Game Changer, page 16
"Friends," she responds warmly, grasping my hand in hers.
"You’re not going to make me sound like an idiot, are you? Running away from that woman?" I watch her expression soften as she mulls it over.
"I’ll tell you what. If you go in there and give Armida five minutes of your time, I’ll make you look like the sweetheart I know you to be." Grey studies me, curious as to what I’ll do.
I sigh, knowing that she’s trying to get me to face my fears. Dealing with my newfound notoriety isn’t going to get any easier. It’s not that I don’t want to interact with people. It’s just that I feel uncomfortable that anyone would be interested in me. I haven’t really done anything yet to help the team. Why would anyone want my autograph? Why would anyone be hanging my shirt in a store window? I just feel like I don’t deserve all of this until I do something to earn it.
"Fine," I grumble, and Grey chuckles beside me. "I just hope, by the end of the season, she doesn’t have a clearance sale and hawk of all those shirts at fifty percent off."
"Why would you say something like that?" Grey inquires, flabbergasted.
"If I end up making a major mistake that ends up costing us our World Series run, everyone in New York will hate me for the rest of my life," I mumble, afraid of having such a doomed prophecy come true.
"You have to stop thinking like that," Grey says, throwing her arm around my shoulders. "I’ll tell you what. I’ve been following the Kings all my life, and I’ve been covering the team for a couple of years now, so let me just say that no one cares if you mess up. All they want is for your brother to get a new heart—end of story. If you guys win a championship, that’ll just be the icing on the cake. They’re not expecting the world from you. They know what you’re trying to do is unprecedented, that it’s never been done before. There aren’t any hard and fast rules about how this works or how it all plays out, but I think you’ve done a darn good job so far. Most guys would have claimed they were injured and went on the disabled list after that fiasco in Baltimore. But you stood your ground and faced it. You didn’t quit. You kept going out there night after night, which is all anyone can ask of you."
"Wow. You really think that’s how people feel?" I ask, stunned by her response.
"I know that’s how they feel. At The Queen of Diamonds, we’ve been tracking reader comments across all forms of social media. Your approval rating is going through the roof, especially once people found out that the Kings weren’t even paying you a salary. That’s why it pissed me off to see Terry treating you like that in there. They have a bona fide gold mine in you. Yeah, some fans are all worked up about you and Brooks, but they’ll get over it. They don’t know what I know—that you two truly care about each other." Grey gives me a knowing look, her hand on the door to Armida’s shop.
"But how does it all come together, Grey? How do I make it work?" I plead, desirous for her advice.
"You do your best. You play hard. You respect the fans. And you don’t let anyone tell you that you’re not allowed to love him," Grey states emphatically, throwing open the door. "Armida, do I have a surprise for you. You’re never going to guess who I brought back with me."
"El Corazón de los Reyes!" Armida exclaims upon seeing me.
"The Heart of the Kings," Grey translates aloud. "I like the sound of that. Quite fitting, don’t you think?"
And Armida’s greeting touches me on so many levels—my brother’s need of a heart, my drive to help the team succeed, the love I have for Brooks.
Maybe I really am ‘The Heart of the Kings.’ I could live with that.
Chapter Seventeen
Brooks
Kissing Sasha is pretty spectacular, but watching how she’s electrifying this crowd is pure magic.
I’ve never seen anyone receive such a response from Kings’ fans, this level of instant adoration. The place is sold out for a midweek game in August, and the standing ovation she got during her first at bat was deafening. Things like this just don’t happen. There’s a momentum building. A phenomenon is taking shape before my very eyes. She’s not just the toast of New York. She’s the embodiment of the American Dream, the underdog succeeding against impossible odds. How could anyone not root for her?
