Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-Eight
Hayes
It was a shit game.
The fact that we couldn’t pull it together in the bottom of the ninth only made what happened at the top sting worse.
Baseball is called a game of failure for a reason. Errors happen—every game, every team, no matter how good you are. The best hitters in the league fail seven times out of ten. That’s success in this sport.
The defense controls the pace, which is rare in any other game. The batter steps in alone, outnumbered nine to one. There’s no teammate to pass to, no quick assist. It’s just you, a bat, and the hope that you can square up a ninety-five-mile-an-hour fastball.
Even then, most of the game depends on the pitcher hitting a spot the size of a postage stamp—and an umpire’s judgment on whether or not he did. One call, one inch, one blink—it all decides who walks away a hero and who walks off the field defeated.
All four of us—Foster, Decker, Easton, and me—walk into the media room having not said a word to one another since the game ended. We’re processing—most likely our own failures during those six outs.
Foster brushes by me onto the platform and takes the far chair to the right.
He’s stewing, and if I were Ripley, I’d have made him sit this one out.
It always takes Foster a night to regroup, and by the next morning, he walks in ready for a fresh start.
It’s the way this game has to be played in order to remain sane.
It’s exactly what I wasn’t doing last year.
I just want to get this over with so I can make it to Lake’s party in time to help Leighton finish decorating and keep Callie off her back since Leighton said she was going to tell my sister we’re a couple as soon as she arrived.
I’ll be pissed off if my sister behaves shitty when I want to be a human shield to Leighton.
Foster and Decker are in identical poses—leaned back in their chairs with their arms crossed and scowls on their faces—so I point at the first reporter.
“Foster, walk us through the top of the ninth. Looked like you had command until the walked Richards. What changed?”
Foster doesn’t bother leaning into the microphone. “What do you want me to say? I was ahead zero to two, then I missed the plate and fell behind on the count fast. You can’t walk the first guy in the ninth. It’s on me.”
I look at both sides of me, and it looks as though no one else is going to take questions. Easton is just fiddling with his chains.
“Hayes, you’ve caught for Foster for a long time,” the next reporter says. “Did you notice anything off mechanically in that inning? Did you think about a mound visit?”
I push back my irritation. “Not really. His stuff was still sharp. The fastball had life. I think it’s more about pitch selection. I was trying to keep them guessing, but maybe I got a little cute instead of going right at them. That’s my bad.”
The next reporter I point at always comes right at us, so I’m not surprised when he sets his gaze on Decker. “Decker, that error on the routine ground ball—how tough is it to shake that off in the moment?”
Decker, unlike Foster, sits up and leans into the microphone. “Yeah, that was brutal. Ball took a weird hop, but I still gotta make that play. Ninth inning, two outs, you can’t give them any extra chances.”
I point at the next reporter, and he sets his sights on Easton. I’m not sure why he’s even here. Other than striking out, Easton had a great game.
“Easton, you seemed a little jumpy at the plate in the bottom of the ninth. Had you been more patient, you might have drawn a walk.”
“What exactly is the question?” Easton asks. The reporter opens his mouth to speak, but Easton quickly interrupts. “I’m a hitter. That’s the player I am. I’m not going to let pitches I think I can hit go by me.”
I point at the next reporter and inwardly groan because what else do you want? We sucked today, end of discussion.
“You’ve had three straight games where late innings got away from you guys. Is it mid-season fatigue? Mental struggle?”
Foster mumbles something that I think might have been fuck you, so I quickly shift closer to the microphone. “We’ve got the talent. It’s about trusting it and not trying to play hero. Baseball humbles you fast when you start forcing things.”
With all the usual questions out of the way, it turns into a kind of free-for-all with reporters standing and asking questions.
“Decker, what’s the message to the guys after a game like this?”
“Flush it. You learn from it, and you move on. No one in this room is quitting. We’ve got another game tomorrow. That’s the beauty of baseball. We get another chance to come out on top.”
The next reporter stands. “Easton, this loss drops your average under three hundred. How do you stay out of your head?”
Easton grunts. “I’m frustrated, obviously. We’ve all played this game long enough to know the grind. You keep showing up, and eventually it turns.”
“Last question,” our press guy says from the side of the room.
Thank fuck, I want to get out of here.
A reporter stands, and I’m not sure I’ve seen her before. She doesn’t look familiar. “Hayes, there’s been speculation that your recent hot streak at the plate has something to do with off-field happiness. After three losses, could it be your focus has changed?”
“Fuck’s sake,” Foster mumbles.
I thought that question was going somewhere good, until she did a one-eighty at the tail end.
“I think how I play has nothing to do with my girlfriend—except when I play well, of course.” I throw in a wink for good measure.
The room laughs, but the reporter remains standing, not seeming impressed.
“Some people believe a relationship during the season can be a distraction. How do you respond to that?” she asks.
“I don’t. The people speculating have never been in my shoes.”
