Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
LOGAN
Ten minutes into my plane being in the air, I’m already being waited on.
“Sir, can I get you anything?”
Gotta love first class. I guess there are some perks to playing in the big leagues.
“I’ll take a scotch,” I say. “On the rocks.”
“Of course.”
She doesn’t blink, and doesn’t question that it’s barely ten in the morning.
She just gives me a polite smile and disappears down the aisle. I lean back in the seat.
The glass shows up a minute later. I take a sip and let it sit, but it doesn’t do much.
“Big day?” she asks.
There’s a hint of something there. Curiosity, and maybe a little flirtatiousness.
“Something like that.”
She lingers half a second longer than necessary, then smiles.
“Let me know if you need anything else.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Not rude. Just final. I am oh-so not in the flirting headspace.
She nods, gets the message, and moves on.
I stare out the window at the clouds.
Then after a while, I pull my phone out and unlock it.
Her name’s still there.
No new messages.
I could text her and try to clear things up.
Instead, I lock the screen, set the phone face down on the tray and take another sip.
This is what I wanted.
Right?
Florida hits different.
Even before I step off the plane.
The muggy heat is the kind that sticks to your skin.
By the time I make it through the terminal, there’s a guy waiting with a sign.
LOGAN WADE
“Logan?” he says.
“Yeah.”
He grins, sticking out a hand. “Welcome to Tampa.”
The black SUV is nicer than anything I’ve ever been in. It’s got leather seats with cold air blasting.
“Got you set up at the hotel for now,” he says as we pull out. “Team’ll want you at the stadium tomorrow. Physical, media, the whole deal.”
I nod. “Sounds good.”
Palm trees blur past the window.
Everything looks…bigger.
Cleaner, too. Maybe a little sterile though.
There’s less cornfields, and way more people.
“Hell of a moment you had,” he adds. “That video? Man—that thing’s everywhere.”
I nod again.
“Yeah.”
I won’t say anything else. Because all I can see is her standing in the kitchen, looking at me.
Yeah. Bro. Snap out of it.
My jaw tightens, and I turn back to the window, examining the palm trees.
Florida really is the sunshine state for a reason.
The sky is endless blue, and not a cloud—or a cornfield—in sight.
Everything I worked for, my whole life. And somehow, it doesn’t feel like winning.
He pulls up and lets me out at The Hilton. Well, at least I’ll have fresh sheets tonight.
The clubhouse the next day is louder than I expected.
It’s a different kind of loud. Not the loose, joking-around energy from Riverbend.
This is sharper and a little faster.
Everyone’s got something to prove. You can feel the egos oozing out from all the different characters on the team.
“Hey!”
I look up, and a couple guys are already clocking me, seeing how I measure up.
One of them grins.
“Well if it isn’t Babe Ruth himself,” he says. “Field of Dreams called—they want their storyline back.”
Another guy snorts. “Kevin Costner’s gonna be pissed you stole his thunder, Cornboy.”
I give a small nod.
“Yeah. Something like that.”
They laugh, not in a mean way necessarily. They’re just testing me. But I’m not in the mood.
I head to my locker and see my brand new nameplate with orange and blue colors.
LOGAN WADE
It still feels surreal to be here. It’s so funny that when you achieve a dream, it’s never what you thought it’d be like.
I barely have time to sit down before I hear my name.
“Logan.”
I look up and see my new manager standing there.
“Got a minute?” He doesn’t exactly grin.
“Of course.”
“Our third baseman’s out,” he says. “Tore his ACL yesterday.”
“So I heard.”
A beat passes, like he’s waiting for me to say something else. I don’t.
“So you’re in tonight. Starting at third. Batting seventh.”
I nod. “Sounds good.”
He studies me for a second, like he’s waiting for something else.
“Damn, buddy,” he says finally. “You excited or what?”
“For sure.”
“You don’t look it. You look stoic as hell.”
I shrug. “Let’s go. I’m ready.”
“Alright. A man who gets down to business. I like that.”
I stand, grab my glove, and I head out for my first major league warm up.
The stadium lights hit differently here. They’re brighter, sharper, and everything’s louder.
The crowd’s already buzzing as I jog out to the field and take my spot at third.
The dirt feels the same. At least that part hasn’t changed.
I flex my glove and set my feet.
“Hey, rookie,” the shortstop calls over. “Don’t screw this up.”
I glance at him, and he grins.
“Oh really? I was going to try and screw it up. Now I won’t.”
“Geezus,” he comes back with. “Just making conversation.”
The first pitch comes in, and the batter swings, rocketing the ball right down the line. Right at me.
Instinct takes over. I move, glove down, handle it clean, then fire it across the diamond for an out.
The crowd pops, but I don’t react.
Just turn, walk back to my spot, and tap the dirt with my spikes.
Because just for a second, I swear I can hear her.
Yeah.
My jaw tightens.
The next pitch is a ball.
Man, I’m going insane. Maybe I’m the one who’s going to need a rebound now.
Except, what I really want is just to see Cassie after this game.
I bite my lower lip, and reach into my back pocket for a few sunflower seeds, and take it all in.
Our pitcher strikes out the next two batters, and we jog into the dugout.
One of the veteran catchers catches my eye as I hit the dugout steps.
“Hey, rookie,” he says, nodding toward me. “Try and have some fun out there, will ya? You look like you’re waiting in line at the DMV.”
That gets a small laugh out of me.
I shake my head, forcing something that almost looks like a smile.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll work on that.”
But as I drop onto the bench, still chewing the same damn seeds, I already know I won’t.