Adrian
Chapter thirty-four
“Iwill drive straight to your house. You can follow my car the entire way,” Samantha argues.
“No. I want to ride together,” I state. “Your mom just said they could drive your car up this weekend.”
Samantha glares from her mom to me. “But I’ll need my car to get around town.”
“You can borrow my SUV. I hardly drive it anyway,” I offer.
She crosses her arms. “I’m in a totally stable mental state. I’m capable of driving back safely.”
Taking her hand, I say, “This isn’t about you being capable. It’s about me wanting to spend the next three hours in the car with you instead of alone.”
The fight leaves her eyes, and she smirks. “How fast were you driving to make it here in three hours?”
“I was a desperate man,” I reply, clapping a hand over my heart.
Samantha rolls her eyes but gives a long hug goodbye to her mom as I shake David’s hand. He claps me on the shoulder with his other hand and says, “Thanks.”
I know the single word is loaded with layers of gratitude.
Clasping his hand tighter before releasing the handshake, I respond, “Always.” We swap parents, Cinda squeezing me in a hug as David wraps his arms around Samantha.
Finally, I open the passenger door of my truck for her, and we hit the road.
Samantha gives me directions back to the highway, and once we’re cruising at a consistent speed, I reach over and take her hand.
“Will you tell me your trauma triggers to avoid?” I ask.
She sighs but then pivots to me. “Will you tell me what the poem says? Your tattoo?”
Emotions swirl in my chest—pain of missing my mom that I’d rather put off indefinitely.
But I’m going to prove to Samantha that I’m serious about the homework Amber gave me.
“Yes. It’s the first few lines from the poem ‘La Tierra Giró Para Acercarnos’ by Eugenio Montejo.
Let me think about the best way to translate.
” I roll the Spanish words over in my mind while Samantha waits, watching me.
Glancing at the words inked across my wrist and forearm, I say, “It’s more poetic in Spanish, but the English would basically say something like, ‘The earth turned to bring us closer, it spun on itself and within us, and finally joined us together in this dream.’”
“Adrian. That’s so beautiful,” Samantha whispers. “I can see why your mom loved it.”
I smile at her acknowledgment of my mom, trying to hold on to the happy memories instead of running away from the sad ones.
“She said it was true about her and my dad. She said there were so many little things that happened, small coincidences that lined up to bring them to the same place at the same time.”
“Say it again?” Samantha asks, and I tell her the words first in Spanish, then repeat the English translation.
She’s silent for a minute before speaking softly. “Unexpected physical pain is hard for me. If I know it’s coming, I can mentally prepare to a degree. But if it’s sudden, my brain can’t tell the difference from what’s happening and what used to happen.”
“That makes sense,” I respond gently.
“I don’t do great with yelling,” Samantha says, her voice gaining strength.
“Usually I don’t outwardly react quite as strongly, but tension builds in my body when someone yells at me.
I have to do some of the grounding techniques or exercises from the occupational therapist to calm my body out of alert mode. ”
“No yelling—no problem,” I say, squeezing her hand.
She sighs. “And something startling me from behind. Like someone sneaking up behind me, or even sudden loud noises outside my line of vision.”
“No jumping out to scare you—got it,” I joke, and she smiles. A memory flags, and I squeeze her hand. “Wait . . . that night when we were in the empty stadium suite—”
“You mean when you pulled me into an empty room to make out? That night?” she teases.
Grateful that she’s able to make a joke right now, I grin and say, “That’s the one.” But my grin slips when I ask, “Drew banged on the door behind you. That triggered you, didn’t it?”
She gives a small nod.
“At the time, I assumed you were embarrassed or worried about Griffin finding out. But your reaction makes a lot more sense now,” I say. “I wouldn’t have rushed to leave if I’d known what was happening.”
“I’m sorry for not explaining all this sooner,” Samantha says, and I squeeze her knee to cut her off.
“Stop apologizing. Thanks for trusting me to explain now,” I tell her as I exit the highway into a rest area.
“Do you need to get gas?” Samantha asks.
Pulling into a shaded spot far from the building, I put the car in park and say, “No. I need to kiss you.”
