Chapter 3
Jordan
"Give me three more,” Robin orders. When I glare at her, the team’s physical therapist only laughs and shakes her head.
My arms burn, and I sneak a glance at the clock. We’re nearing the end of my P.T. session, and I’m trying to think about anything except my damn elbow, which hasn’t been the same since I injured it last season.
She taps her fitness watch, a not-so-subtle signal for me to hurry up and finish my last set of bicep curls. “Come on, some of us have wives and children to get home to.”
“Sure, rub it in.” I flash her my best smile, but she’s immune. I briefly consider asking for advice about Shelley, but quickly realize it would probably only earn me a one-way ticket to a meeting with H.R.
Hell if I know whether that was the right way to respond last night, but it’s not like there was anyone I could ask when her message came through.
Mike’s the only friend I might feel remotely comfortable talking to about this sort of thing, but I’m not about to approach the guy and ask him to press pause on his wedding plans so he can offer me advice on how to help his sister handle her orgasm problem.
At least not if I want to keep all my teeth.
Robin narrows her eyes. “Focus. You’re stuck in your head today. That’s how injuries happen.”
“Three. Two. One,” I grunt out the countdown and set down the forty-pound dumbbells before taking a seat on the weight bench. It’s been a year since I took that hit, but weight exercises still pinch in a way I never felt before I went down.
“How did this set feel?”
“Fine,” I lie.
Robin’s brow arches, calling my bluff.
Trying not to focus on the dull, radiating pain in my arm, I let my mind drift back to the message that came out of nowhere.
I was surprised to see Shelley’s name pop up on my screen.
We’ve always been friendly, but we don’t see each other often, only the few times a year when she visits her brother.
I probably should’ve stopped listening and deleted her message after the first sentence.
It was clear she sent it to me accidentally.
But it felt like something that deserved a response.
Voices rise in the hall, and I glance up toward the doorway. Our new shortstop is walking with our pitcher, Lincoln, in the direction of Coach Johnson’s office.
“Did you get a chance to talk to Beau yet?” Robin’s voice cuts into my thoughts again as she tries to make conversation.
I shrug and wipe the sweat from my face with a towel. “Not really.”
Coach brought the rookie into the locker room yesterday, where Beauchamp insisted in his trademark Southern drawl we all call him Beau.
We acknowledged him with nods and polite hellos, but I haven’t gone out of my way to introduce myself to our new shortstop.
He seems like a decent guy, if maybe a bit overconfident, but the reality is we only need a new shortstop because Miller’s gone.
I’d rather not focus too much on the gaping hole my best friend is leaving in my life as he moves up to the majors and out of the apartment we share.
Mike’s out there living the dream, getting recruited by the Virginia Foxhounds and marrying Danielle.
I, on the other hand, am stagnant. I’m sitting here in the exact same weight room where I’ve started spring training for the past four years in a row.
Only this year I’m not performing as well as I usually do.
I have no idea if I’ll still be here this time next year, and if I’m not, I have no clue what my other options are.
I don’t have any real skills outside of the ball field.
I didn’t have anything else to fall back on, so I never allowed myself to think about a Plan B.
But now I’m staring right down the barrel into the bleak probability of needing one.
Robin seems as done with this session as I am, and she calls an end to it five minutes early. “That’s enough for today. Put some ice on the elbow when you get home, if you need it. You’re still favoring that arm. Come back tomorrow ready to get your head in the game.”
I nod and head over to the locker room to shower and change.
Robin’s right. I’m too lost in my own thoughts, and it could hurt the team tomorrow if I don’t snap out of it.
But the questions about myself I try to avoid have been lingering in the back of my mind since Shelley brought them all back to the surface last night.
If she does try to reach out again, I don’t know how to help.
How am I supposed to comfort anyone else about their life or their sexuality when I still don’t have a solid grasp on my own?
I’ll be thirty in less than two years. I really thought I would have my shit more together than this by now.
The frustration of a lackluster training session combined with overthinking about that message is messing with me.
Unwelcome, complicated feelings swirl in my head as I finish my shower.
Turning off the water, I grab a towel and dry off, then I swipe on some deodorant and throw on a Blue Crabs tee and a pair of athletic shorts.
When I head back into the locker room, Lincoln and Rodriguez are there with Beauchamp, gathering their things. I nod at them and grab my bag, ready to leave.
“We were thinking of taking the rookie out to Marnock tonight to grab some drinks and try to score with the ladies, you in?” Lincoln asks.
“You know he’s not,” Rodriguez says before I have a chance to respond. “He’s in full chastity mode until we make the playoffs.” He elbows Beauchamp and explains, “Jordan takes the same vow every year.”
My teammates think I’m superstitious about remaining celibate during the season, and that’s fair enough because I do like to stick to my rituals.
But if I’m being honest, it’s easier to play along with their assumption than to explain the truth.
I don’t want to deal with other people’s judgments about my life.
If Shelley calls again, I’ll do what I promised and try to answer her, but I doubt anything I say can make any kind of difference.
“Yeah, I’m out. Don’t have too much fun, Rookie. We have a game tomorrow.” I put on a hat and give them a two-finger salute as I leave.
When I get home, Mike’s sitting on the floor of our living room taping up moving boxes.
He greets me with a grunt. I nod and shove my gear into the small coat-closet-slash-pantry.
Our apartment’s front door opens right into our kitchen, with the tiny living area on the other side of the island.
I lean against the counter and stare down at my friend.
“How’s the packing going?”
“It’s taking forever, but it’s fine.”
