Chapter 14
Alex
Daphne’s voice spilling into the hallway makes me slow my steps. Not for the first time, I’m glad I’m wearing soft-soled shoes.
“It’s just not what I signed up for. I’ve been doing this job for fifteen years.
It’s always been baseball focused. We’d collect game previews, recaps, and quotes from players, but always in a respectful manner.
If someone was in a slump, it would be noted.
Same if defensive adjustments were made or if the lineup was transitioning, but other than casually reporting a marriage or birth of a child, we left the players’ personal lives out of it. ”
“Now it’s different?” Mags asks.
“This new producer…” Daphne makes an irritated sound in her throat.
“He comes from one of those gossip shows. You know the kind. They stalk celebrities and try to get unflattering pictures, always trying to dig up dirt.” She scoffs.
“That might be okay for Hollywood, but it’s not the kind of journalism I want to be a part of. ”
A cold weight settles in my stomach because I agree with Daphne. I’ve started pushing back against my producer Cecil’s suggestions because I want to have a successful career reporting on baseball without resorting to cheap tactics.
Sliding my shoulder back, I clear my throat loudly before striding through the open door. “They just told me that the manager’s media session has been moved up an hour.”
Daphne nods, collecting equipment.
“We’ll be busy for a few hours, but then you and I can have lunch before the game starts.”
Mags tugs a large-print book from her woven purse. “I’m good here.”
“I’ll get you a bottle of water before I leave,” I tell her, leaning down to kiss her hair.
Daphne and I go through our routine, but I swear I see Mags’s patchwork maxi skirt in places she definitely shouldn’t be—riding on the industrial mower while a grounds crew cuts the grass, getting a tour of the bullpen by a few rookie pitchers, leaning on the counter beside a soda machine at concessions, sipping from a bubbling cup.
Sure enough, when I return to the small office, my grandmother is nowhere to be found.
“That little minx.”
“I heard she’s in the press box,” Daphne says, setting her camera on the table.
I shake my head. “She doesn’t even have a badge.”
She shrugs. “Determined women rarely let something like a piece of plastic get in their way.”
My mind chews on my coworker’s words as I climb the stairs to the open-air press box. My grandmother has never let anything deter her—be it learning to surf at a time when the sport was dominated by men or stepping in to raise her granddaughters when her son’s wife passed away far too young.
Mags’s spitfire attitude is one of the reasons why I never doubted my ability to make it to the Olympics.
After all, she’d put me on a board as a toddler while she taught Amelia how to surf.
When I exceeded her abilities, Mags made sure I spent hours in the water with the best surf instructors in San Diego.
Though Mags would paddle out and surf on her own—often joining in on a party wave—Amelia preferred to cheer for me from the comfort of the sand.
My grandmother’s zest for life meant Amelia and I would occasionally be pulled out of school to ride roller coasters.
She’d let us eat whipped cream right out of the can, dye our hair whatever colors we wanted, and taught us to drive at thirteen, arguing that we were both tall enough.
Amelia was generally more cautious than me, sometimes refusing to participate, but I loved Mags’s hijinks.
Sometimes I miss being the fearless girl that used to be up for anything. It’s the one hurdle of my recovery I can’t quite get over. Every time I try to push myself, I remember how I took a chance on a monster wave and ended up in the ICU.
That’s why I caved when Mags kept asking about a boyfriend.
I know she hates how I lost that side of myself.
I didn’t want to disappoint her by also being boyfriend-less.
Though I’ve made a few crude attempts at dating over the years, my longest committed relationship has been with my electric heating pad.
That fact never bothered me before, but now my legs feel leaden as I trudge upstairs.
My fatigue dissipates like smoke when I turn the corner and Mags’s boisterous laugh greets me. I can’t help but smile as I lean against the door frame, watching my grandmother chat with Chris, the reporter for the Charlotte Comets.
“There you are,” she says with a mischievous grin.
“There I am? Aren’t you supposed to be downstairs?”
Mags makes a little psh sound before lifting a soda cup dripping with condensation. “I got you a Dr. Pepper—extra ice.”
“I guess you can be forgiven for Dr. Pepper.” I take a deep draw from the straw, releasing a happy sigh. Fountain-poured Dr. Pepper is infinitely better than canned or bottled.
