2. Chapter 2
Chapter two
Adrian
Istand beside home plate, clapping and yelling as Drew rounds third and jogs home. It wasn’t quite a grand slam since there were only two of us on base when he hit the homer, but I’m celebrating with the same gusto.
Our opponents’ catcher shoves the mask back down over his face with obvious annoyance. Can’t say I blame him, considering we’re up by seven runs in the bottom of the eighth inning.
Drew taps home plate with flair before I lift him off his feet in celebration—make that eight runs.
“Way to seal the deal, Sheffield,” I tell Drew as we jog to the dugout. “Odds are good we can wrap up this game early now. There’s no way they’re gonna make eight runs in one inning.”
“Not with the way Cabrera has been pitching tonight,” Drew says. “I wouldn’t want to be the one batting those fastballs.”
“You might be the only one who could.” I flatter him before grinning and adding, “Other than me, of course.”
Drew Sheffield is the Kansas City Crowns’ first baseman and statistically strongest hitter.
I’ve been closing in on his batting average the past two seasons, though.
It feels good to know that in my seventh season with the team, I’m coming into my prime.
It feels great to know if we continue playing the way we have been, this could be our year to win it all.
Drew and I reach the dugout as Carson Hendricks, our new shortstop this season, is coming out to warm up in the on-deck circle. I mime a one-two punch to his gut and jaw before slapping him on the back. “Go get ’em, Hendricks.”
“Let me focus, Ortiz,” he snaps, slumping away from my hand.
I frown as I trade the batting helmet for my ball cap in the dugout. “Bro needs to loosen up,” I observe to Drew.
He shrugs and removes his batting gloves. “Hendricks is just young. Wants to prove he’s got what it takes and puts too much pressure on himself.”
“Best way to alleviate the pressure is to actually have fun playing this game,” I counter.
Drew grins. “If anyone can remind him how fun baseball is, it’s you.”
Puffing my chest with exaggerated pride, I brush off my shoulder. “We all have our strengths. Mine just happen to include both enjoying and excelling at baseball.”
My vision goes black when Drew knocks the visor of my ball cap over my eyes. He’s chuckling when he says, “We’d better pay attention to the game.” The stadium roars as Crowns fans jump to their feet cheering for a double hit by our catcher, Carlos Diaz.
Carson walks up to the batter’s box, twirling the bat in his hands. The tension in his shoulders is obvious even from where I stand in the dugout.
“Come on, kid. Loosen up. We’re up by eight runs—enjoy yourself,” I mumble, too low to be heard above the noise of the stadium.
The pitcher checks over his shoulder, where Diaz is taking his lead off second, then throws a gnarly changeup. Carson swings hard but misses the timing.
He steps back and adjusts his batting gloves before settling back in.
The next pitch is wide, an obvious ball.
Carson swings at the third pitch but misses for strike two.
I can see his grip on the bat tighten as the pitcher winds up, but this time Carson is left watching as a third strike ends the inning.
I grab his glove from the dugout and jog toward him. Carson has already handed off the bat and helmet to the bat boy, and I toss his glove to him. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve got this in the bag. Let’s go have fun for one more inning.”
“Whatever,” Carson mutters as he slides the glove onto his left hand.
Sighing, I turn my attention to the stadium, pumping my arms in the air to encourage the crowd to make some noise. I spot a little girl wearing my jersey and holding a sign that says “It’s My Birthday!” I pause to clap and point in her direction.
As I take my place at third base, I breathe in deep—the smell of grass and dirt, sweat and leather, hot dogs and cotton candy. I smack the worn leather of my glove with my fist, kicking the dust of the infield until a tiny red cloud puffs up at my toes.
I love this game.
Grinning, I lean in and focus on winning.
After a rowdy celebration in the locker room, a hot shower, and several autographs on the way to my car, I finally sit down in the silence and pull out my phone.
I have several missed text messages—one from my dad, congratulating us on our win. There’s a similar text from Griffin, who I still miss every single time I step out onto that field.
My chest goes rigid when I see I have a message from Griffin’s younger sister. Sam and I have been close friends for six years, and for the first five, we were just that—friends.
But now . . .
I blow out a breath before tapping to open the text.
SAM
Adrian! 1. Good game, as always. 2. I have an idea of something special to do for Griff and Danae, and I need your help.
Let me know when you’d have time to talk. I realize your schedule is tight, but sooner rather than later would be helpful. Make time in the name of your best friend.
What Sam doesn’t realize is that I’d clear every nonmandatory thing from my schedule for her. No need to invoke Griffin’s name.
