Chapter Thirteen
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
COOPER
W hy did Liesel’s dad have to show up and ruin everything? Why does Doug have to have such stupid opinions about umpires not putting a target on players’ backs? Why did I ever go out with famous women that Liesel could find online?
All through the next session—which Liesel happens to be at, mind you—she sends me screenshots of me with different actresses, musicians, and, okay, one model. One! But it’s not like anything went anywhere with any of them. They were for publicity. And curiosity, because come on, these women are famous and beautiful. But do I need to be reminded that I once went out with a woman who wrote a song about “athletes who put the word player in player?”
It wasn’t even about me! It was about some NBA jerk. But did that stop everyone from speculating? Besides, I was nineteen at the time. Nineteen year-old boys think famous people must be hotter and more interesting than non-famous people.
Stupid Cooper.
As if anyone could be more interesting than Liesel.
Her dad must be a mindreader, because every time his hot daughter texts me, he gives me a menacing grin that’s only used by professional wrestlers and serial killers, probably. My guess is Bruce Fischer could be either.
After the breakout, I avoid Liesel. But Bruce doesn’t avoid me.
“How’s the arm healing, Coop?”
“It’s fine, Bruce. Slow going, but my doctor’s pleased.”
“Tommy John’s surgery is a rough one.” He puts his arm across my shoulders, steering me in the exact opposite direction of Liesel.
“My next breakout is actually that way.”
“No, it isn’t.”
He leads me down the hallway and stops just past a twelve-foot Christmas tree. The thing may be tall, but it’s not broad enough to hide him.
“What are we doing, Bruce? My parents already told me about Santa?—”
“Stay away from my daughter.”
“Done.”
“Not just today, in general. In perpetuity.”
Annoyance flares in my chest. “I don’t know if you saw the press release, but I’m on the injured list for the upcoming season. Doug has me working as a special assistant over scouting . Scouting and analytics work together. I’m not going to stop doing my job.”
“You can do your job. And when the particulars of an assignment are over, you can keep your distance.”
I might be a punk, but I’m not typically a hothead. I’ve hid my emotions for years, not letting my mom see my disappointment, not letting her think for a minute that I’ve ever been hurt. On the ball field, I might be showy and larger than life, but I’m not impetuous or out of control. Usually.
“Bruce, you’ve been calling my games for a long time. What problem do you have with me?”
“My biggest problem is that you clearly have eyes for my daughter, and I don’t want that life for her.”
“What life?”
“You know what life.”
“Spell it out for me.”
“You have a stupid Christmas tattoo covering half your face. I’m not sure you can read it even if I do spell it out for you.”
“Then you should try.”
Bruce's eyes sharpen like knives. “The travel that keeps you away from your family. The stress to perform because you’re always in the spotlight. The attitude that you’re somehow better than other people because you’re famous. The temptation that comes from being famous. How easy it is to give into temptation because you’re on the road and think no one will know.”
“Where I’m standing, you’re looking pretty hypocritical right now.”
“I’m not famous,” he growls. “I don’t face?—”
“The only difference between your job and mine is which side of the plate we’re on. You’re on the road every bit as much as I am! You face constant stress. You’ve had to learn how to handle it without hurting your kids. Fans know who you are. Considering you still have all your hair and look like you could break their spin instructors in half, I’m gonna assume women find you attractive. What egregious sin have I committed that I’m not even allowed to talk to your daughter?”
“You’re brash, thoughtless, and arrogant. You came into the League guns blazing, no deference to the people who blazed the trail before you. All you cared about was yourself. You wanted to make sure no one could possibly overlook you. I know the profile. Guys who act the way you act on the field don’t turn it off when the game is over and the cameras are off; they turn it up.”
“ How I act on the field ?” My voice is too loud, but I can’t stop myself. “I’m a good teammate! I work harder and train harder than every person out there.”
“Because it serves you ! Because it adds dollar signs to your paycheck and followers to your TikTok! Do you have any idea what it’s like to sacrifice what you want for someone else? To put their needs in front of yours? That’s not you. You swing for the bleachers every time. You need constant attention. You put yourself first because all you care about is being seen.”
“I care about being seen because I care about who sees me,” I growl. His assessment is so unjust, it makes my lip curl and my eyes sting. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“I know what I’ve seen and what you’ve said.”
