Chapter 10
10
Never again.
It’s what I told myself sixteen years ago, which was the last time I attempted organized sports. It was a class field trip to the batting cages that was “going to be fun”—they said. That was until Jimmy DelGiorno thought it’d be hilarious to switch the lever to fastball just ahead of my turn. Naturally, when the ball came hurtling toward me at warp speed, I froze. On top of that, my hand placement on the bat left a lot to be desired, so I went home with a broken metacarpal. This time around, a fresh round of torture has been set up by none other than my label publicist, Lydia Caplin.
“I hear the meeting ended up in kind of a rocky place,” she’d said to me two days ago in her signature high-pitched, singsong rhythm. “Angelo and I spoke with Mr. Westbrook’s manager, Gabriel, and we felt it might be advantageous for you both to get some one-on-one time together. You know…to break the ice a bit before your shoot.”
She knows throwing Angelo’s name in the mix is more likely to get me to do the thing , whatever that thing may be. Even if he’s lost some trust points for throwing me a major curveball the other day. Don’t get me wrong, Lydia is good people. But she’s also one of Onyx Records’ people. And these days, that puts her squarely in the “smile and nod, but don’t forget to stay woke” category.
Nevertheless, I haven’t been able to shake off the ick from how I behaved toward Miles and Gabriel at the meeting. My shame quadrupled after I did my research on the Evelyn Foundation and discovered it was named after Miles’s grandmother, Evelyn Garcia-Westbrook. In a GQ profile on Miles from several years ago, he talked about how she led after-school and weekend programs for teen mothers and their children in New York City. Eventually, with philanthropic sponsorship, she was able to expand her programs to service young moms and children across the five boroughs. And when she passed away six years ago, Miles launched the foundation in her honor to carry on that legacy. Now the foundation runs after-school programs as well as winter and summer camps, on top of providing scholarships for teen moms to continue their education.
So, after spending a few days scolding myself, I agreed to a get-together with Miles as a small way of making amends.
It’s still the offseason, so I was supposed to meet “Mr. Westbrook” at a relatively deserted Dodger Stadium at seven o’clock. However, and because I’m a basket of anxiety, I arrived with thirty minutes to spare, hoping I could work the nerves out through a few rounds with the Calm app in my car. But after three guided meditations and one breathing exercise with a rainscape in the background, I’m just as jittery as when I parked. Only now I’m also in a rush to be on time.
Hopping out of the car, I grab my olive branch and quickly remove the tag. I figured it might serve as a nice gesture to wear a Dodger blue baseball cap after I caught Miles off guard with my very candid and somewhat caustic remarks at what I now refer to as the Cursed Meeting from Hell . This way, by “committing to the bit,” I can also signal that we’re on the same team and I am not an evil monster risen from the depths. Apart from that, I’m in my signature disguise—natural curls, no brows, lashes, or concealer, and wearing gym shoes, leggings, and an oversized sweatshirt. In other words, I’m totally disarmed.
I wipe my sweaty palms down my front side and start trekking through the sparse parking lot toward Gate A exactly as Lydia instructed me to do. As I draw nearer to the main entrance that reads Welcome to Dodger Stadium in bold, classic blue and white, a tall figure comes into clear view. He’s leaning on one of the thick navy blue columns that support the iconic blue Heaven on Earth signage.
From a distance of several yards, it’s apparent that he’s not smiling at my approach. Instead, he just watches me—his eyes intently tracking my forward progress make every cell in my body vibrate with uncertainty.
When I’m two feet from Miles, he finally speaks. “So, you made it,” he says, in a tone that suggests he thought I might flake.
In an effort to portray the enthusiasm he clearly lacks, I say, “I did!” And then add, “Couldn’t wait, actually!” for good measure.
A line forms between his brows, and his mouth twists, suggesting he’s not quite buying what I’m selling. Already, we’re off to a less than desired start, and it feels like a good time for me to fall on my proverbial sword.
I take a deep breath and release it on a shaky exhale. Then, inwardly, I roll my eyes at myself because really, there’s no reason for me to feel shy in front of this man when he’s already seen me half naked and heard me mouth off about him. Still, there’s something about being in his presence that knocks me slightly off-balance. It’s not just that he’s attractive, standing there in his navy joggers and a gray workout shirt that fits snug around his arms and chest. Or that he’s tall and built like a walking Calvin Klein billboard.
