50. JACKSON
FIFTY
JACKSON
My knee bounces erratically as I face my locker.
Locker. I scoff—or that’s what I intended.
It came out more like a strangled llama.
I’m sitting in what is essentially a large walk-in closet.
It’s stocked with every piece of clothing I could need while I’m at the clubhouse.
Somehow, someone somewhere managed to determine my size.
Multiple pairs of cleats rest on a shoe shelf. New gloves are in one of the cubbies just waiting for me to break them in. My worn, tried-and-true one from this season with the Clippers next to them. Ready to serve me tonight.
And with it all…the jersey and pants I’m in right now. With my number. Eighty-eight. I’m officially Jackson Olander, Berkeley Dune Enforcer, number eighty-eight.
Major. League. Ballplayer.
I cradle my head in my hands. Holy fucking shit.
There is a very good chance I’ll hurl all over my shiny new cleats—the ones I did my damnedest to break in today. I was hoping I’d get some of this anxiety out during BP, but it did jack shit.
I close my eyes and breathe. And remind myself that when this is all over, when this amazing and completely terrifying game is done, I get to go home to him.
Frankie.
My someone.
I’m not alone.
“You all right, kid?”
I lift my head and turn to look over my shoulder.
A brown-haired, bearded man with bright hazel eyes stares back at me.
He’s got a friendly aura about him, even though his confident stance is one of a man who owns a room.
I let out a shaky breath. Jimmy Schultz.
Captain of the BDE. Been playing shortstop for them for ten years.
I give him a tight smile. With the way my stomach is squirming like a bed of eels, I’m not willing to chance opening my mouth.
His expression turns sympathetic. “Worried you’re going to puke?
” He claps me on the shoulder. “Been there. Best advice I can give you? Go out there and play ball like you’re out in the sandlot back home.
That’s all this is. Just a fancy sandlot.
We’re just a bunch of kids throwing together a neighborhood ball game. ”
I swallow hard and nod. Right. Just some backyard baseball.
“Have you eaten?”
I vehemently shake my head. Have I eaten? Have I slept? Nope. And nope. Am I going to embarrass myself in front of the entire world when I vomit and then pass out on national television? Yes, yes, in fact, I am.
He tsks. “Follow me, rook. I know exactly what you need.”
I blindly follow. He could lead me to a den of vipers and push me in, and I’d walk in without a second thought.
Because I have no thoughts. I have trained for this moment my entire life.
But I forgot to prepare for one small piece.
The visibility. The cameras are close enough to catch every breath—every misstep—every error.
The entire world is watching.
Brick.
After brick.
After agonizing brick of pressure piles on.
“Yo, Ralphie!”
I jerk.
Schultz led me down the hall to a small kitchenette area. “We need calories, and we need to combat a puke risk.”
A guy dressed in BDE’s signature blue hurries from a back room, dumping a box of containers, all various supplements—protein powder, creatine, beta-alanine.
His attention falls on me, and he sizes me up in one quick look. “Any food allergies?”
I shake my head, and then he’s throwing a bunch of things in a blender.
Schultz bumps my shoulder. “Ralphie here will get you any shake you need. You just tell him what you’re looking for, and he’ll be able to throw something together.
The clink of ice cubes fills the air, then the blender whirls. Thirty seconds later, a bright green smoothie slides across the counter toward me.
“Mint, banana, flavorless collagen protein and electrolyte powder, almond milk, honey, and a handful of spinach. I kept it simple for you. No extra caffeine to add to your jitters. The mint and honey should kick those nausea nerves.”
I open and close my mouth helplessly. This is like being in a whole new world. “Thanks,” I manage. I turn to Schultz. “And thank you, man. Like, really.”
I take a tentative sip of the smoothie—and holy shit, it’s bangin’. The mint settles in my stomach, soothing it instantly.
“Don’t mention it.” He gently pushes me back toward the locker room. “I’ve been where you are, kid. I was traded three times my first season getting the call-up.”
My lungs stall, and I trip, almost losing my smoothie.
“Woah, easy. Sorry, maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say.
