Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
According to Google, I’m either having an identity crisis or low blood sugar. Jury’s still out.
I haven’t had a moment of peace since arriving in Atlanta on Sunday. Every second has been stuffed with practice, interviews, media coverage, and preparing for the biggest game I’ve ever played in.
And I need to play like my career depends on it. Because it does.
“Cade?” Mom peers into the bathroom. “Is everything okay?”
I loosen the purple tie around my neck and toss it into the sink. “All good, Ma.”
With a disbelieving lift to her brow, her eyes drop to my discarded tie. “I agree. No tie needed. You look red-carpet ready.”
The lavender linen jacket blazes against my skin, lush and impossible to ignore.
After a few days of no luck with outfits, Shay added me to a group message with the most fashionable person we know.
Within an hour, Adri was at my house with color swatches, fabric samples, mood boards, and reference photos.
In five days, she created my dream suit.
The tie was my idea, but Adri was right. It doesn’t work with my T-shirt.
Reaching up, Mom adjusts my jacket’s collar. “Are you ready?”
“As ready as I can be.” I press a kiss to her cheek. “Sorry for hogging the bathroom.”
“Never apologize for hanging out with me. It’s like the old days. I’m going to get dressed. Vi’s watching cartoons.”
Back in the living room, I drop onto the couch and grab my phone.
A blurry photo of Mallory, Adri, Jo, Kenneth, and Nan crammed into my minivan lessens the tightness in my shoulders.
I offered to fly them to Atlanta, but a road trip was too cool to pass up.
By the looks of it, Mallory is acting as chauffeur, which is why Kenneth has been blowing up my phone.
Mr. Kenneth Edwards
If we get stopped for speeding, blame Eddie
She’s worried we’re going to be late
90 in a 75. Send help
I’m so proud of you
The switch from fear to sentimental is jarring but appreciated.
Me
What for? I haven’t even stepped onto the field yet
Mr. Kenneth Edwards
I’d be proud even if you never did. See you tonight
“What time is the red carpet?” The tulle on Violet’s lilac dress rustles as she hops onto the couch beside me.
The crumpled agenda sits on the bedside table. I’ve already checked off breakfast at the hotel, uniform pick-up, morning media, practice, and lunch with the team.
“Two thirty,” I say. “Are you ready?"
Violet shakes her head. “Mom said there are gonna to be lots of cameras. Are you allowed to hold my hand while we walk?”
I can’t help but smile as I pull her against my side. More often than not, Violet seems so much older than eight years old, but right now, she’s the little sister I held tight to as we waited for Mom to get home from work.
“Of course, but I’m scared too. Promise you won’t let go?"
Her fear wanes, replaced with a smile. “I’ll protect you, and you protect me, C.C.”
“Wait, I’m feeling left out! Who’s going to protect me when I get scared?” Standing by the door, Mom looks like royalty. The plum jumpsuit flows around her ankles, bringing out the flecks of green in her eyes.
“Wow, Ma. You look great.” My head shakes as I take in our outfits. “Are we all matching by accident or was it fate?”
“Very planned.” She pats my cheek. “Thank your agent for that.”
My agent. The same woman who admitted she loved me. Past tense, sure, but even then, those were never words we shared.
They’re words I wish I would’ve said long before I left for California. Words I felt before I even knew I’d be leaving. Words that still ring true and are very much present for me.
And as much as I want to bring it up and tell her I felt—feel—the same, I know the meeting she wants to have in a few minutes is not about that.
I kneel down to lace up my sneakers, white with lavender soles.
“I’ll be back soon,” I say, hugging them both. “Going to meet Shay.”
As the elevator doors slide open, I find her in the crowd instantly. Amid the bedazzled gowns and sharp suits, her pink pantsuit blazes like a beacon. It pulls me by an invisible string across the room, unseen but unstoppable, until I’m standing right in front of her.
“It’s unfair for you to look this good and not walk down the red carpet with me. Is there a chance you’ll change your mind, Agent Shay? I’d love to have you beside me.”
“In your dreams.” Slender fingers drift toward my shirt, and the cotton sighs beneath her touch. “You look good too. Lavender is your color.”
“Thank my seamstress. She did all the hard work.” I follow her lead and take a seat on the cushy bench. “What did you want to talk about?”
She pulls three sticky notes out, and I smile. No yellow. Everything is pink. Exactly how I like it.
Shay holds up the first one. “The red carpet should be easy. As planned, you’ll walk down with your mom and Violet.
Fans will be lined up behind the barriers.
They’ll probably have baseballs to sign, so here’s a Sharpie and a backup.
” She tucks them into the pocket of my suit jacket.
“Selfies are okay, but only if you’re feeling up to it.
” She taps her nail against a line, and I laugh.
Don’t do anything you don’t want to do
I nod. “I’ll try my best.”
“Good. Second note, I coordinated with the communication team. When they announce your name on the red carpet and at the game, they’ll say Cade Owens. No nicknames. No titles.”
The room stills. “You told them not to call me the golden boy?”
Her head bobs. “The crowd may be screaming it, and I can’t make any promises with reporters, but yes. If the emcee even thinks about muttering golden boy, there’ll be hell to pay.”
For the guy who has been struggling to figure out who he is, having one event with my real name being called instead of the one assigned to me makes me more excited about tonight.