“Check this out.” Chris does a full spin in his rolling office chair. “We got new digs.”
“Please don’t come at me with your millennial slang,” I joke before going in for another sip.
Chris and I have a running slang-off whenever we’re in the same press box. He was one of the few reporters who was actually nice to me when I started, offering advice on how to claw my way out of triple-A coverage, and the one who tipped me off about the job at the Waves.
His grin widens. “Dude, chillax. Hating on these chairs would be an epic fail.”
I roll my eyes at him before sitting down in a surprisingly comfortable chair. “Whoa.”
“Right?” He raises his eyebrows. “Who’s cheugy now?”
“You, Chris. Always you.”
Chris only laughs, running his fingers through his lightly graying hair before turning to chat with my grandmother again.
I lean back in the low-profile ergonomic chair, exhaling a long, slow breath.
The lumbar support is the stuff of daydreams. A game could go into extra innings, and I’d be completely content to sit here forever.
In fact, I think I’ll park it right here for the rest of the day.
My delighted reverie is cut short when I see a pink pastry box tucked into the corner of the counter we use for our laptops.
I roll over to lift the lid, my heartbeat sprinting to a gallop.
Just as I suspected, the same delectable pastries I devoured this morning stare back at me—the ones from the bag Tenny dropped atop my kitchenette yesterday.
“Where did these come from?”
“The pastries? They were delivered with the chairs. Nice bonus, huh?”
“Yeah,” I mumble.
My fingers tremble as I fish my phone out of the pocket of my fit-and-flare dress.
Alex
Did you have something to do with the chairs in the press box being replaced?
When Tenny doesn’t respond right away, I silently chide myself. I can’t expect him to be available to me when he’s got team commitments. Setting the phone face down on the counter, I take a settling gulp of Dr. Pepper.
Only a few grounds crew members are on the field, checking that everything is ready for today’s game.
My gaze loses focus over the diamond as I try to sort out my feelings.
This has Tenny’s fix-it energy written all over it.
Though I’m undoubtedly grateful for the comfortable chair, him going through all this trouble—and expense—just so my back doesn’t ache feels like…
When my phone pings, I lurch for it like a kid who spotted the ice cream truck.
Tenny
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Alex
Tenny…
Tenny
Yes?
Alex
I know it was you.
Tenny
I don’t know how that’s possible. I’m in the dark, just like you.
My fingers fly over the digital keyboard, typing all manner of demands for him to fess up before my thumb deletes them all.
Alex
Thank you.
Tenny
I don’t know what you’re thanking me for. I didn’t do anything.
An exasperated puff leaves my mouth.
Alex
For the capybara.
I wait a beat and then type.
Alex
I named her Carly.
Tenny
Carly the Capybara. Is she coming to dinner with us tonight? If so, I need to ask for a different table.
A smile blooms on my lips. When was the last time I had this much fun texting with someone?
Alex
I think she can stay in the hotel and watch movies with Mags.
Tenny
If you’re sure.
A chuckle escapes me.
Alex
I’m sure.
Dots appear and recede, appear and recede. Just when I think he got pulled in another direction, another text pops up.
Tenny
I can’t wait to see you tonight.
A flotilla of balloons feels caged within my ribs.
Alex
You’ll see me in an hour for clubhouse interviews.
Tenny
Yeah, but you won’t be interviewing ME.
My lips quirk.
Alex
Jealous?
Tenny
Maybe…
Tenny
But only slightly.
Tenny
Fine. I’ll admit it. I want to be the center of attention all the time.
I burst out laughing, unable to contain it.
“What’s so funny?” Chris’s question pulls me out of my happy little bubble.
“Um…” I tuck my hair behind my ear, not quite sure how I should explain.
“She’s texting with her sweetheart of a boyfriend.” Mags beams at me, her hands clasped beneath her chin.
“A boyfriend?” Chris tilts his head. “Since when?”
I press my phone to my chest in mock offense, standing and striding toward the exit. “Don’t challenge my main character energy.”
Chris just laughs along as I help my grandmother up and escort her to lunch.
It’s better if no one else knows about the fake relationship with Tenny…even if it’s starting to feel less fake.