When she first moved from Oklahoma to Kansas City to live with Griffin, she was a young twenty years old.
According to Griffin, she’d been run through the wringer and unfortunately went straight into it again shortly after arriving.
His protective-older-brother concern would have immediately shut down any possible attraction to her at the time.
But I was also a young twenty-four-year-old, living up the “you only live once” mentality to the fullest. I was more interested in spending my free time out at the clubs with friends than seriously dating. So there was no attraction to worry about.
Fast forward six years to now, and a lot of things have changed. Drastically.
Sam has grown up. She’s come into her own in a lot of ways the past couple of years.
Last summer, she let Griffin know it would be her final season working as his personal assistant so she could pursue cosmetology school.
When Griffin’s reinjury last July cut his season short, Sam sped up the timeline for her to start school. From what I can tell, she’s thriving.
I’ve also grown up. Sure, I still squeeze every drop of fun out of life and chase every unique opportunity available. But watching Griffin settle down with Danae over the past year makes me wish for something I don’t have.
Someone to look forward to outside of the team. Someone consistent to share all those fun experiences with. Someone I can make smile every morning, every night.
All my life, I’ve been driven by paranoia that I might miss out on an unforgettable experience.
But now, I realize what I’m missing out on is a person.
My person. The person out there for me. My whole perspective has shifted in the last year.
I’ve also spent even more time than usual hanging out with Sam in various contexts, and more-than-friends attraction has fully infiltrated my thoughts about her.
The one thing that hasn’t changed? Griffin’s protective-older-brother concern.
So my growing interest in Sam being my person has me jogging circles around attraction to her instead of going for it.
Which has me—historically smooth and charming with the ladies—feeling like a thirteen-year-old boy who’s never talked to a girl before when it comes to Sam.
Setting my phone down on the console, I shake out my hands before picking it up to reply.
ME
Let’s talk in person. Tomorrow is an afternoon game, so I could get together in the evening. Or the day after is a night game, so I could do first thing in the morning. What’s better with your school schedule?
I reread the text four times to make sure I sound accommodating without giving away my eagerness to see her. Satisfied, I hit send, then lock the phone so I can drive the twenty-five minutes from the stadium to my house.
The Kansas City Crowns stadium is near the Legends Outlets in Kansas City, Kansas.
When I was called up from the farm team to join the Crowns at age twenty-three, I rented an apartment situated above a trendy retail area in Leawood, a ritzy suburb of Kansas City.
I loved being a short walk away from great restaurants and cocktail bars, becoming a known regular at every establishment.
After some uncomfortable encounters with a woman following me around last year, I felt the itch for more space and privacy and bought a home in a gated community southwest of the stadium.
The sprawling house is far more than I need as a single guy, but I appreciate the large yard, mature trees, and quiet neighbors.
It’s something I’ve never experienced before—certainly not during my childhood in Valencia, Venezuela.
Then again, baseball is about the only thing in my life that’s consistent from my childhood.
Sometimes I start to miss the perpetual noise and lights of the city and wonder if I made a mistake moving into this house.
But then I wonder if the quiet would feel more like comfort if I had my person here with me.
Thoughts of Sam fill my mind as I drive through the gates into my neighborhood, wind down the still streets to my house, and pull into the garage.
I think of her as I close the garage door and walk into the dark mudroom, flipping on every light and turning on the built-in speakers to fill the empty space with music.
As if my thoughts had materializing power, my phone buzzes with a text notification.
SAM
Tomorrow night works. 7ish? But I can just call if that’s easier for you.
Running a hand over the thin goatee on my chin, I stare at the phone screen, thinking. I smile and use one of Sam’s weaknesses to my advantage, typing a suggestion I know she won’t refuse.
ME
I was thinking sushi. But if you just want to talk on the phone . . .
SAM
YES SUSHI ALWAYS SUSHI
You’re buying though, big shot. I’m a poor student.
ME
I’ll buy as long as you do most of the work on whatever big idea you’re putting us up to.
SAM
As long as you promise to agree with everything I suggest.
ME
Done.
I’ll make a reservation.
SAM
Let me know whatever outrageous fake name it’s under.
ME
You know that’s not how I roll.
SAM
Sushi pun intended? Adrian’s got dad jokes.
ME
Do you want free sushi or not?
SAM
I retract my teasing in the interest of spicy tuna.
Text me which restaurant, and I’ll meet you there.
I’m smiling as I grab a snack from the fridge.
The house feels a little less empty tonight.