Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Brayden
April
Coach calls me into his office right as I’m in the middle of changing. “Forsyth, come see me right now.”
Fuck. I’m almost out of my shirt—the shirt I wore last night. If I slept in it, so what? I tug it back on. Take myself into his office.
Coach is at his desk, sipping a cup of coffee. He’s dressed like always: unfaded Peaches hat and a polo that looks like it was ironed, which it probably was.
He lifts an eyebrow at me, taking in my appearance. “Son, have a seat.”
I sit, park my hands on my knees. Attempt to sit up straight.
My stomach rolls. It’s fine. I feel fine.
I got up this morning, dragged my ass back to the hotel.
Hopped the first team shuttle to the ballpark.
I just need some coffee, some protein powder, a good run.
What I don’t need is Coach staring at me in disapproval, but that’s apparently what I’m going to get.
“What’d you want to see me about, sir?” I ask.
“You enjoying our road trip, Forsyth?”
I nod. The motion doesn’t make my head throb. Much. “Yes, sir.”
“You feel all right?”
I grind my teeth together. Plenty of guys party and then come in and play nine innings. I’m no different from any of them. “I’m good to go.”
“Seems like you might be under the weather.”
“I’m fine.” Which I am. The lights are just a little too bright and the noise of him putting his coffee to his lips and sipping—slurping, really—just a little too loud.
In a few hours, I’ll be absolutely and one hundred percent good to play.
What I do off the field isn’t any of his, or anyone else’s, business.
Coach narrows his eyes. “You know, Blake—"
I clear my throat. He does that, sometimes, getting me confused with my brother. So do the commentators. And the fans.
“Brayden,” he corrects. “Back when I played, I underestimated how much having a steadying presence in my life impacted my on-field play. That could be family, or church, or a good woman.”
I have family. My brother, who left six months ago—except, somehow, I’m still standing in his shadow.
I have church. For whatever a man sows, that he will also reap. For he who sows to his flesh will of the flesh reap corruption… What my mother put in the family group text this morning. I don’t think it was aimed at Blake.
A good woman…A nice, blond, meek churchgoing girl. Yeah, I’d rather not.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I tack on a sir for good measure, hoping that’s the end of the conversation.
I’ve had these talks over the years: people making a big deal out of something that isn’t.
The subject gets dropped after my next home run or highlight-reel catch.
I don’t know why he’s even bothering with any of this. It’s not like I have a problem.
I’m about to ask—respectfully—if I’m good to go, when he says, “I know it would reassure me, and the front office, if we could see evidence of you finding some stability. There’s nothing much normal about this game, especially during your rookie season.
Having people in your life who’ll give you a sense of normalcy—well, you can’t put a price on that. ”
“Sir?” I ask.
“We’re a family-friendly team,” he says. “I know you grew up in the church. Maybe we could see a little more Sunday morning and a little less Saturday night. Especially on social media.”
So he saw that picture from last night. Me and that girl. Savannah. Goddess would have been more appropriate. Tall, curvy and thick, with laughing hazel eyes and the prettiest pink lips. She didn’t have any idea who I was. Better, she didn’t have any idea who Blake was.
We weren’t even doing anything—just talking—when campus security showed up. At least I didn’t get arrested. Again. See, I’ve learned. Really, there’s no reason that we should even be having this conversation because I am fine.
“Understood, sir.” I pull myself out of the chair and try not to groan. Really, a cup of coffee and I’ll be all right. Maybe a little hair of the dog would help…
I’m just about to go out the door when Coach says, “If the team isn’t seeing that you can project the kind of image we want, we’re making some tough decisions about the roster for the rest of the season. I’d like you to be on it, but as of right now…” He takes another loud sip.
He doesn’t need to finish that sentence for me to fill it in. They’re looking for a reason to cut me or trade me or send me down. “I want to be on the roster too.”
“Show me that you can be, Brayden.”
Of course this time, he gets my name correct.
An hour later, I’m showered, shaved, dressed, better. My head feels fine—see, I know my limits. Coach, of course, isn’t around to see that part. Stability. I’m perfectly fucking stable.
He wouldn’t do this to Blake. Because of course. Blake’s never been reamed out by a coach for acting like a ballplayer. Because he was too busy acting like a saint. Right up until he packed up and left for Boston.
Well, I’m not my brother. I’m not leaving unless they make me and I’m not going to let them make me. What I need is a plan: I’m not going to stop having fun just because of a few headlines and one bad night in a Georgia holding cell.
They want to see me with a good woman. Most of the girls I party with are…
what did Coach say? More Saturday night than Sunday morning.
I need someone who can smile for the cameras, who can say all the right things, someone who wants to be in Atlanta and who isn’t only with me because of who I am or who my family is.
Dimly, I remember offering Savannah money. A wad of cash I was gonna use for…definitely not tuition. Giving it to her felt right at the time, even if she’d shoved my hand away.
“What do you get in return?” she asked me.
I didn’t want anything at the time. No, that’s not true. I wanted to keep talking to her.
I open up Instagram. There’s that picture. Someone posted a dozen emojis with swirling eyes in the comments. He’s blitzed. He’s blazed. He’s a bust.
Someone tagged Savannah. Maybe you should just leave her alone…
That doesn’t stop me from clicking her profile.
Mostly, it’s pictures of mimosas and San Diego sunsets, Savannah on a beach next to a petite blond woman.
BFFs means forever, the caption reads. The blonde is cute enough—the kind of girl the team probably wants me to date.
Someone who could fade into the background of pictures.
Not like Savannah, who is sitting on a towel like she’s holding court. Her glossy brown hair is piled into a messy bun. Her sheer bathing suit coverup plays teasingly off her curves. Only one thin strap of a bikini visible on the soft, tanned skin of her shoulder. I want to snap it with my teeth.
She doesn’t need you. But she does need a ticket across the country. The chance to go to school for…bio-info-something. Whatever Atlanta has other than baseball fans, Waffle House, and too many churches.
A plan forms. Maybe not something as complicated as a Blake plan—he liked to pretend he wasn’t the one getting us in trouble, but mostly he was the one getting us not caught—but still a plan.
I type and erase half a dozen messages, then finally I send an emoji. A diamond ring.
Savannah: What’s that for?
Me: What is it traditionally for?
Savannah: That can’t be what I think it is.
Me: Are you serious about moving to Atlanta?
Savannah: Yes
Me: Then I was wondering…will you marry me?