“Uh…sooo you ready to head on in?” he asks, interrupting my mental sweep of his appearance. His words are brisk, like he might be in a rush to get this over with. I can’t say I blame him if he’s still offended or even annoyed by me. What I said was bratty and out of line, even if he wasn’t intended to hear it.
“Ummm, yes.” Now I’m the one who can’t seem to get my words out. “But before we get started I wanted to—” apologize . I wanted to apologize, is what I mean to say. But, “say thank you” is what comes out of my mouth instead. “I wanted to thank you for agreeing to be in the video with me,” I continue, trying to sound agreeable, normal—like my tongue isn’t sedated.
Surprisingly, Miles smirks and crosses his arms. “Is that right?” he asks, with one thick eyebrow arching into the deep brown of his smooth forehead. “Because if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you might want to apologize first?”
I’m so caught off guard by that, a laugh bubbles up from my chest. Then, and probably because though I have perfected it, I still don’t like doing as I’m told, something stubborn and defiant begins to bloom inside me. And suddenly I don’t feel so remorseful anymore. I feel like the games have just begun, a routine I’m all too comfortable with. “Oh really?” I volley back with some sass. “And what exactly is it I’m supposed to be apologizing for?”
All of a sudden, Miles sobers. His eyes shift across the planes of my face and he looks down. What felt playful and feisty a moment ago now feels heavy and uncertain, like rapidly changing tides. “I am sorry, you know,” I say, rushing to get us out of this weirdness where I can’t quite tell up from down, let alone how to act around him. “What you overheard me saying the other day. It wasn’t me.”
“It sounded like you,” he says. And my attempt to hide the sting apparently fails. “I mean, it felt real,” he explains. “Like you’ve been put in a hard spot and you were just saying how you really felt around people you’ve trusted to help you figure things out. I barged in on a private conversation and caught a few strays. Sucks, but I can’t pretend I don’t get where you were coming from.” When he’s finished speaking, the edge of a smile peeks through on his lips, and it feels like a pardon.
I sigh with relief and another errant laugh pops out of me. Even though nothing is funny. He’s doing again what he did that night backstage at the Grammys—reading me with seemingly no effort at all. Despite all the ways I’ve tried to make myself a blank page for people, producers, managers, fans, to project their intentions, wants, and desires onto, standing next to Miles Westbrook, whether in a crowded room or alone on a stage, I feel like I’ve already bared my soul.
“Well, that may be so, but none of it was fair where you’re concerned,” I confess. “You’ve been nothing but kind and thoughtful when it comes to me, and I of all people should know what it’s like to have the tabloids run wild with headlines and then to have everyone take it as Bible. For all I know you could be the opposite of a fuckboy. You could be a choirboy. You could be celibate!” I’m rambling now, as I tend to. So I quit before I dig an even deeper hole.
He smiles a big smile this time, and I feel it at the center of my chest.
“Apology accepted,” he cuts in, totally sidestepping my last statement—which is probably for the best. It saves us from any awkward conversational detours we’d be liable to take.
He raises an arm to gesture toward the field entrance behind him, and my gaze catches on a long scar tracing the inside of his right elbow. I file it away in the memory box of my mind. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think we came here to play some ball,” he says, smirking.
I smile back at him and fall in step as he leads me inside the stadium.
“I have been to exactly one Major League Baseball game,” I tell Miles entirely unprompted.
We’re standing near the dugout now with the stadium beams on at fifty percent. It’s more than enough light for me to feel the gravity of being here, at the center of a world-class baseball field with one of the league’s ace pitchers.
“No way!” he says, with what looks to be genuine surprise. “That Yankees versus Astros playoff game in 2019?”
Now it’s my turn to be shocked. “And how on earth would you know that?” I ask.
“Pfft. Easy,” he says, flashing a dimple that makes my heart stutter. “You sang the national anthem.”
“Ah. So you have googled me?” I cross my arms and lean against the rail.
“Was that in question?” he asks with a straight face. “I’m supposed to believe you haven’t googled me?”
Touché. I simply shrug before sauntering over to the baseball tee he’s set up for me at home plate. Perhaps I should be offended that he’s so accurately clocked my aptitude, or lack thereof, by supplying a child’s setup. But given my past injury and the residual trauma, I respect and appreciate it.