“Now I get it,” I say, a jaded laugh slipping out of my throat. “Your precious pride won’t allow another person a single mistake. You think because you have ultimate say on the field, you have ultimate say in the lives of the people around you. You think because you’re a good ump—and you are; you’re the best—that you know everything and know what’s right for everyone. But there’s no pitch camera in the real world to hold you accountable. There’s no association that can train you or correct you when you overstep.”
His nostrils flare. “I took a red-eye to see my daughter.”
“Yeah, and you did it for you , not for her.”
Bruce looks like I punched him. “What are you talking about?”
The tone sounds. “It’s the closing session. Excuse me.” I step out from around him, bumping into the Christmas tree and knocking off an ornament. I pick it up and hang it back on the branch. And then I walk off.
When he says my name again, I don’t turn. And when I see Liesel in the closing session I don’t sit by her. I do text her, though.
Cooper
Sorry for giving you a wide berth. I don’t want to make trouble for you.
I put my phone away, but then it vibrates in my pocket. I shouldn’t pull it out and check. I really shouldn’t.
But I do.
Liesel
I get it.
There. I explained myself and she said she understands. That’s all that’s required. We’re on the same page, and the chapter is now over.
I hold my phone between my hands, pretending to pay attention. Pretending like I care about the rest of the world when all I really want is to know what’s on the next page.
Cooper
When’s your flight?
Liesel
9 AM on Blue Horizon. Yours?
Cooper
9:26am on JetWays
Liesel
Are you working Friday?
Cooper
Marty says I am, so yes. You?
Liesel
Naturally. I work there.
Cooper
You know I do, too, right? I play in the same stadium you work in.
Liesel
*Play* is exactly right. The offices are a different animal.
Cooper
Animal? Is Todd going to go feral on me?
Liesel
COME ON, CANDACE.
Cooper
There’s my girl.
Liesel
I’m not your girl.
Cooper
That’s not what the name on your back says. ;)
Liesel
I really should have taken this thing off.
Cooper
Sure. Go for it. I’m watching.
Liesel
Perv!
Cooper
Nice try. I saw that tank top peeking out around the shoulders. Do it. I dare you.
Liesel
Wow. I didn’t know it was possible for me to *want* to wear your jersey.
Cooper
Whatever you have to tell yourself, sweetheart.
Liesel
The owner’s speaking. Shh.
Cooper
You have a cute glare.
Liesel
I’m not answering you.
Cooper
I appreciate the clarification. I was confused, you know, on account of you answering me.
Liesel
SHH!
Cooper
Even cuter.
Liesel
Does this mean that my dad’s chat didn’t scare you off?
Cooper
What chat?
Liesel
Uh huh.
Cooper
SHH!
I didn’t get a second with Liesel at the Christmas party last night, but I did get a lot of meaningful glances.
A few were even from Liesel.
The rest were from Doug and Bruce.
Man, that guy wants to kill me.
But the staff retreat is officially over, and I’m waiting at the airport for my plane. And because I can, I go into the VIP lounge and reserve a small private meeting room, where I can talk on the phone without a dozen people being able to hear me.
My mom doesn’t answer.
That’s not too odd. She doesn’t always answer when I call. She’s homebound, but she still does plenty of things throughout the day. She does Tae Bo videos or walks on the treadmill. She cooks and makes cool crafts. When I was in middle school, she became a wizard at decorating cookies and cakes. And she’s even started gardening.
I call Dad instead. He answers on the third ring.
“Hey, Son!”
“Hey, Dad.”
“Your mom didn’t answer?”
“What, like I can’t talk to my old man?”
“‘Old man?’ What is this, the 70s?”
“Are you hassling me for having a knowledge of pop culture?”
“No, I’m hassling you for sounding like a boomer.”
“That’s it. Where’s Mom?” I ask, and he laughs. “How is she?”
“She’s good. She spent the morning in the garden.”
Moving two years ago was a herculean task for my mom. We planned it for half a year, made the master bedroom a safe haven that was decorated exclusively using things from our old apartment, and had her watch virtual tours of the new house daily. She got to decorate it slowly, picking out the flow that would be most comfortable for her.
It took her over a month to be able to walk into the backyard, but it’s become an extension of the house—of a place she associates with safety. It was part of the reason I chose that particular house. It has a sunroom with floor to ceiling windows and a yard with tall, thick fences that project security. Every tiny step out of her comfort zone matters.
“And you won’t believe it,” Dad says. “She bought a virtual reality headset.”
“Why? She hates video games.”
“I know, but she’s not playing video games. She’s going on world tours.”
“World tours?”
