Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Embarrassing myself at work sucks.
Especially when tens of thousands of people purchase tickets to watch me play well. But tonight, for nine innings, I sucked.
I step under the stream of scalding water and scrub away the grime, failure, and shame that’s nestled in every pore. It would be nice if I could do the same to my brain.
The knob squeaks as I turn off the water and blindly reach for my towel. Wrapping it around my waist, I step out of the shower and almost slip when I spot a shadow in the corner.
“What the hell, Daws? Are you trying to make me fall?”
Dawson Huber, the Pilots’ pitcher, straightens and holds out my wire-rimmed glasses. We both know I can’t see more than a few feet in front of me.
“Hey, golden boy. Nice shower?”
Slipping my glasses on, I ignore the nickname. “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough to hear you sniffling.”
False. I wouldn’t dare show that type of emotion in public.
Still, I force myself to smile. “Yeah right. You wish.”
Dawson honks a laugh. “Is it bad that I did hope you were in there crying?” He reaches up to pinch my cheek. “This constant smile is terrifying.”
As we enter the clubhouse, which is essentially our own private area away from the crowd, it’s eerily quiet. It seems that my teammates have already moved forward with their nights before we travel to New York in the morning, leaving the loss behind them. I’ve never been good at that.
“Hey, rookie,” Dawson says, rummaging through his locker.
“I know what you’re thinking, but tonight’s loss wasn’t your fault.
” His patient tone is similar to the one he uses while talking to Luke, his adorable five-year-old son.
“You can’t pin the loss on yourself when everyone has a chance at bat. We all hit the ball here.”
Try to hit the ball, I think. I couldn’t hit a single one tonight.
After being traded from California to North Carolina before spring training, I was paired with a veteran to help me acclimate to my new team.
I assumed Dawson got suckered into making the new guys feel at home, but I quickly realized I was the sucker who became the little brother he’d always wanted.
Which is why I’m getting yet another pep talk.
“By the way,” he continues, “Jon said to hurry. He looked pissed.”
I suppress a groan. “It’s just our postgame talk. No biggie.”
Lie. Big lie. Major lie. But Dawson doesn’t need to know that.
Tying the drawstring on my sweatpants, I watch my friend. White light illuminates his face as his fingers fly across his phone screen. He’s usually one of the first guys to leave the stadium, which means he’s likely sending a text to his wife, Rosie, promising to be home soon.
Dawson is happy, in love, and playing like a superstar.
I’m the exact opposite.
He drapes an arm around my shoulders and leads me to the exit. As we step out of the clubhouse, the fragile calm I’ve been trying to maintain shatters when I spot Jon pacing a few feet away. I need to get away from Dawson before he hears something he shouldn’t. Jon hates having an audience.
Shrugging out of his grip, I wave. “Get home safely, Daws.”
“You too!” Dawson orders, walking backward. “Team leaves at noon, but text me if you want to get breakfast!”
Once the door closes behind him, I feel my shoulders rise before I can stop them. With every step down the hallway toward my agent, I infuse myself with hope that this conversation will be different but it’s pointless. Even on my best game days, these talks aren’t easy.
Nothing with Jon is easy.
“Hey,” I say, pasting my smile on. “Sorry, I was—”
“Hiding from me?” Jon thrusts a legal pad full of notes into my hands. “The Jackals wiped the floor with you tonight! Did you even watch film or read my notes?”
He knows the answer to both questions. I don’t just watch film and study. I memorize everything. I know each subtle clue to expect. Hell, I could recite exactly how many pores are on every player’s face after staring at the screen until my eyes are bleary.
“You know I did, Jon.”
“Then explain that shit-show!” he erupts, anger filling the hallway.
“I know.” I sigh. “It was rough.”
“Rough? That’s an understatement. We need to discuss a plan before you head to New York tomorrow. I don’t leave for LA until the afternoon, so I’ll meet you here at five in the morning.”
Exhaustion seeps through me. If I could, I’d fall asleep right here on the hard floor. I wasn’t expecting to get much rest tonight, because I never do, but I was hoping for at least few peaceful minutes before assessing everything I did wrong.
“Come on, Jon. It’s already past eleven.” My voice cracks on the last word, and for a moment, I forget I’m a major league baseball player, not a child being scolded by a domineering parent.
I shove my hand into my pocket and sigh when my fingers find the familiar shape. The dice roll around my palm, and the soft knock of plastic on plastic is a soothing relief to the burn this conversation ignited.
It wasn’t always like this, but soon after being drafted, Jon went from my agent and friend to the shadow I couldn’t run away from.
“Listen, the league loves the golden boy, and it’s my job to make sure you don’t fuck it up.
” His palm roughly pats my cheek. “You either live up to the name or lose it. And losing it means losing baseball. Give them a reason to doubt you, and they’ll toss you aside.
People are already questioning if the Pilots brought you up too early. ”
I tug on a loc until my scalp burns. “It’s not fair that one bad game—”
“You think baseball cares about fair? One bad game can and will ruin it all for you. For us. You can’t afford to not be the best, so act like it. Train like it. Don’t let my hard work go to waste because you want to slack off and have a shitty night.”
My jaw drops. “Your hard work?”
It’s only now that I notice the pride settled deep into his frown lines.
“I monitor your stats and metrics. I ensure the media is up to date on your life and status. Whose notes are you constantly reading to help you figure out where to improve?” Gray eyes dart to the legal pad in my hands.
“I make sure you look good to the front office and keep your coaches happy, but after tonight, it’s going to take a lot to get you back in their good graces.
All those failed stops are the reason for tonight’s loss.
I know it. You know it. The team knows it. ”
In an instant, the sliver of hope Dawson gave me vanishes.