Miles has just fit me for a batter’s helmet, which he’s told me I can keep as a souvenir . And I’m trying to convince myself the only reason I nearly swooned at this is that I no longer know the difference between a genuine gesture of kindness and when I’m being worked . I have a strong feeling it’s the first with him, but time will tell.
“So…what got you into baseball?” I ask, while winding up the bat, then lining it up with the ball he’s just placed on the tee. “Wait! Let me guess,” I say, halting the bat mid-swing. Miles flinches at my hasty change of course but recovers quickly. I keep talking. “It was your dad. And he gave you your first pitcher’s mitt before your hand was big enough to fit even the smallest size.”
For several seconds he simply looks at me with an unreadable expression. For a moment I begin to wonder if I’ve said something else to offend him. “What? Am I right?” I ask when I can no longer take the silence.
“No. Not even close,” he replies, before glancing up into the stands. “I actually wanted to be a—I can’t believe I’m telling you this.” He palms his face and emits a deep chuckle. “I wanted to be…a t-tenor.”
A small gasp puffs out of me, and I clap a hand over my mouth to suppress a half-baked reply. I wait a beat to see if he’s joking, and when it’s clear he’s not, I say, “As in…Placido Domingo, Andrea Bocelli? That type of tenor?”
“Yes.” He answers with a straight face and earnest eyes. “Go ahead. Laugh.”
But I don’t laugh at all. Instead, I stand across from him, beaming up with a goofy grin as he squirms under my amused gaze. “Come on, Miles. You’ve got me out here in a helmet, holding a blunt weapon, about to hit and miss a bunch of tiny balls. You owe me this. Let’s hear it?”
I pass him the bat, and he looks at me with a creased brow. Hands on my hips, I tell him, “That’s your mic, Miles. And this is your moment.”
Rolling his eyes, he raises the bat, knob side up, and proceeds to sing the opening lines to “Nessun dorma.” It’s not good—quite bad actually. But it’s also…perfect.
After he warbles through the first few lines, his own laughter takes over, which forces him to stop. “Well, I said I wanted to be a tenor, past tense. Clearly, I didn’t have the chops.”
“But you did have the guts,” I say, still beaming and in awe of what I just witnessed. “I will give you that.”
“My grandfather was a custodian at a museum. He h-had this booming, resonant voice that just echoed through the halls on his late-night shifts,” he tells me. “When I was a kid, I always wanted to sound just like that.”
The faraway look on his face, the tinge of emotion in his deep voice—it all tugs at my chest. “I bet he’s very proud of the talent you do have though,” I say. “What was his name?”
“Reginald Westbrook,” he says. And I don’t miss the subtle rise of his chest—a small show of pride. “He’s the one who helped me find baseball,” Miles offers. “The summer I turned eight, he took me to visit his family in Kansas City, and we went to the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum. I remember looking at old grainy photos of these all-Black teams. Seeing their tattered shoes and weathered uniforms. Learning how they’d play for days on end without being able to stop for food or rest because of sundown towns. How they were barely paid enough to send some money back home to their families. All of this for either the love of the game, or because they were so good at it their talent couldn’t be denied. Then I get home to my great-aunt’s house and I’m so lit up by the experience that I’m begging to use her computer so I can find out more about Jackie Robinson. And that’s when I stumbled across Roberto Clemente. He was Puerto Rican, just like my grandmother. And I don’t know…it just kind of felt like baseball was gonna be it for me after that.”
“You kind of look like him. Clemente,” I say, and it draws out a big smile.
“I’ve been told,” he replies. “So yeah…I went to bed that night asking my grandfather to sign me up for Little League when we got back to the Heights.”
“I take it you were the best on the team?”
Miles sucks air through his teeth as his head teeters side to side. “To be honest, I had a rough go at first. I started in the outfield, trying to force it and be like my hero, Clemente. But my JV coach—he pulled me out of my comfort zone and put me on the mound,” he explains.
Then it dawns on me that while telling me all this, he hasn’t stumbled over his words once. Or at least not that I’ve noticed. And while I’ve listened intently, I’ve also felt lulled by the current of his gaze, his words, and his attention. All the while, fighting the feeling that I’m being pulled out to sea.
“And the rest is history?” I ask.
“And the rest is history,” he says. “Now.” He claps his hands. “You ready to learn how to bat?”
“Not at all,” I tell him, and he laughs.
“Don’t worry, we’ll go slow,” he says with assurance.
I don’t tell him that I’m afraid it might be a little late for that.