Samantha smiles, and I press my smile to hers. After a few minutes of letting my mouth express exactly how much I love her, I also use my words. “Thanks for helping me understand. I love you, Samantha.”
“I’m never going to get tired of hearing you say that,” she sighs before kissing me again.
“What?” I ask against her lips. “I love you, or Samantha?”
“Both.” Then her hands are in my hair, mine around her waist, pulling her as close as I can get her in the confines of the truck seats.
Samantha finally breaks the kiss, but she runs her fingers down my neck, across my jaw, my goatee, my lips. “The earth turned to bring us closer. Brought you from Venezuela to Kansas City. Brought me from a dark place to your light. Finally joined us together in this dream.”
“You’re the light, Samantha,” I murmur, voice catching with emotion. “I wish my mom could have met you. Because you are my dream, cielo.”
Later that evening, we sit on the outdoor couch on my patio. My feet are stretched out, propped on the table, while Samantha nestles into my side, her head resting on my chest. Tracing my fingers up and down her arm, I momentarily close my eyes.
Heaven on earth.
Samantha convinced me to stop at the Venezuelan food truck for dinner on our way back into town, and she asked me more about my childhood.
I told her lots of the happy memories I have, steering clear of anything related to my mom—a man can only take so much emotional discomfort in a day.
She reciprocated and told me more of the fun stories of growing up in the West family.
But now, we sit in silence, watching the sky trade all traces of pink and purple for blue and gray.
“How has filming for the streaming series been going?” Samantha asks.
“Good, I think. At least, I’ve had a fun time with it. I’m not sure if they’re getting the footage they hoped for.”
“Oh, I’m very sure they’re getting even more than they hoped for,” she says. “They’ll probably have a hard time featuring the other players enough with all the entertainment they’re getting with you. Everyone else will seem boring by comparison.”
Chuckling, I say, “You sound a little biased.”
“I’m very biased,” she replies, lifting her head momentarily to smile at me. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
“I did disappoint them when they asked to see my trophy room. I think they were expecting me to have some sort of big display in my house, which I don’t,” I say.
“You do need a display somewhere! You just won the World Baseball Classic this year—surely that deserves a trophy room,” Samantha insists. “There’s empty space in your basement. It would be perfect! Let’s go down and brainstorm ideas.”
She starts to sit up, but I gently pull her back against me. “I’m happy right here for now. How about when we win the World Series, then I’ll let you dream up a trophy room,” I compromise.
“I’ll start sketching up ideas for later this year, then,” she says as she nuzzles her face against my neck.
Would it be a terrible idea to propose right now? I’m ready for every night to be like this one.
I do know that’s an impulsive, if not terrible, idea, so I change topics. “My dad is coming to visit in a few weeks when we have back-to-back home series. You’ll finally get to meet him.”
Samantha presses a hand against my chest to prop herself up to sitting. “I can’t wait! What’s he like? Like you or different?”
“A little of both. He loves people, but he’s not quite as extroverted as I am,” I say.
She laughs. “I don’t think anyone can quite match your energy. How long will he be here?”
“Only for a week. But I’m trying to talk him into moving here permanently,” I explain. “I know I could get a long-term visa for him since I have citizenship now. So I’m hoping to show him around, let him see some options of where he could live, and maybe he’ll decide to do it.”
“I’ll do my best to convince him how awesome Kansas City is. You should bring him out here to your porch at night,” Samantha suggests, motioning a hand around. “You can see a lot of the stars here. Almost as many as my parents’ house.”
She stares up at the sky, and I stare at her, drinking in her profile against heaven’s pinpricks of light. I’ll never get tired of this view. Proposing immediately is once again a tempting thought that I have to shove away hard.
I reach up and tuck Samantha’s hair behind her ear, skimming my fingers along the soft skin of her neck. She shivers, then looks at me. “Thank you again for coming after me yesterday.”
Sitting up straight, I lean close and swear, “I will always come after you. I will always meet you wherever you are. You just have to tell me where that is, okay?”
Samantha nods and answers honestly. “I really will try. You might have to be patient sometimes, but I promise I’ll try.”
