Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Adrian
The chorus of “Jugando Chapita” blares from my phone, my chosen alarm tone when I’m away from the clock on my nightstand at home. Despite the early hour, the song brings a smile to my face.
I still groan as I sit up and rub my eyes, tempted to fall back asleep.
It was way too late to call Sam last night by the time we got to our hotel.
But that didn’t stop me from thinking about her.
I settled for replaying our conversation at her apartment since we couldn’t talk.
Knowing it will wake up my brain, I open the photo she texted of her with the flowers I sent to the school.
I’m serious about my promise to tell her constantly how I feel about her, even when I can’t physically be there. I know I don’t fully understand the history behind some of her insecurities, but I do know she’s never going to doubt that I care.
When I visited a local florist’s website to arrange the delivery, there were brief descriptions of each flower’s symbolism to choose a bouquet with specific meaning. I knew stargazer lilies would be the only type of flower I ever buy for Sam the second I saw the symbolism.
Heaven on earth.
Sam’s soft smile in the photo makes me want to lean through the picture and whisper something to make her laugh, something to prompt her full crinkled-nose smile.
As much as I’m dying to talk with her again, I’m an hour ahead in DC, and it’s an ungodly hour here to be waking up, much less in KC. I only set my alarm this early because I’m taking Griffin’s stupid old-man advice.
I’m trying to be the wiser player meeting Carson where he’s at. If Griff could do it for me, then maybe I can do it for Carson. I don’t think I’ll ever find the same chemistry that Griff and I had playing together, but I’m determined to get as close as I can.
And if I know anything about Carson Hendricks, it’s that he’s going to be hitting the gym before our mandatory workout, batting practice, and warm-ups today.
After chugging a glass of water, brushing my teeth, and changing into workout gear, I take the elevator to the second floor where the hotel gym is located.
When I walk in, Carson is running on one of the treadmills at the back of the room. Stepping onto the treadmill next to his, I notice the automated sprints program on his screen set at a pretty high speed. He must be in one of the short rest intervals.
His expression is wary as he glances at me. “What . . . are . . . you doing . . . here?” he huffs between breaths.
Shrugging my shoulders, I select a cross training program and say, “Just getting in a little extra workout to start the day.”
“Since when?”
“Since when? Since whenever I want. I have a full gym in my house. Maybe I do extra workouts every day and you don’t know about it,” I say as the pace of the treadmill starts to pick up.
Carson’s treadmill also increases to a higher sprint speed, and he pumps his arms to keep up. “Why . . . right next . . . to me?”
“Felt like it would be rude to come work out and ignore my closest teammate,” I reply, grinning at him.
Both of the treadmills come to a halt as Carson pulls the emergency stop cords. He pivots to face me, breathing heavily. “What are you doing, Ortiz? We all know I’m not your closest teammate and never will be.”
My grin is gone when I respond. “Do I have more history with some of the other guys? Yeah. But you are my closest teammate, Hendricks. Shortstop and third base work more closely than any other two on the field—except the pitcher and catcher, I guess. We need to be more in sync if we’re going to take the Crowns to the Series this year. ”
Carson stares at me, hands on hips, as his breathing slows.
“You don’t want to have fun out there with me? Fine. I still think you’re missing out and ruining the experience for yourself,” I begin.
His entire head rolls as he mutters, “This again.”
“But,” I emphasize, “if you’re determined to be a stick-in-the-mud always working harder instead of smarter, then I can work harder too. I’ll meet you on your turf if that’s what it takes to get us on the same playing field.”
His eyes narrow like he’s going to make some snide remark, but he doesn’t say anything.
After a beat, he reaches over and punches buttons on my treadmill, then his, and presses both start buttons at the same time.
I recognize the difficulty level he set on this sprint program and groan.
“Why are we doing sprints?” I whine, forced into matching my pace to his.
“Because maybe I wouldn’t have gotten tagged out at third yesterday if I’d sprinted a little faster,” he replies.
Exhaling hard as the pace skyrockets, I say, “You punish yourself more than anyone I’ve ever met. Maybe I don’t want to be . . . on your . . . turf, loco.” The words cut off altogether as I focus on breathing.
It could be that a lack of oxygen is causing hallucinations, but I’d swear Carson cracks a smile.
