Chapter 4 #2
And then she’s gone, already moving toward the dugout, back straight, purpose in every step. I stand there for a second longer than necessary, staring at her retreating form.
Noticing how she has an iPad, a phone, and no coffee.
I could still go.
Meant to Bean is close enough that no one would even notice I was gone. I picture the light she tries to hide in her eyes when I hand a cup to her, the way she always takes a deep breath before taking her first sip.
I miss it.
I want it.
But I don’t move.
Because wanting something doesn’t make it mine.
I turn back toward the field instead and clap my hands once, sharp and loud. “All right, pitchers! Rotate!”
As I jog back to the mound, my heart feels like it’s beating in mud.
***
By late afternoon, Scottie and I haven’t had a chance to talk more, and the anticipation is doing things to my head. She hovers around my perimeter, but during our final break, I’m in the middle of explaining to an overeager kid why it’s a bad idea to throw a curve ball so young.
“But my dad thinks it’s awesome that I can throw a curve already!”
“It is awesome,” I say. “Think of it like driving a car. It’s cool if you know how to already, but you’re still not allowed to when you’re thirteen.”
“That’s not the same,” the kid argues, reminding me of how annoying I was at thirteen. “This isn’t illegal.”
“You’re right. It’s just stup—” Scottie clears her throat, and I exhale loudly. “I mean, super risky. I’ve seen it a hundred times—kids who throw trick pitches too young blow out their elbow or shoulder. Do you really want to peak in seventh grade?”
The kid wrinkles his nose. “No.”
“Smart. Focus on your fastball. You’re already good enough to make the other team mad. Keep getting better, and they’ll hate you. Believe me: there’s no feeling like it.”
The kid sniffs, like he’s not sure if he’s annoyed or amused. But he nods. “Okay.”
I flap the bill of his cap, and then he walks away, leaving me alone with Scottie.
I gulp. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she says, gripping her iPad. “Good job today.”
She says it without fanfare, which makes it feel like I’ve just been given a medal.
“Thanks,” I say, forcing myself not to smile. But I want to. If it weren’t for her stupid boyfriend, I would.
“You’ve probably wondered why I’m here today.”
“I assume you got a complaint from a parent?” The first couple of camps I ran, any complaint sent me into a funk.
But after the thirtieth time you’ve heard a dad demand to know why we weren’t using MLB-spec pine tar for batting practice, you have to develop a thicker skin.
Or you watch Up to let it all out. Either works.
“You think someone complained? No. The parents are obsessed with you. Including some of the kids’ siblings.
” The word has bite, but I have no clue what it’s biting at.
And she doesn’t seem happy she said it at all.
“Anyway, I’ve been promoted to the Director of Player Personnel and Development. Yours, specifically.”
“Come again?” I ask. She blinks like my response is beneath her, which it is.
I know what a Director of Player Personnel and Development is, and I know why it matters.
I’m on the 40-man roster now. To the Firebirds, I’m not just a right-hander with a 100-mile-per-hour heater; I’m a brand asset.
They want my off-field makeup to be as polished as my delivery before they put me on a billboard in Chicago.
“That’s quite the promotion. Congrats. Kayla and Doug clearly think highly of you. ”
“Or they think you’re too big a handful,” she says with tight eyes.
“Or maybe you’re the only one who can handle me,” I shoot back.
She snorts. “Handle? You mean train. And I have a lot of experience training animals.”
I cough a laugh. “What animals have you trained? You have a literal alley cat who refused to go back to the alley.”
“I know, and I already trained him to high-five, roll over, and fetch. Compared to Pinto, you’ll be a piece of cake.”
“Convenient. I have it on good authority that cake is your favorite food.”
A faint laugh hovers on her lips like always, and the urge to go in for the full smile has me leaning forward on the balls of my feet before I can stop.
But then she blinks rapidly and her lips purse, and I rock back, something in my chest dropping out.
Neither of us takes a step back, but the distance between us stretches out for yards. Scottie raps her nails on the back of her iPad, a sound that feels familiar and welcome and painful, all at once.
I kick myself mentally. “Okay, so what’s this gonna look like?”
“I’m shadowing you for the rest of camp to do a makeup evaluation.
Next week, we’re doing media simulations—I’ll be playing the part of a cynical Chicago beat writer trying to bait you into saying something stupid.
You’ll be playing the part of the rookie who doesn’t say something stupid.
I’ll get you the full itinerary tonight, and we’ll brief tomorrow after your camp. ”
“Got it,” I say. “Can’t wait.”
She gives me a curt nod, spins on her platform sneakers, and walks off.
“What was that about?” Logan asks, coming up beside me.
“Oh, nothing much,” I say. “Scottie’s just planning to kill me.”