“We’re both on a learning curve here,” I say. “But I’m committed to learning together.”
Her eyes are soft, brimming with gratitude, as she whispers, “I love you.”
Leaning in the rest of the way, I kiss her until the line between heaven and earth has evaporated completely.
Although it’s torture to wake up extra early after an exhausting two days, I’ve been trying to keep meeting Carson where he’s at. Which, unfortunately, is typically the team gym an hour before our official report time.
But we have been gelling better recently, so I’ll stick with the additional workouts. Because although we have our hopes set on a World Series run every year, this really does feel like our year.
Carson is already sweating as he does lateral twists with the cable pulls when I walk in. He sees me and looks over my shoulder. “What, no camera crew today?”
Rolling my eyes, I ask, “What are you punishing yourself for this time?” I swing my arms, trying to wake up my muscles.
Pausing his movement, Carson grimaces. “Missed that hit to the edge of the shortstop hole on Wednesday because I didn’t stretch out fast enough.”
I remember the play he’s talking about. We both dove for the ball and both missed. But only one of us should have caught it.
“That one was my fault,” I say as I pick up a set up dumbbells for biceps curls. “It was closer to me. I should have had it. But I was distracted and not playing my best on Wednesday.”
Carson snorts. “Distracted thinking up your next move for the Ortiz highlights?”
And there goes all that progress I thought we’d made. Straight out the window.
Dropping the dumbbells on the ground, I straighten and take a step toward Carson. He stops twisting the cable. “Is that really what you think of me?” I ask.
“I was kidding, man,” he says. “Aren’t you the one always telling me to lighten up?”
“Yeah, I am.” My tone tightens. “Because most of the time you’re so busy dissecting every mistake and planning punishments for yourself that you forget we’re playing a game we enjoy.
You’re good, Hendricks. Maybe if you weren’t so in your head all the time, your instincts would have the chance to make you great. ”
Carson matches my step forward, leaving mere inches between our chests.
He’s a couple of inches taller than me, but I stretch to my full height.
His eyes blaze as he says, “It might be a game, but it’s also my dream.
I’ve worked hard my entire life to get here.
I’m not going to ‘lighten up’ and risk losing it all now because I can’t fill the last guy’s shoes. ”
His final statement deflates any aggression in my chest. “Wait, is that what you’re so worried about? Not living up to West?”
Carson’s face twists with a scowl. “Be for real. There’s not a single Kansas City fan who’s happy I’m here. They all miss the Wizard. And who could blame them when he’s one of the best? I don’t need to goof off with you and make fans think I’m trying to be West when it’s obvious I never will be.”
“It’s not obvious,” I counter. “You’re just starting your career.
You can’t compare your first season to West’s last. I told you, you’re good.
But you’re never gonna be great if you sabotage yourself worrying about that.
Play your best without worrying about who the fans or commentators or armchair experts are comparing you to. And—”
“Have fun?” Carson interjects. His eye roll has a little less steam this time.
I clap his arm. “Have. Fun. You’ll play better when you’re enjoying yourself and not tense for nine innings.”
He sighs, and I take it as a good sign. His voice is reluctant when he admits, “You are pretty good. Watching you in the World Classic was something else.”
Grinning, I bow, and Carson groans as he turns away.
I catch his shoulder and say, “Just so we’re clear, I do have fun while we’re playing.
I enjoy every second on that field. But I do not think about dance moves or celebrations when we’re out there.
I take it seriously too. I was distracted on Wednesday because my girlfriend was having a rough morning, and I managed to make it worse. That’s why I missed that catch.”
Carson frowns. “West’s sister?”
“Samantha,” I state, since she’s so much more than Griffin’s sister.
“I’m sorry about that,” Carson says. “Sorry for assuming.”
Shrugging, I tell him, “No big deal. Let’s put it behind us. Because we need to win this series if we’re gonna stay on track to skip the wild card round.”
Something about our heart-to-heart seems to land with Carson because he plays possibly the best game I’ve seen out of him this season. I guess something landed with me, too, because I feel the spark of a mental connection between us, anticipating each other’s moves as we crush our opponents 6–0.
This is our year. I feel it.