Chapter Twenty-Three
Taylor
A week and a half later, I’m frantically packing to leave for Arlington, Texas, for a three-game baseball series and my interview with the Rangers.
I’m used to just throwing my uniform and pajamas into a bag for away games, but today I actually have to pack a suitcase and something called a garment bag.
My phone rings just as I’m slinging it over my shoulder, about to walk out the door. I fumble as I pull it out of my pocket, then answer without even looking at the caller ID.
“Hello?”
“Taylor?”
“Emma?” I ask, my throat tightening. I haven’t heard from her in weeks, having not checked on her since finding my mother’s email.
“I need your help.” She sniffles. “I’m pregnant.”
My heart stops, or at least it feels that way, and everything inside me suddenly locks up, leaving nothing but a ringing silence in my ears. My breath gets caught in my chest, and for one terrifying moment I think I might genuinely pass out.
Pregnant?
My barely eighteen-year-old sister?
Every version of every possible disaster flashes through my head in a rapid-fire montage: Emma crying alone on the bathroom floor, my mother drinking herself into a soft, syrupy blackout and waking up the next day with zero memory of the event, the whole family coming apart at the seams, and Emma—sweet, impossible, reckless Emma—right in the center of it all.
I clutch the phone closer to my ear, squeezing my eyes shut and trying to remember how to form words. I want to be angry, or maybe to shout at her, but all I feel is this crushing, desperate urge to protect her from the fallout.
“Are you still there?”
“Yeah, don’t worry, we’ll figure this out. I’m on my way to Texas right now, but I’ll come over on Monday when I get back, and we’ll come up with a plan.”
“O-Okay.”
“Just don’t worry,” I say even though that’s exactly what I’m doing now.
The world blurs like a migraine aura as I lurch from my apartment into the waiting rideshare, my suitcase clanking behind me.
Arlington is a solid three-hour jump from Columbus by air, but the journey stretches into a surreal, feverish eternity.
My brain is stuck on auto-loop: Emma’s voice, breathless and terrified, and the word pregnant, which is so huge and impossible it blots out everything else.
I stagger into Dallas Fort Worth International Airport, adrenaline still clipping my nerves.
I drag my suitcase to the curb, hop in a taxi, and stare at the skyline as it whips by, one mirrored glass tower after another, a whole city built to look like it’s perpetually on the verge of winning something.
The hotel is comically large and only half full, the kind of place that hosts conventions for dental hygienists and alumni banquets for universities no one remembers.
Inside my room, I shed my travel clothes and stand under the shower for an unnecessary length of time, letting the scalding water batter my temples and try to method-act my way into stability.
I remind myself I have a 3.98 GPA, am a three-time All-American, and have made it to the College World Series two years running.
I’m not the sort of person who falls apart—at least not in public—and even though I spent my entire life cleaning up after other people’s catastrophes, this is something I can handle.
When I finally emerge, wrapped in a damp hotel towel and a thin membrane of resolve, I check my phone again.
There are no new messages—just a calendar alert: Rangers Interview, 1:30 p.m. My heart kicks once, hard.
I get dressed and walk out the door, feeling like my future is balanced on the tip of a very sharp pin.
Jackson Lee meets me at the gate with a lanyard and a smile that could withstand a fastball to the jaw. He shakes my hand and leads me through the first checkpoint with the brisk efficiency of a TSA agent on overtime.
The Rangers’ facility is a city unto itself: a sprawling, hyper-organized patchwork of architecture that’s equal parts ballpark nostalgia and sterile corporate futurism.
We weave through the hallways plastered with blown-up photos of past glories, jerseyed mannequins frozen mid-swing, and murals of World Series near-misses and actual victories.
“What’s your pregame routine like?” Jackson asks as we walk, his eyes bright with interest.
I shift my weight, trying to focus. “I like to watch the 2005 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice the night before games; it completely contradicts my athletic character, but it helps me relax.”
He grins, clearly enjoying this. “And who do you model your swing after?”
“Definitely a mix of players, but mostly Jim Thome. I admire his ability to drive the ball out of the park consistently and how powerful his swing was.”
“What’s the weirdest superstition you’ve encountered in baseball?”
I chuckle, recalling a teammate’s odd habits. “Oh, definitely the guys who wear the same underwear throughout the playoffs.”
He laughs, but then his expression shifts slightly. “You probably expect me to ask you about the gender politics of being a female prospect in baseball next.”