She seems to be feeding off the energy, upping her game when it counts the most. Toby Riordan is on the mound for us tonight. He’s a sinkerball pitcher who induces a lot of ground-ball outs, so Sasha and I have been busy. So far, we’ve turned five double plays, all having gone off without a hitch. She even stayed on the bag when a Toronto runner came in hard, determined to take her out. Instead of allowing him to knock her off her feet, she leaped over him, getting some serious air in the process. The crowd oohed and aahed, impressed with her acrobatic moves. I don’t even think Kyle could’ve made that play. Her nerves don’t appear to be getting to her at all.
For me, there’s something about playing with Sasha that’s different than playing with anyone else. I realize it even more after being off for three days. There’s an evenness, a flow to what we’re doing out here. It’s like we can read each other’s minds. I know where she’s going to be as soon as the ball is hit. I don’t have to waste time tracking her movements. I can just reach back and throw. I’ve never experienced such an intuitive vibe with any other second baseman I’ve played with. I don’t have to think so much. I can just be in the moment and rely on my instincts to guide me.
It’s like Sasha and I have been playing together our whole lives, but it’s only been a week. I can’t explain it, and I’m sure she can’t either. It’s sort of like this is what we were both put on this earth to do, roam the middle infield for the New York Kings. She shouldn’t be as good at it as she is. She had no spring training. She had no advance preparation. Yet it’s like she’s as physically and mentally prepared for the pressures of playing in New York as any seasoned veteran. It’s uncanny.
I’ve seen a lot of guys crack under the intensity of playing for what is undoubtedly the greatest franchise in professional sports. Known stars, proven entities wilt under the pressure, the scrutiny, the expectations to win it all, every year, without fail. They crumble under the weight of maintaining the legacy of the legends that have gone before them. The retired numbers and monuments behind the center field wall are a testament to that. Any player who plays here has to be ready to live up to the Kings’ storied sense of tradition and history and not just be up for trouncing the current competition in the league.
It’s only one game, but Sasha is well on her way toward making a name for herself. She’s not embarrassing the team like some bumbling beginner. She’s more than just someone who is trotted out to bring little girls to the ballpark, even though there are a lot of them here with ponytails hanging out the back of their caps. Sasha is the real deal. She’s even improved from the last time we played together in Baltimore. I can see that she’s making adjustments, doing everything she can to solidify her game.
I watch her now at the plate as I stand on first base. I throw Chase a casual glance over my shoulder, and he strides over to me in between pitches, adjusting the brim of his cap, letting me know I have the green light from Tony on the bench. If I want to steal second, I can, if I feel I have a good enough read on the pitcher. I extend my lead a bit, careful not to go too far and get picked off. It’s the bottom of the eighth and we’re ahead by a run. But Toronto’s lineup is stacked from top to bottom, meaning we can never score enough runs. They’re known for swinging the bats. Their best hitters in the heart of their order are up next inning, and it won’t take much for them to tie the game or even move ahead. That’s why tacking on some extra insurance runs is never a bad idea.
But with Sasha at the plate, I don’t want to put any more pressure on her. If she thinks I’m going, she’ll need to make contact to put the hit-and-run in motion. So far this game, she’s been having a hard time legging out bunts for singles, but it’s not out of the realm of possibility that she can do it. There’s only one out, so even if she can’t bust it down to first in time, I’ll still be running with the pitch. Hell, I might even make it to third.
Sasha is a righty, so she has a good view of me across the diamond. She can see if I’m about to take off or not. Earlier, between innings, I mentioned to her that, if a situation like this came up, I’d touch my elbow if I planned on running. Well, at least for my first attempt. We talked through a series of signs in case she fouled one off. I didn’t want to overtax her, but sometimes I find that it helps to have different plays in mind. That way, there’s no time to think about getting nervous. An occupied mind is a productive mind.
Sasha smacks a bunt down the first base side, not waiting for me to give her the signal. I’m thrown out of my head and off like a shot, but I know it’s going to be a tough play. She hit it pretty close to the pitcher’s mound. The guy’s a left-hander, so he’ll be on it in a heartbeat. I turn on the jets, but I already see the ball flying into the opposing shortstop’s glove as I make my slide. I’m out as he flips to first, just beating Sasha by a step.