” He sends me a sheepish smile. “It’s nerve wracking.
Every clubhouse has a different vibe. But you’re in good hands here.
The BDE vibe is really chill. We’re a newer team, and we’re hungry to make a name for ourselves.
We don’t have the old-franchise pressure like the Yankees or the Dodgers.
I know you’ve been here a hot second, but I promise all the guys are great.
Even Sanchez. He mostly grunts, but he’s a total teddy bear. ”
My lips twitch, and a teeny-tiny bit of that overwhelming pressure lessens, a single brick falling off. We step into the locker room, and my phone vibrates in my pocket. I peek at it, and my eyebrows shoot up. A video call from Shane?
“Ah, sorry. Is it okay if I take this? It’s my old Triple-A team.”
Schultz barks out a laugh. “Dude, I’m not your mother. Take the call. Though I make no promises that I won’t butt my head in.”
I answer and open my mouth—but Shane, of course, cuts me off.
“Yooooo. Look at your sexy self, Olliebear. Pro-ball jerseyed the fuck up.” He lifts his fist to his mouth. “Dayumnnnnn.”
Schultz is cracking up next to me, and I can’t hold back my grin. Shane is something else. Even though his face is taking up most of the screen, it looks like he might be in the locker room. “You guys just finish up your game?”
The video tilts, and then I’m looking at Easton’s face. “Yeah, managed to scrape a win thanks to Shane’s base stealing and Trent’s ridiculous defense. But damn, do we miss your hot bat.”
“And his Norse god-like size,” Paulie calls from somewhere in the background.
Trent’s face pops on screen. “Congrats, man.”
My heart gives a small tug. Trent and I were just getting to know each other. He’s a good kid. I’d never realized just how bittersweet achieving my dream would be.
Easton holds the phone as far up as he can, and the rest of my old team gathers in the screen’s frame.
“Good luck, Olander!” O’Neil yells from the crowd.
“Go kill it!” Slater adds.
“We’re heading to the bar to watch you,” Shane says. “We’ll be lifting our beers to you, bro. We miss you.”
“And some of us are really fucking jealous,” Thompson says, and laughter spills through the speakers. “You made it, man. We’re so happy for you.”
“Thanks, guys. I’ll try to make you proud.”
Schultz bumps my shoulder and gives me a what am I, chopped liver look. I huff out a laugh and then turn the phone. Gasps and oh shits erupt on the screen.
“Oh, and meet Jimmy Schultz, guys. Schultz, meet my old Triple-A team, the Providence Clippers.”
“Ohmigod,” Shane squeals. “You’re like my second favorite shortstop ever.”
I snort. Have a feeling I know who his favorite is.
Schultz chuckles. “Thanks, man. Honored.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Been trying to help keep this guy from tossing his guts.”
Shane’s face turns serious. “Box breathing, bro. Four in and four out. You need to find your center and then manifest. Visualize that ball in leather. Hear the crack of that bat. Oh, and see if you can snag a ginger tea.”
My smile turns soft. I really fucking miss these guys. “Thanks, man,” I say roughly. Because now, instead of nervousness, I’m being besieged by…homesickness.
Shane tsks. “Bro. Thanks, bro. Man.” He scoffs. “Like I’m some rando. Seriously, Olliebear. Am I nothing to you?”
Easton snickers, and Schultz’s shaking shoulders jostle into me as he tries to stifle his laughter.
Paulie steals the phone and puts the call back on the rails. “Good luck, Olander. Wish we could be there too.” His eyebrows lift meaningfully. “Now get out of here before Shane starts up a yoga session or some shit.”
I hang up and pocket my phone.
“Looks like you had a good group of guys back there,” Schultz says.
“It’s one of the tough realities of this game.
But based on that call…I think you’ll fit in just fine here, rook.
Let’s head down to the field for a throw around.
We’ll loosen you up. And if you really need a yoga session, guarantee La Cruz—our second baseman—will lead the charge. ”
I draw in a breath and count to four. The smell of grass and earth mixed with a hint of brine from the nearby ocean fill me. Release. Count to four.
