Colby, so I keep a healthy distance when I reach the backstop.
“Looking good, Jake,” I say, resting my arms on the backstop and giving my friend a nod.
“She’s got me working on oppo power,” he says right before he lines one down the first baseline.
“Seems you found your thing,” I say, glancing to Colby. Her face is stoic, and her eyes are set on her player.
“Don’t get any ideas. You should still lean into your pull power,” she says without glancing at me. “I mean, if I were coaching you . . . that’s what I’d say.”
The little extra bite she tacks on stings inside my chest. I can’t help but feel at fault for how she’s being treated. I know she doesn’t feel that way, though. She’s just bitter at the management, at Coach Shuster. And rightfully so.
“My pull power has me hitting leadoff today,” I say, my gaze drifting to Coach Bastion.
He and I haven’t spoken a word to one another since we tried to take each other’s heads off.
He throws me BP, and I hit the ball extra hard.
That’s our relationship. He’s only mildly more useful than Adler out here, and that’s because he can throw strikes from thirty-five feet away.
“Leadoff, huh?” she says.
I swing my focus back to her, and even though her sunglasses are still on and her attention seems to be on the field, the smile on her lips is for me.
“Yep. You did that,” I say, giving her the credit she deserves.
“I know.”
My smile settles into a comfortable line as I watch Jake finish his swings.
“You’re still reaching. Come look at this,” Colby says, pulling up her video of his last round. I step away from them, letting her do her thing as I dip into the clubhouse to cool off before our game.
I snag my phone from my locker and sift to my read messages, landing on the one from Scott, my agent, that’s been weighing heavy on my mind since it showed up at about six this morning.
SCOTT: Chicago wants the better Vargas. You. And Texas needs pitching. Want me to nudge?
Scott has no clue about me and Colby. His timing is nothing more than incredibly coincidental. He only knows that I’ve been itching to get called up, and last season I told him to keep his ears open.
Chicago means I’d be starting in center field, in Wrigleyville.
I mean, who wouldn’t want that? Of course, that’s also seven hundred and sixty-seven miles away from Sweetwater.
Away from Colby. And that’s very undesirable.
The only thing that might tip the scales, oddly enough, would be Colby heading to Texas, to join the staff and work her magic on the big boys.
An extra three hundred miles, but worth every inch.
ME: Let’s see what’s there. And I need a favor.
I toss my phone back into my locker and snag a roll of tape for my wrists. I’ve grown used to the extra support, or at this point maybe it’s a superstition. Whatever the case, if I’m going to seal the deal for anything with today’s performance, I need every good omen in my corner.
I tear off the last piece after my right wrist feels the added support from my lucky red tape, and my phone buzzes with a call. I see it’s Scott, so I glance around to make sure I’m alone in here, then answer.
“My man, you would look good in Chicago blue,” Scott says the moment I answer.
I chuckle. There’s a certain level of car salesmanship to his tone at all times. I suppose it goes with the gig, but I don’t hear Adriel’s agent talking like that. Of course, his guy spends most of his time cleaning up my brother’s messes, so it makes sense he has a grittier, get-it-done tone.
“Maybe, if it’s right,” I say. “But hey, I also need a favor. And I know this is out of your scope, but . . .” I look over my shoulder again, double-checking the room, then lean into my cubby tighter to make sure my voice doesn’t travel.
“You rep any coaches by chance?” A lot of the staff have representation, and maybe Colby needs someone who knows the shortcuts in this world.
“I have, sure. Never a head coach or anything, but some of the pitching coaches for New York and Baltimore. Why?” He doesn’t sound uninterested, so I take my shot and fill him in on the unique opportunity Colby presents. Maybe a phone call from Scott will nudge Texas to pay closer attention.
“It’s my job to be up on my clients’ personal lives, to an extent, so I know you and your brother have history with her. Is that why you’re bringing this up?”
I exhale and pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Yes and no. Colby and I are . . . we’re close. So, it’s not out of malice or anything like that.” I decide to spare my agent the full details about how close, for now. If he’s as good as he says at knowing the dirt, I’m sure he’ll eventually figure that out on his own.