All of those double plays we turned came back to bite us in the ass. It really sucks being on the other side of one. The organ music starts to play as the inning comes to an end. Jilly is already jogging out of the bullpen, ready to shut this baby down, as I get to my feet and wipe the dirt off my pants. I stretch my back, feeling a little stiff as I toss my helmet over to Chase and wait for Sasha to bring out my glove.
When she hurries out to join me, she has a disgruntled look on her face. "I can’t believe I did that," she mutters, none too pleased with herself even though she’s having one heck of a game.
"It happens. You’re not gonna put it where you want it every time. Don’t beat yourself up over it," I encourage her, not realizing that we’re both holding on to my glove, too caught up in our conversation to notice that we’re being shown on the big screen.
The crowd starts to catcall when they get a good look at us with our heads bent together. It looks more intimate than it is, and we jump apart guiltily. Terry’s making us paranoid, like we’re two teenagers getting caught behind the bleachers. She’s skittish. I’m blushing. Great, just what we need—more evidence of the relationship we’re not supposed to be having but we are.
"C’mon, you two lovebirds. Save it ’til after the game, would ya?" Jim Peters, one of the most respected umpires in the league, calls out.
Drake glares at us over his shoulder before strutting to third, while Scott puts his glove over his mouth, trying not to laugh over at first.
But Jilly is all business as he gets set to face the first Toronto hitter in the top of the ninth. Sasha and I barely have to move out of position as he mows him down in three pitches before doing the same to the next batter. The player who could represent the final out comes to the plate and digs in. The crowd gets loud, urging Jilly to put an exclamation point on what has turned out to be a game for the ages. I can see the Kings’ TV network replaying Sasha’s debut as one of its classic encore presentations. It couldn’t have gone more smoothly. I’m so proud of her I could burst.
Yet with the crack of the bat, the ball takes a strange hop and bounces up right in front of Sasha. I hold my breath as it looks like it’s going to go over her head, but somehow she throws her body on top of it, smothering it. The runner is Toronto’s catcher, who doesn’t have a lot of speed, and she’s able to throw from her knees. The ball lands in Scott’s glove, beating him by two or three strides.
The crowd goes berserk, and I can’t stop a smile from spreading across my face at the outstanding play she just made. It didn’t look pretty or balletic or anything like that, but she got the job done. But what I don’t expect is Jilly’s reaction. He bounds off the mound, swooping down on Sasha, lifting her in his arms, and spinning her around. I can’t believe what I’m seeing as I stand there motionless, just as surprised as everyone else.
After a win, we usually all gather on the field, stand in a line, and give each other high fives before filing into the dugout, but Jilly has other plans. He cradles Sasha in his arms, marching toward the crowd and pumping his fist in the air, and she throws her hands around his neck in order to hold on. The other guys get caught up in the moment and follow behind him, leaving me standing there, gaping.
Drake comes up behind me, slapping me with his glove. "Looks like Jilly stole your thunder, man. At least he’s not a little chickenshit like you."
His taunt brings me back to reality as I trudge after him, the last player on the Kings to leave the field. Sasha is nowhere to be found. I wanted to share in this victory with her, but it looks like she’s already been ushered away, no doubt getting all beautified before meeting the press. I collect my bats and equipment, wanting to go and mope by my locker even though I can’t. I have to keep on showing the world my poker face.
Gayle’s heels click down the steps as she dodges the spit-out sunflower seeds lining the dugout floor. "Feel like being interviewed as my star of the game?" she inquires, knowing that I never refuse whenever she asks.
"Aren’t you going after the wrong person?" I respond sullenly, keeping my eyes lowered.
"I don’t think I’m getting near Sasha Roberts tonight. The Queen of Diamonds is big, but we’re not that big, not when ESPN, CNN, and The New York Times are here. She’ll be answering questions all night long." Gayle looks at me searchingly. "How are you holding up? You all right?"