“Do we have any of that soup left from The Blue Crab? I’m starving.”
Mike shrugs, so I head to the fridge to check for myself. Thankfully, there is still a little bit in there. I pour a bowl and cover it with a paper towel before I pop it in the microwave. Then I turn back to him. “You need help with these boxes tonight?”
“Nah, I got it.” He sits up straight and runs a hand through his hair while he looks at me. I know that face. He wants something. “Can I ask you a different favor, though? It’s a big one.”
Called it.
“Depends what it is. No way I’m agreeing outright.
The last time you asked me this question we ended up singing a duet in the Brew-Ha-Ha Valentine’s Day karaoke contest.” There was way too much choreography involved, and I had to wrap a sheet around me like a diaper and shoot foam arrows at the audience while pretending to be Cupid.
“I’m not falling for an ask like that again. ”
“Fair.” He nods and resumes closing the packed box in front of him while he says, “There’s a change in the Foxhounds’ schedule.
I need to travel to New York a few days before the wedding.
” The packing tape squeaks as he drags it across the cardboard before adding, “But the Crabs are off that Thursday.”
“I know. I’m on Best Man duty for the whole week. You want me to pick up the rings or something? Just tell me what you need, man.” How hard can a wedding errand be?
Mike takes a breath and looks up at me again, setting the tape down on top of the box. “Could you drive out to D.C. and pick up Michelle after her morning class lets out?”
I drum my fingers on the counter. “Nobody else is available?” I wince at myself as his face pinches.
He looks like a kicked puppy. Note to self, maybe sharing a digital calendar with my roommate wasn’t the best idea.
He knows I’m free, and I have no realistic excuse to offer, but hours alone with his sister right after she asked me if I’d mentor her about her sex questions seems like an epically bad plan.
I know I pissed her off with my first response, then her second set of questions left me spinning out for my own reasons.
“Shelley doesn’t have a car,” he pleads.
Of course she doesn’t. She doesn’t need one in the city.
But it’s not like there is any public transit that comes all the way out to North Bay, and hiring a car to drive that far would be insanely expensive.
Somebody needs to get her. “Danielle and her crew have wedding stuff to do here in town all week. The rest of my family is flying into Richmond on Friday. They’re renting a car, and they did say they could go up and get her, then make the drive back down here, but… ”
“That wouldn’t make a ton of sense,” I concede.
“Exactly, it would be asking my parents to do hours of driving in the wrong direction after a cross-country flight. And if their flight is delayed at all it will screw up the whole plan.”
He's right. Washington D.C. traffic is notoriously bad. Plus, we’re supposed to get some pretty big storms rolling through over the next few days.
The ten-day forecast says the weather should clear up by the end of the week in time for the wedding, but if anything veers off schedule, even slightly, it could derail things for his whole family.
Someone does need to go pick up Shelley before the rest of his family gets in, and it’s pretty obvious that person should be me.
Mike looks at me, the guilt seeping out of his pores. He knows this road trip will take up my entire day. It’s a three-hour drive from North Bay to D.C. in each direction on a good day.
I feel a slow burn spreading up the back of my neck as a bead of sweat rolls down my spine.
I should probably fess up and tell him what happened, but then again, Shelley’s medical secrets aren’t mine to share.
Besides, it’s not like I acquired this knowledge on purpose.
And who wants to hear details like that about their siblings?
“Yeah. I’ll get her. No big deal.” What’s a little road trip trapped in the car with my best friend’s sister and her sex questions? I can survive a few hours.
Mike lets out a long, relieved breath. “Thanks, man. That’s huge.”
I graze my bottom lip with my teeth and turn to take the soup out of the microwave, testing a spoonful to see if it’s warm enough.
“We have hotel rooms booked for my family on Friday and through the weekend. But do you think she could sleep here Thursday night?” he adds.
I spit the soup in my mouth down the front of my shirt. He wants her to sleep here, too? While he’s out of town?
“You okay?”
“Yep. Soup’s a little hot. Sure. That’s fine.
” It comes out squeakier than I intended, and I fake a cough to clear my throat while I clean up my mess with a paper towel.
Then I take an ice pack out of the freezer and cradle it in my elbow while I pick up my bowl again.
Apparently, Shelley and I are having a sleepover in my apartment.
“I’m going to eat in my room. I’m tired. ”
Mike nods as he wrestles with another box. “Okay. I’m going to head over to Danielle’s with some of these boxes. Or I guess I should call it our house now. See you later.”
“Right. I’ll see you on the fishing trip, if I don’t catch you before then.” We have his bachelor party coming up in a few days. I take my soup to the safety of my room before I say too much.
As I settle into bed with my dinner, my phone pings with a new message. My stomach does a little nervous flip, half-expecting to see Shelley’s name, but it’s from my high school coach. He and his wife, Ruth, like to visit North Bay once a year to watch me play.
Coach Carver: Can you send me those dates?
I attach a photo of our team’s schedule for the season.
Me: Here you go. Looking forward to your visit. Say hi to Ms. Ruth. Tell her I miss her oatmeal cookies. Think she’ll bring me a batch?
Coach Carver: Make your own damn cookies.
I smile because embracing the grouchy grandpa vibe is the old man’s love language.
We both know Ms. Ruth will bring me three dozen oatmeal cookies.
She always does. The Carvers are nothing if not predictable.
They’re steady, reliable folks. The only ones I’ve got, outside of Mike and his parents.
Even if the Jordan Wagner fan club is small, having the Carvers in my life means at least once a year there are people in the stands rooting for me.
Me: Love you, too, Coach.