“Why did you do that?”
Finally, she meets my eye. There’s an unreadable twinkle in the deep color. “Because boundaries are important, and today is for you.”
We both look down at the final sticky note between her fingers, but she’s cut off mid-read when my name is called. It takes a moment to locate the voice, but then I see the scruffy brunette charging toward us.
“Cade! It’s really you!” Reed Jessen pulls me into a bear hug and lifts me like I weigh nothing. “I knew you were playing tonight, but I didn’t think I’d get to see you before heading back to Arizona! Have you gotten taller?”
“Nope, but you may be getting shorter. And I’m sorry I missed the All-Star Futures Game. I would’ve loved to see you play out there.” Placing my hand on Shay’s upper back, I push her forward. “Reed, this is my agent, Shaylene Turner.”
I don’t need to explain who Reed is. The glimmer of admiration in her gaze tells me she’s reciting his stats in her head.
“It’s great to meet you, Reed.” After folding the third sticky note, she hands it to me. “You two should catch up. I’ll see you at the red carpet. Good luck out there, Cade.”
As she disappears into the sea of people, Reed’s hulking figure steps into my eyeline. I haven’t seen my old friend in two years.
We hadn’t been friends before the draft, but in the days leading up to the best day of our lives, a bond was formed.
Between orientation with the staff, fittings for jerseys, and interviews, we were glued to each other’s sides.
Then, after being announced as the first draft pick, Reed was wheeled out of the ballpark and rushed to the hospital.
My chest aches. “I’m sorry I didn’t reach out sooner. I should’ve—”
A squeeze to my shoulder stops me. “I could’ve called you too, C. Don’t apologize. For that, or for what happened at the draft. To be honest, I’m surprised I didn’t have a panic attack sooner. It was just bad luck that it happened on stage.”
I shake away the mental image of him collapsing and try to smile. “Have things been better?”
The elastic band around his wrist snaps.
Once. And then again. “Honestly? Yeah. Dad isn’t pleased that I’m still in the minors, but oh well.
” A bony elbow jams itself into my side.
“But enough about me. I see they’re still calling you the golden boy.
I hoped we would both be free of our weight by now. ”
Reed was the closest thing I had to a kindred spirit in baseball. High expectations shaped us both, but he is major league royalty.
“Free?” I blow a raspberry. “Impossible. Are you free?”
“I think so, yeah.” His easy smile stiffens at the edges. “When we first met, we were the same. We ate, breathed, and shit baseball, trapped by the pressure to excel and succeed.”
“Exactly.” I point at the laugh lines around his eyes. At one point, getting him to smile felt like pulling teeth. “And now you look better.”
Reed leans in. “What if I told you the secret is therapy and meds?”
Shoving him away, I laugh. “Honestly, I’d probably believe you. But seriously. How’d you do it?”
A hotel lobby isn’t the place for a serious talk, but I need to know.
“You might not like the answer, but here’s the truth.
” His eyes pierce right through me. “My life got easier the moment I stopped giving a shit about what was expected of me and started doing what I wanted. When I did, baseball became fun again. Hell, life became more fun. People were forced to see me for me and not the person they expected me to be. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I’d do it all over again if I had to.
” Then, as if he didn’t rewire my brain, he stands and pulls me into a hug.
“I’ve got to catch my flight, but message me. Let’s get dinner!”
As I watch him go, his words play on repeat. People’s expectations didn’t stop; he stopped holding on to them so tightly.
It sounds impossible, but as I reach into my pocket as unfold Shay’s note, my heart skips a beat at the words. Reading them, I feel like I could do anything.
Just be Cade. That’s all that matters
There’s no space for negative energy at Peach Pit Stadium.
Coach Baxter’s pre-game speech was about having fun, and my teammates are doing just that.
Garrett Blane is laughing it up at first base with the opposing team’s runner.
Randy Alba did cartwheels after hitting an out-of-the-park home run.
Even Marcus, who is eerily serious for games, is chatting with fans from his crouched position behind home plate.
I’m likely the only person in the stadium frowning.
Groans fill the air as a ground ball slips past me and heads to the outfield, thankfully picked up by an outfielder.
If Jon were still my agent, he’d document that mistake and spend the rest of the game thinking about how if I were better and faster, I wouldn’t have let it get past me.
Our postgame meeting would revolve around planning extra practices and conditioning sessions until he was confident I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
But Shay’s my agent, and she smiles at me from behind the dugout.
Good or bad, rain or shine, there’s no scowl, no snarling anger, and no yellow notepad. Just an unwavering support I never want to lose.
“Breathe,” she mouths. “Just be.”
I close my eyes. Fun and baseball haven’t been used in the same sentence since I was in high school. That’s when the game moved from something I loved and enjoyed to something that defined who I am.
But I set a goal to just be, so I’m going to try my hardest.
A crisp crack of the bat sends a wave of gasps through the stands. Little do they know that this time, I’m ready. My cleats dig into the dirt as I shift to the left, glove low and knees bent. Muscle memory kicks in before doubt has a chance to whisper in my ear and tell me I’m too slow.
Leather meets the ball with a snap, and I flip it to Marco at second base, who rifles it to Garrett at first base. The double play draws a chorus of screams, but for the first time, I’m not reveling in everybody else’s excitement.
I’m reveling in mine.