"Yeah, I’m fine," I say, trying to shake off my disappointment at how things turned out so I can be happy for Sasha. I don’t want to be the guy who turns into the jealous boyfriend. That’s not me.
"Jilly and Sasha have been working together quite a lot behind the scenes, haven’t they?" Gayle inquires innocently enough, even though she knows she’s revealing that she’s privy to some top-secret information. "Looks like they’re getting a bit chummy."
"It’s news to me." I play dumb, not wanting to be the source of any leaks.
"Off the record, Brooks. This display by Jilly is only going to feed the flames. People are going to start saying the three of you are embroiled in some kind of love triangle. No one’s ever seen Jilly show that much emotion out on the field. Everyone’s always assumed he has ice running through his veins. It’s what makes him a good closer but not a very good interview. But tonight, he set himself up as your rival, so be prepared." Gayle holds the door for me as we enter what turns out to be a very rowdy clubhouse.
"You think that’s all people are gonna be asking me about?" I lower my voice, making sure only she can hear me.
"I can almost guarantee it, so don’t look surprised when they start grilling you about it. I’m sure a couple of the networks got some footage of you standing out there all forlorn and heartsick when he carried her off the field." Gayle’s personal time with me is up, and she shoves a recorder under my chin to begin her ‘real’ interview.
I answer her questions robotically, giving her what she needs, but all I can think about is that Terry might have been right all along. Mixing business and pleasure might just blow up in my face. Having a woman on the team is stirring things inside me that I’ve never felt before while on the job. I’ve never been jealous of another teammate. Sure, some guys are faster than I am, stronger than I am, but none of them have ever tried to steal the girl I love away from me.
Does Jilly have a thing for Sasha? I couldn’t stay for their secret hitting sessions in Texas because of my suspension. Did Jilly make a move on her when I wasn’t around? He didn’t seem to show any interest in her in Baltimore. How could things have changed so fast? Did he just get swept up in the moment out there tonight or is there something else going on?
Whatever it is, I’m going to get to the bottom of it, and soon. Bottom line—if I have to stay away from Sasha, then so does he.
Chapter Eighteen
Sasha
"Why do you keep looking at your phone?" my dad asks as he folds his slice of pizza to keep the gooey cheese from falling off.
"No reason." I try to slide it discreetly back into my purse even though he just caught me red-handed.
"It’s good to see that Brooks listened to me and took my advice," my dad remarks nonchalantly, and I nearly choke while taking a bite.
"What? You talked to Brooks? When?" His statement is enough to shake me out of my doldrums.
"I like to keep tabs on him." He gnaws on the end of his crust, giving me a significant look.
"Oh yeah?" It’s always awkward talking to my dad about boys. I’ll always be his baby girl, and as far as he’s concerned, no guy will ever be good enough for me. I just hope Kyle didn’t open his big mouth and tell him anything.
"Whenever he’s in a slump, I call him up, give him some pointers—nothing major." He dabs at his mouth with his napkin, ready for another slice.
We’re in one of three booths in some hole-in-the-wall joint in Washington Heights near where my parents are staying. Customers are coming in and out, grabbing food to go, and I’m glad because no one even notices me with my hair shoved in a beanie and my back turned. There won’t be many witnesses if I freak out right now.
"Dad, you talk to Brooks…on a regular basis?" I lean back, gripping the edge of the table.
"Pretty much ten minutes here, ten minutes there. The boy has a rotten father, so I try to check in with him from time to time." He shrugs, sliding the tray closer to him.
"How bad is his father?" I question him, eager to hear more.
"He told Brooks when he got signed that, ‘A real man doesn’t play a game for a living,’ so you can imagine what a tough ass he is. Most fathers would be over the moon to have a son"—he pauses, smiling at me—"or a daughter in the majors. Not him. I guess working on an oil rig eleven months out of the year will do that to a person."
"I had no idea," I mumble glumly, staring off into space.
"Well, at least he has his mama. And you and Kyle."