With one out, a runner on first, and an above-average hitter at the plate with a three-and-two count, I’m hyperaware of the likelihood of seeing some sort of action on this play.
Glancing over my shoulder, I catch Carson’s eye and give him a short nod.
All eyes are on the pitcher, waiting for this final throw.
When the ball cracks against the bat, it flies low through the air right toward the space between me and Carson. Since there’s no runner coming my way from second base, I sprint a few steps toward the ball’s trajectory, raising my mitt in the air.
I realize that I’m going to be a couple inches short from securely catching the ball, and I yell, “Hendricks!” as I tap the ball with my closed mitt, hoping to bop it in his direction.
The ball bounces to the ground toward him, and he snaps it up and throws to second, quick as lightning.
Luke immediately throws to first, and Drew is practically doing the splits as he manages to catch the ball, his foot stretched on base for a second out.
The home crowd groans as our entire infield celebrates, all of us having touched the ball on the double play. Even Carson is grinning and joins in a group mosh pit of jumping celebration. “Good play, kid,” I tease as I slap his arm with my glove.
He’s still smiling when he says, “Not a bad move for such an old man, Ortiz. I guess we’re on the same turf now.”
“Next up, dance moves,” I joke.
For once, Carson doesn’t argue. He does roll his eyes.
But I’m taking the win.
“That five-six-four-three play was outrageous!” Sam exclaims, her smiling face filling my phone screen with light. “Are you sure you guys didn’t practice that?”
Bending my arm behind my head, I lean against it on the hotel bed. “I’d like to say that was pure skill on my part, but there was an element of dumb luck involved. Made for a pretty cool highlight, though.”
Sam props her phone against something on her kitchen table, placing a bowl in front of the camera as she sits down. She pulls her feet up to the chair and props her knees against the table as she takes the bowl in her hands.
“How can you sit like that?” I wonder. “I think I’d tear every muscle in my hamstrings.”
She smiles as she twirls a fork in the bowl of spaghetti. “Pilates. You should try it with me sometime. In case you ever need to pull a full-splits move like Drew did today.”
We both laugh, and I ask Sam how her practice clients were. She covers her mouth with one hand as she chews and answers, “I’m glad tomorrow is the weekend, but today was good! I think I may have done some of my best work.”
“Were sombrés involved?” I ask, relishing the simplicity of a “catch up on our days” conversation with Sam.
The smile she fights gives away her answer before she admits, “Yes, I did get to do a sombré. That turned out amazing. My instructor even said so, which was a huge boost of confidence before I finish school next week.”
My brows knit together as I frown. “You graduate next week? How did I not know this?”
Sam shrugs, not looking directly at the phone. “Well, there’s not any kind of official graduation ceremony or anything since it’s all based on hours. So there’s nothing to mention.”
“Cielo. These are the kinds of things you should tell your boyfriend,” I chide, still savoring every opportunity to acknowledge my status.
She fights a smile and replies, “Menso. You weren’t my boyfriend until, like, two days ago.”
“True, but I was your friend before that. We’ve been friends for six years. That’s the kind of thing you tell your friends too,” I say.
“No one needs to make a big deal out of it. There’s no graduation cap and gown or anything.
Just a certificate that says I’m licensed to practice as a hair stylist and a ‘good luck starting your own business from scratch,’” Sam jokes.
She twirls the fork in the bowl of pasta for an extra-long time, though.
“What day are you done? We’re going to celebrate because this is a huge milestone,” I insist.
“It’s not—”
“What day?” I emphasize. “Don’t make me call the school and ask your instructor.”
Huffing a laugh, she says, “I’m on track to have all fifteen hundred hours finished Thursday. I’ve already passed the written exam, so I’ll be a licensed hair stylist the next time I see you. Why are you frowning so hard, Adrian?” She asks the final question while bursting into a laugh.
“Because I won’t get back to KC until super late next Sunday night. I won’t be there to celebrate your big day,” I explain.
Sam’s expression is soft when she says, “I already told you it’s not a ‘big day.’ It’s just the day I clock my final practice hour. We can still do something fun together when you get back in town.”
“We’re doing something fun together to celebrate you,” I reiterate. “We have a whole day off the Monday after we get back. No opening your new business yet because I’m claiming all your time that day.”