“I just want her to get a fair shake. She’s the only one who can talk to Adriel like he needs to be, too. She cuts through his bullshit and tells him what he needs to hear.”
“He’s been tearing it up,” Scott acknowledges.
Imagine what kind of player my brother could be if he had someone around who actually gave a shit about him. He might frustrate the hell out of Colby and me—and everyone, for that matter. But he’s still family to us. Colby knows his drive and potential better than anyone, except maybe her dad.
“And she’s not represented by anyone?” Scott sounds surprised.
“Nope. Her college coach knew a guy who knew a guy, but she made the leap from NCAA softball to the MLB because of word of mouth. And yeah, I’m sure the good press had something to do with it.”
I hate to think of her work as a gimmick. Especially when there are so many male coaches doing jack shit around here. Like Bastion.
“Huh, yeah. I’ll make some calls. I can’t promise anything, but I can see what’s there. And she’d have to become a client.”
I nod to myself.
“We’ll cross that bridge if it turns into something,” I say, hoping I can get Colby to buy into my insane idea.
Essentially, the pitch to her is let’s move a thousand miles apart so we can be together. Basically, asinine.
I end my call with Scott and scroll to my brother’s contact, hovering my thumb over his name. I’m sure he’s in the gym, getting a pre-pump before tonight’s game. Probably fueling up on dangerous amounts of energy drinks and fucking Adderall too. I wonder if Colby could put a stop to that shit?
I stand to pace as the phone rings in my ear. Adriel makes it hard to sit still, even when I’m simply talking to him. He doesn’t answer my first call, so I dial again, figuring he’s screening me.
“What?” he finally answers.
“Pssh, you’re such an ass,” I say. I was right.
“Dude, I’m busy, is all. What’s up, though?
” He’s been trying to be less . . . him.
I’ve noticed the effort, and I’m sure our mom is in his ear.
When the social stories started coming out rehashing our father and the accident, it hit her harder than any of us.
She’s good about living life forward, but sometimes bigger forces drag us back.
“I need a solid from you,” I say.
Selling Scott on this idea was easy compared to my brother. Adriel . . . he’s another story.
“I told you, get your own damn phone numbers from the ladies in the club. I can’t always carry you,” he jokes. He laughs at himself, but when he only gets silence from me, he stops.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. You’re taken and shit.”
He hasn’t come around to respecting my feelings for Colby completely, but that’s because of his own demons. My brother doesn’t understand relationships, because he watched our father fuck up his own. He was older. He saw more. Understood more. And he protected me from a lot of it.
“It’s about Colby,” I say, stopping at the open exit from the clubhouse.
I kick at the metal threshold and glance outside, scanning the parking lot and the walkway in both directions.
The summer sun is cooking me, but I feel as if the heat will power me through this conversation, so I step outside and wander around the stadium grounds.
A few kids who arrived early for the game are playing catch, so I stop under a tree to watch them and remember how fun this game can be.
“I want you to give her a shoutout, for your streak,” I say.
Adriel’s laugh is instantaneous. “Fuck no.”
“Come on, man. You know she got you to pivot. Sure, it wasn’t much. But she said the right things, got you out of your own damn way.” I’ve used that line on him a few times over the last few weeks, trying to soften him to the idea of giving someone credit other than himself.
“Whatever. I’m the one swinging the bat.”
He’s right. He is. But also . . .
“Yeah, and how were you swinging before she told you to stop affecting so much and instead focus on getting your bat through the zone?” He doesn’t know that she told me what they talked about. And I can tell he hates that I know by the scoff he makes into his speaker.
“Adriel, I’m not suggestion you say you couldn’t have hit last night’s home run without Colby Kessler.
I’m just saying maybe, for once in your damn life, do something unselfish and throw that woman a bone.
She’s been through hell, and our father sent her there to begin with.
Maybe a little fucking restitution, yeah? ”
My brother’s heavy sigh gives me hope.
“I’ll think about it,” he finally says.
He ends the call before I can tell him about batting leadoff today, so I shoot my mom a text about it. And then, I take some of my own advice, and send the news to my first Coach Kessler—the guy who, years ago, got me out of my own damn way.