“But we’ll fix it,” Jon continues, squeezing my shoulder. “You’re on the field, and I’m in your head. That’s what makes us a great team.”
Relaxing his jaw, he morphs back into the cool agent I signed two years ago before I was drafted to the California Hornets. Smothering me with reassurance after ripping me to shreds is the next step on his manipulative agenda, and I always cling to it. Then he’ll promise that we’re partners.
But after endless postgame talks like this, I’ve finally realized what we have isn’t a partnership.
It’s my own personal hell.
“You’re fired?”
As the words slip from my mouth, I squeeze the dice for support.
Jon’s eyebrows wiggle, reminding me of those terrifying fuzzy caterpillars. They match his equally bushy mustache, slanted by his signature smirk. “I’m confused,” he says. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I’ve never done this before.”
Narrowing his eyes, Jon assesses me. At first, his attention was incredible.
I had finished my junior season at Clear Lake University and made the decision to play professionally.
Jon Sweeney represented big names with big contracts and even bigger careers.
Athletes I admired were on his client list, and he wanted to work with me.
I was honored. Grateful. Felt like the luckiest person in the world.
Until I wasn’t.
“Let’s go,” he grits out. “We can talk at your place. And walk normally. You’re limping.”
My left hip pulses as I correct my gait.
Hiding the ache is for the best. For my career.
For my image. People call it grit, treating me like a superhero because I never miss games for injuries or sickness.
But they don’t know about Jon’s constant reminders to prove myself.
I make do with over-the-counter pain killers to mostly dull the pain.
Stale air swirls around me as we step outside. Jon heads toward his sleek Mercedes that’s parked beside my reliable minivan. Without much thought, I start to follow him.
Then I stop. “No. You’re fired, Jon. I can’t do this anymore.”
The skin beneath his eye twitches. “You’re joking, right?”
Rubbing my temples does nothing to deter the building pressure. I assumed firing someone would be easy, based on television and movies, but this is hard.
“Don’t do this,” he continues, contorting his lips into a tight smile. “Everyone’s expecting the golden boy to shine this season, and I’m the only person who can get you there.”
Golden boy. My mom called me that as a kid. Still does. One day, it moved from being a family nickname to something my friends called me in passing, but somewhere along the way, it became my identity. At first, it felt like it was given with love.
Now, it’s a straitjacket of expectations.
“No. We’re done.”
His eyes flash. “After all I did for you? What about—”
“I’ll pay whatever I need to,” I say. I don’t care about the money.
The distance between us vanishes as he barrels forward and shoves his finger into my chest. “Do you have any idea where you’d be if it weren’t for me?
I’ll tell you.” He sneers, spittle flying between us.
“You would’ve been signed by some incompetent agent who doesn’t know jack shit about building real athletes.
How to make you look perfect. Without me, you’d still be sitting in the minors.
This”—his arm jerks toward Pilot City Stadium—“is because of me. You’re here because of me. ”
As if our heights have been reversed, I shrink at the power of his words.
“The Pilots didn’t want some kid. They wanted the golden boy I built.
You think they’d still want you if they knew you were ready to quit and run home after your first major injury?
Nope. I’m the one who held you together, and we got through it without missing a single game.
You need me, Cade, whether you like it or not. ”
I open my mouth to fight back, but nothing comes out. He’s right. Without Jon, there’s no telling where I’d be.
The simple fact is that his methods work.
I haven’t tasted failure like tonight in a long time.
Watching too much film, obsessing over every critique he writes on these yellow legal pads, pushing myself, diving into my perfect image, and focusing on stats and metrics may not be great, but all of that got me here.
As I’m about to take it back, a heavy hand lands on my shoulder.
A freckled hand.
Shit.
“Not sure what’s happening here, but get lost, Jon.” My best friend Kenneth’s usually gentle voice is harsh with irritation. “Now.”
Jon looks up, likely trying to place the redheaded intruder. They met once while I interviewed agents. Jon was Kenneth’s favorite choice at the time, but the grit in his voice shows that has changed.
Smoothing his suit jacket, Jon steps back. “I worked with Ted Daily, Heisman winner and three-time Super Bowl champion. Eli Jones won the goddamn gold twice with me by his side. And now I’m being fired by some kid? Yeah. Good luck, golden boy.” And with those final crushing words, he storms away.
The moment his car door slams shut, worried green eyes shift to me. I knew Kenneth was coming to tonight’s game, but this isn’t a conversation I wanted to have. Looks like I have no choice.
“So, how much of that did you hear?”
“Not much,” Kenneth mutters, dropping his scowl to the sidewalk.
If I didn’t know my best friend of twenty-plus years so well, I might have missed the way he pushed his tongue into his cheek before answering. All through high school, when I asked him how things were with his father, his too-quick answers were always preceded by his tell.
“Liar.”
“That’s not fair. You can always spot my lies.” His cheeks darken to match his scarlet waves. “Fine. I came around the corner when he said you needed him. That’s when I started running.”
My heart drops. He didn’t hear a lot, but it was still too much.
I squeeze the pad of Jon’s notes, desperate to suppress the guilt pulsing through my veins. Kenneth Gray has been my best friend since before we could speak coherent sentences, but I can’t figure out how to tell him everything. It’s impossible to explain the invisible weight I carry.
Intangible and inescapable.
Before Kenneth can speak again, I smile. This is how I keep the people I love from worrying. This is how I survive.
“Don’t worry about me, Kent. I’m okay.”
“You’re always okay. That’s why I worry, Cadey Boy.” Arms made strong from years of swimming wrap me in a hug, and I feel more secure than I have in weeks. Then he adds, “But you’re not rehiring him. You’ll find a better agent. I’m sure of it.”
At least someone’s feeling hopeful.