“She said if I get to travel the country in my new RV, she gets to climb the Eiffel Tower.”
“What?” I laugh. “Did you get the RV?”
“I did! It’s beautiful. Bigger than our old apartment.”
I laugh, a fuzzy feeling in my chest. Dad has always sacrificed for our family. But somehow he’s managed to sacrifice time with Mom so I can feel special, too. One of the best parts about my mom is that she doesn’t begrudge my dad doing things without her. “That’s awesome,” I say. “But what’s this about Mom climbing the Eiffel Tower?”
“The headset is incredible! I can’t believe how immersive it is. She got on the stair stepper while she had on the headset, and she climbed the Eiffel Tower. She loves this thing.”
“I’m glad! That sounds really cool for her.”
“It is. And her favorite part is the MLB app. She’s been going back and watching all your games.”
A wrecking ball crashes into my chest, breaking my heart.
Absolutely shattering it.
I’ve never blamed her for her condition. I’ve done my best to understand and to accommodate her in every way I can.
But this hurts.
It destroys me.
I spent my childhood wishing she was healthy enough that we could do dumb things like go look at Christmas lights or have her take me to see Santa at the mall. But more than anything, I wanted her to come to one of my games someday.
I used to dream about it. Literally . I had a recurring dream of her sitting in the bleachers with my dad, cheering for me louder than anyone. I would wake up filled with a mixture of panic and joy. Panic, because I didn’t want her to break down like she did when I was a kid. And joy, because she was outside of the house .
I haven’t had one of those dreams in years. I stopped looking for her at my games before I even had braces. When Braden told me the other night that he saw my mom at the grocery store, I didn’t feel a moment of hope, only annoyance that he would even think to say something so asinine.
My mom is amazing, but she doesn’t leave her safe place.
And now, she’ll never have to. She’ll never have an incentive to try again.
I spent so many years wishing my mom could go out, and now she’s found even more reason to stay in. She can sit on her couch and have her head in the stands.
“How were the meetings?” Dad asks, but my heart isn’t in the conversation.
“They were fine.”
“Just fine?”
“I thought we had a good roster worked out, but I got some news about the pitcher we wanted that doesn’t look good.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Yeah, it sucks. But that’s the Show for you. Hey, I’ve got a plane to catch. Give Mom a hug for me.”
“Okay, son. Love you lots.”
“You too.”
I throw the phone to the table in the small lounge meeting room and run both hands over my face. My plane hasn’t even started boarding yet. I have at least a half hour before it will.
I almost forgot about the text I got from my old teammate, Jake Rodgers, yesterday. Jake is the only guy I’ve played with who can out-bravado me. He’s a fantastic player, and it’s a good thing, because he’s a loudmouth and an actual hothead. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him, and he doesn’t mind picking fights. If a pitcher even gets a fastball near his chin, the guy’s storming the mound.
He’s the bad boy of baseball.
I like him, but most people don’t agree with me.
Including the idiot who picked a fight with him at a private party last night. None other than Colt Spencer.
I watch the video again. Jake is talking to a pretty woman with olive skin and jet black hair, and she’s twirling the hair around her finger. The camera moves off them quickly—it looks like the video’s from someone recording the atmosphere, not Jake—but then you see Colt storm through the shot, and the phone pans back to him. He pushes Jake away from the woman, Jake stumbles against the bar, grabs someone’s shot and drains it, and then punches Colt in the face like they’re in a movie. Colt lunges at Jake, but Jake jumps out of the way at the last second, causing Colt’s hand to crash against the bar top. He crumples to the ground, clutching his hand and screaming.
He broke it badly enough to need surgery.
Jake
His girlfriend told me they can’t do the surgery until the swelling has gone down. It’ll be at least a week until then, and anywhere from 8-16 wks recovery
What a clown.
Coop
Only you could flirt with the guy’s girlfriend, get into a fight with him, get his girlfriend’s number, and insult *him* about it.
Jake
Don’t sell yourself short, bro. You just gotta believe in yourself and this could be you.
Jake doesn’t know we’re trying to acquire Colt, and it’s not like I’d tell him team secrets. He sent me the video because he and I agree that Colt is a huge tool, and he thought I’d get a good laugh out of it. I probably would, too.
If it didn’t impact my team.
If it weren’t going to upset Liesel.
I didn’t have the chance to tell anyone about it last night, but I have twenty-six minutes until my plane starts boarding. I dial Doug.
“I’m sorry to ruin your Christmas, Doug …”