I can feel my dad’s eyes on me, but I’m too afraid to meet them. He doesn’t live in a bubble. He must’ve heard the rumors swirling around.
"You’re not going to make me sound like an idiot, are you? Running away from that woman?" I watch her expression soften as she mulls it over.
"I’ll tell you what. If you go in there and give Armida five minutes of your time, I’ll make you look like the sweetheart I know you to be." Grey studies me, curious as to what I’ll do.
I sigh, knowing that she’s trying to get me to face my fears. Dealing with my newfound notoriety isn’t going to get any easier. It’s not that I don’t want to interact with people. It’s just that I feel uncomfortable that anyone would be interested in me. I haven’t really done anything yet to help the team. Why would anyone want my autograph? Why would anyone be hanging my shirt in a store window? I just feel like I don’t deserve all of this until I do something to earn it.
"Fine," I grumble, and Grey chuckles beside me. "I just hope, by the end of the season, she doesn’t have a clearance sale and hawk of all those shirts at fifty percent off."
"Why would you say something like that?" Grey inquires, flabbergasted.
"If I end up making a major mistake that ends up costing us our World Series run, everyone in New York will hate me for the rest of my life," I mumble, afraid of having such a doomed prophecy come true.
"You have to stop thinking like that," Grey says, throwing her arm around my shoulders. "I’ll tell you what. I’ve been following the Kings all my life, and I’ve been covering the team for a couple of years now, so let me just say that no one cares if you mess up. All they want is for your brother to get a new heart—end of story. If you guys win a championship, that’ll just be the icing on the cake. They’re not expecting the world from you. They know what you’re trying to do is unprecedented, that it’s never been done before. There aren’t any hard and fast rules about how this works or how it all plays out, but I think you’ve done a darn good job so far. Most guys would have claimed they were injured and went on the disabled list after that fiasco in Baltimore. But you stood your ground and faced it. You didn’t quit. You kept going out there night after night, which is all anyone can ask of you."
"Wow. You really think that’s how people feel?" I ask, stunned by her response.
"I know that’s how they feel. At The Queen of Diamonds, we’ve been tracking reader comments across all forms of social media. Your approval rating is going through the roof, especially once people found out that the Kings weren’t even paying you a salary. That’s why it pissed me off to see Terry treating you like that in there. They have a bona fide gold mine in you. Yeah, some fans are all worked up about you and Brooks, but they’ll get over it. They don’t know what I know—that you two truly care about each other." Grey gives me a knowing look, her hand on the door to Armida’s shop.
"But how does it all come together, Grey? How do I make it work?" I plead, desirous for her advice.
"You do your best. You play hard. You respect the fans. And you don’t let anyone tell you that you’re not allowed to love him," Grey states emphatically, throwing open the door. "Armida, do I have a surprise for you. You’re never going to guess who I brought back with me."
"El Corazón de los Reyes!" Armida exclaims upon seeing me.
"The Heart of the Kings," Grey translates aloud. "I like the sound of that. Quite fitting, don’t you think?"
And Armida’s greeting touches me on so many levels—my brother’s need of a heart, my drive to help the team succeed, the love I have for Brooks.
Maybe I really am ‘The Heart of the Kings.’ I could live with that.
Chapter Seventeen
Brooks
Kissing Sasha is pretty spectacular, but watching how she’s electrifying this crowd is pure magic.
I’ve never seen anyone receive such a response from Kings’ fans, this level of instant adoration. The place is sold out for a midweek game in August, and the standing ovation she got during her first at bat was deafening. Things like this just don’t happen. There’s a momentum building. A phenomenon is taking shape before my very eyes. She’s not just the toast of New York. She’s the embodiment of the American Dream, the underdog succeeding against impossible odds. How could anyone not root for her?