I glance at him sideways, his casual tone catching me off guard. “Yeah . . . it does feel like a standard question given how much it impacts my experience.”
He shrugs, a hint of sincerity in his smile. “Honestly, since meeting you, I’ve only seen you as another recruit, someone with talent.”
I blink, feeling a mix of relief and unease at being seen this way.
We reach a glass-walled conference room with a view of the outfield, and he gestures me in with a little theatrical bow. Waiting at the head of the table is a man who looks exactly how you’d expect a director of player development to look.
“Taylor, this is Blake Jernigan,” Jackson says, gesturing toward him.
Blake extends his hand, his grip firm and unyielding. “Nice to meet you, Taylor. Let’s dive right in, shall we?”
We spread out around the table, and I end up between Jackson at the far end and Blake, close enough to catch every twitch of expression on his face.
He wastes no time on small talk, his voice brisk and practiced like he’s read this script before. “All right. You know why you’re here. We’re hoping to get a sense of your process, your understanding of the game, and how you might approach a career in player development.”
I swallow hard and shift in my seat.
“The state of hitting in modern baseball is fascinating. We’re seeing some impressive shifts in metrics like exit velocity and launch angle, not to mention barrel efficiency.
” Blake leans forward slightly, his eyes narrowing.
“How familiar are you with this kind of lingo? From what I’ve seen, you’re an exceptional athlete, but can you keep up with the technical side of things? ”
“I’ve studied it extensively in my sports management classes,” I reply, trying to match his intensity. “Those metrics are crucial for evaluating player performance, and understanding them is essential for any coach who wants their team to excel.”
He raises an eyebrow, clearly assessing my response. “Good to hear. It’s vital to know how to translate those numbers into actionable strategies on the field, so tell me how you’d use them through your first season.”
I roll my shoulders back. “The first phase is mapping hitter biomechanics to performance metrics. Most teams do the data collection, but few link it to individualized coaching. I’d start by building a library of every hitter’s swing and overlay it with in-game outcomes.
Not just averages, but situational data—two-strike counts, late-inning pressure, breaking balls versus high heat.
Then I’d create a feedback loop between video, analytics, and live reps.
It’s not enough to teach a philosophy; you have to tailor it to each player’s mechanics and mindset. ”
Jackson and Blake share a smile, then Blake kicks back in his chair and gives me a grin that’s pure recruiter.
“I’ve watched some of your game films, and in my decade of working in baseball, I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone hit as many home runs as you—it’s a rare talent,” he says.
I rub my palms over my tailored pants. “Thank you.”
“Why do you play baseball, Taylor?” he asks. “What makes you want to walk out onto that field and play ball?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, unsure how to respond, but ultimately decide on the truth.
“I’ve been playing since I was five. At first, it was just an excuse to keep me away from home, but it didn’t take long for me to realize I was good at it—like you said, I have a natural ability.
Anyway, in my attempts to escape my home, I found another . . .”
“The baseball diamond,” Blake finishes for me.
“Exactly,” I say with a curt nod.
Blake and Jackson share another look, then Blake refocuses on me, steepling his hands.
“We’d originally talked about drafting you with our pick this year, but since that’s unfortunately out of the question, I’d like to bring you on as my assistant after you graduate.
” He slides a paper across the table toward me, and a lump forms in my throat.
“This is your job offer, which outlines the proposed salary and benefits.”
“Oh my God . . .” My hands shake as I pick it up. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, I’d hoped you’d accept, but if you need more time to think . . .”
“I’m sorry, but I do,” I reply, my eyes stinging as I fight back tears.
“I understand. Give me a call next week once you get back home,” he says, handing me his card.
I barely keep it together while Jackson leads me out of the stadium, but I do until a rideshare arrives to take me back to the hotel.
“Hey, are you one of those new analytics kids?” the driver asks, his silver hair catching the light as he glances at me through the rearview mirror.
“Yeah, I am,” I reply, blinking away tears.
“Well, let me tell you,” he continues, his Southern drawl wrapping around each word like a warm blanket.
“My grandson’s got quite the talent for baseball.
He’s got the numbers down, but it’s all about heart too, you know?
The game’s a mix of stats and guts. I reckon the Rangers could use a bit more of both these days. ”
I nod and make polite noises, but mostly I watch the city out the window, a blur of chain restaurants and billboards, thinking I could live here if only I didn’t have an obligation to my sister.