And, damn Shane, but he was right. It does help.
The stadium lights burn into my skin like I have my own personal sun shining directly over me. My gut hasn’t settled, but the pressure in my chest has eased.
It’s no wonder Jimmy Schultz is captain. He’s not that much older than me, but he carries an almost paternal presence. It didn’t take long to see he’s the gravity of this team. Every person turns toward him as he walks by—a respect earned through his obvious camaraderie and gentle command.
I was able to get to know a couple of the guys a little better while tossing the ball around—finally able to let go a bit and not be blinded by my panic.
Schultz was right about La Cruz too. He’s a goofy guy, rocking a sick set of braids, bursting with energy, who I’m pretty sure would be best friends with Shane.
He actually rode Eli Derby, our right fielder, out onto the field.
La Cruz’s chestnut stallion, apparently because of Derby’s auburn hair.
Another thing I could totally hear Shane saying.
I shift and roll my shoulders as the first batter steps up to the plate. Go time. Standing out here, waiting for the moment I have to remember how to catch a ball, is torture. I can just picture— No. Manifest. Ball in glove.
I toe the grass and twist my foot back and forth. If it comes my way, I’ll be ready.
Ball in glove.
Ball in glove.
Crack.
It’s hit hard, high—right at me. I lock onto it, tracking its flight, my legs already moving before my brain’s caught up.
I shuffle under it, and the ball drops neatly into my glove.
Easy high fly. I blink at the white peeking out of my brown leather glove.
My first big league out. I grin and glance skyward.
Thank you, baseball gods, for handing me that one.
I fire it back to the infield and shake out my arm. All right. Got the first catch out of the way.
Let’s do this.
I clap my glove a couple times, then crack my neck. What a fucking game. Top of the ninth, one out, and we’re up seven-six. If we can just hold on to this, it’s over. Major league debut ending on a win. And I might not have crossed the plate, but I drove in two.
I was really hoping that hit was going to leave the park, but instead I clipped the top of the giant wall in center field. The giant breathing down my neck right now.
It’s a whole new skill set I need to learn—playing with that mammoth obstacle.
I robbed home runs on the Clippers. Those days are over.
The wall at my back is at least triple my height.
Now I have to learn to play the bounce. I fumbled one in the sixth because I didn’t read it right.
The runner ended up scoring that inning, and I’ve been kicking myself since.
Our closer, Deacon, fires in a heater. Big swing…and miss. Strike number three. Two down. One to go.
I bounce on my toes. One more. One more.
The next batter steps into the box. He’s one of the leading home run hitters in the league. I let out a slow breath. We’ve got this. I silently send every good thought I’ve got Deacon’s way.
He pitches from the stretch and—fuck. A clean snap. I know that snap. Big. Fucking. Hit.
The ball’s tearing my way. It’s not making it over the giant behind me, though. My pulse ricochets in my veins as I backpedal. This is all on me. My gaze flicks between the wall and the ball. Do I go for the catch or play the bounce? It’s coming in hot.
Wall. Ball. Wall. Ball.
Make a decision, Jackson.
If I choose wrong, he’s standing on third at best. I know I can gun it in, but that guy’s fast as fuck.
It’s high… It’s risky… But I go for it.
I pick up speed and launch myself at the wall. I dig my spikes into the padding and hurl myself up, glove outstretched. My muscles scream as I reach, eyes locked on the ball, me rising, it crashing down.
If I miscalculated, if I’m even half an inch off, this will have been the wrong choice.
My wrist bends as the ball smacks into the webbing. I squeeze.
Mine. Mine. I’ve got it!
And then I’m falling.
That’s the ground rushing up at me.
Fuck, that’s going to—
I hit hard, air exploding out of my lungs. My fingers are locked tight. I can’t breathe. My vision dots over. But I. Will. Not. Let. Go.
I roll onto my side, chest burning as I fight for air. Finally, I suck in a gasping breath. I lift my glove to the heavens. Not being able to breathe has never felt better.
Out.
That’s the ball game, folks.