The room is somber and still she’s standing. What the fuck does this woman want from me?
“Last last question,” our press guy says.
I inhale a deep breath.
“Of course.” She smiles. “This is to Hayes again.”
“Not surprising,” I say, trying to mask my irritation.
A few people in the room quietly chuckle.
“You’ve always come off as pretty private, Hayes. What made you decide to go public with this relationship?”
“I think it’s pretty simple. When you love someone, you want the whole world to know.”
She finally sits back down.
Our press guy steps forward, hands raised as the reporters call out more questions, and the four of us stand. “Ripley will be right in.”
We step out of the media room and run right into our manager, who’s holding a little girl who looks to be about six years old, a blonde woman standing next to them.
“How did it go in there?” Ripley passes the little girl to the woman at his side.
“Time of my life,” Easton says. “Is this the missus?” He holds his hand out to the woman, who looks a lot closer to our age than our manager’s.
Ripley levels him with a deadpan look. “It’s my daughter and my granddaughter.”
Foster chuckles. I give him a questioning look.
Foster slaps Decker on the shoulder. “Hey, Penelope,” Foster says and walks down the hallway.
“Foster. Decker. Always a pleasure to see the Davis brothers.” There’s a bite to her tone.
I look at Easton to see if he has any idea what’s going on, but he looks as confused as me.
The press guy peeks his head out of the press room. “They’re ready for you.”
“Come on, Hazel, you’re going to be my buffer.” He picks the little girl out of Penelope’s arms.
“Grandpa.” She laughs when he tickles her stomach.
“Dad.” Penelope’s eyes shift from her dad to Decker then back to her dad. “You can’t just use her to get the heat off of you.” She follows her dad and daughter into the press room.
After the media room door shuts, Easton and I turn toward Decker.
“You know the manager’s daughter?” Easton asks.
“It was a long time ago.” Decker stalks down the hallway.
Easton and I stare at one another for a beat. Things just got interesting.
“I feel like I don’t even know you,” Easton says, following Decker. “What kind of friendship do we have if you can’t tell me you know the new manager’s daughter?”
I laugh, glancing at the clock in the locker room. Shit, I need to get a move on.
We all go in and grab our shit, then leave the stadium to make the short walk over to our building. We’ll drop our stuff and head over to Lake’s birthday party.
Easton and I are starting to let our attitudes about the shitty game slip away as we head back home, but the mood between Foster and Decker has only gotten worse. The tension in the air is palpable.
“What? Did Penelope distract you so much, you couldn’t get your glove down?” Foster snipes at his brother once we’ve almost reached the building.
“Hey, man, everyone has days.” I try to smooth it over.
“Fuck you. You walked him. That run was on you.” Decker has his finger pointed at his brother, and Foster looks as if he’s liable to break it.
“Plus, it took a bad hop, I saw it,” Easton chimes in.
“None of that matters. We didn’t get anything done at the plate. It’s on all of us,” I say, hoping it will cool things off.
Decker stops walking and turns to Foster. “You always blame everyone else. Why did you even come here?”
Foster’s grin says he’s about to say something he shouldn’t. “Too much money to turn it down, brother. I know you can’t understand that since we’re at two very different pay grades.”
“Shit, that’s not cool,” Easton says.
Ever since Foster got here, there’s been a divide—Easton and Decker, and Foster and me.
“It’s all right, Easton. It’s the truth, and that’s where we’re different. I don’t need money to know my worth.” Decker steps closer to Foster.
They’re the same height, and they both look as if they could breathe fire right now.
“You’re still the player who gets flustered by your emotions. Always so many feelings.” Foster shakes his head.
“It’s better than being a cold, heartless bastard,” Decker says.
Their chests press against one another’s.
Easton and I look at each other, then scramble to get between them before it comes to blows.
“Hey, we’re in public,” Easton says. “Fans are still hanging around.”
“We’re a team.” I wedge myself between them. “Like it or not, you two are on the same side.”
My phone vibrates, and knowing I’m already late, I pull it out of my back pocket, seeing Leighton’s name on the screen. “Fuck, guys. We gotta go.”
I’m about to tuck it back in my pocket when I’m pushed to the ground, and the phone flies out of my hands.
“Jesus. Fuck!” Easton shouts. “Hayes!”
I scramble back to my feet to see Decker and Foster rolling around on the pavement. I pull Foster off his brother and push his chest back as Decker scrambles to his feet.
“You guys need to sort out your shit,” Easton tells them. Now he’s pissed.
“I’m going to the party on my own. I don’t want you assholes there. Go see a fucking therapist and fix whatever is wrong before it poisons the team.” I search the ground for my phone, but I don’t see it anywhere. “Where the hell is my phone?”
“Hey, man,” Easton says, staring at the storm grate.
“Fuck!” I shout at the sky, knowing my phone is now lost to me.
“You broke my fucking nose,” Foster says, blood gushing down his shirt.
Awesome.