She seems to be feeding off the energy, upping her game when it counts the most. Toby Riordan is on the mound for us tonight. He’s a sinkerball pitcher who induces a lot of ground-ball outs, so Sasha and I have been busy. So far, we’ve turned five double plays, all having gone off without a hitch. She even stayed on the bag when a Toronto runner came in hard, determined to take her out. Instead of allowing him to knock her off her feet, she leaped over him, getting some serious air in the process. The crowd oohed and aahed, impressed with her acrobatic moves. I don’t even think Kyle could’ve made that play. Her nerves don’t appear to be getting to her at all.
For me, there’s something about playing with Sasha that’s different than playing with anyone else. I realize it even more after being off for three days. There’s an evenness, a flow to what we’re doing out here. It’s like we can read each other’s minds. I know where she’s going to be as soon as the ball is hit. I don’t have to waste time tracking her movements. I can just reach back and throw. I’ve never experienced such an intuitive vibe with any other second baseman I’ve played with. I don’t have to think so much. I can just be in the moment and rely on my instincts to guide me.
It’s like Sasha and I have been playing together our whole lives, but it’s only been a week. I can’t explain it, and I’m sure she can’t either. It’s sort of like this is what we were both put on this earth to do, roam the middle infield for the New York Kings. She shouldn’t be as good at it as she is. She had no spring training. She had no advance preparation. Yet it’s like she’s as physically and mentally prepared for the pressures of playing in New York as any seasoned veteran. It’s uncanny.
I’ve seen a lot of guys crack under the intensity of playing for what is undoubtedly the greatest franchise in professional sports. Known stars, proven entities wilt under the pressure, the scrutiny, the expectations to win it all, every year, without fail. They crumble under the weight of maintaining the legacy of the legends that have gone before them. The retired numbers and monuments behind the center field wall are a testament to that. Any player who plays here has to be ready to live up to the Kings’ storied sense of tradition and history and not just be up for trouncing the current competition in the league.
It’s only one game, but Sasha is well on her way toward making a name for herself. She’s not embarrassing the team like some bumbling beginner. She’s more than just someone who is trotted out to bring little girls to the ballpark, even though there are a lot of them here with ponytails hanging out the back of their caps. Sasha is the real deal. She’s even improved from the last time we played together in Baltimore. I can see that she’s making adjustments, doing everything she can to solidify her game.
I watch her now at the plate as I stand on first base. I throw Chase a casual glance over my shoulder, and he strides over to me in between pitches, adjusting the brim of his cap, letting me know I have the green light from Tony on the bench. If I want to steal second, I can, if I feel I have a good enough read on the pitcher. I extend my lead a bit, careful not to go too far and get picked off. It’s the bottom of the eighth and we’re ahead by a run. But Toronto’s lineup is stacked from top to bottom, meaning we can never score enough runs. They’re known for swinging the bats. Their best hitters in the heart of their order are up next inning, and it won’t take much for them to tie the game or even move ahead. That’s why tacking on some extra insurance runs is never a bad idea.
But with Sasha at the plate, I don’t want to put any more pressure on her. If she thinks I’m going, she’ll need to make contact to put the hit-and-run in motion. So far this game, she’s been having a hard time legging out bunts for singles, but it’s not out of the realm of possibility that she can do it. There’s only one out, so even if she can’t bust it down to first in time, I’ll still be running with the pitch. Hell, I might even make it to third.
Sasha is a righty, so she has a good view of me across the diamond. She can see if I’m about to take off or not. Earlier, between innings, I mentioned to her that, if a situation like this came up, I’d touch my elbow if I planned on running. Well, at least for my first attempt. We talked through a series of signs in case she fouled one off. I didn’t want to overtax her, but sometimes I find that it helps to have different plays in mind. That way, there’s no time to think about getting nervous. An occupied mind is a productive mind.
Sasha smacks a bunt down the first base side, not waiting for me to give her the signal. I’m thrown out of my head and off like a shot, but I know it’s going to be a tough play. She hit it pretty close to the pitcher’s mound. The guy’s a left-hander, so he’ll be on it in a heartbeat. I turn on the jets, but I already see the ball flying into the opposing shortstop’s glove as I make my slide. I’m out as he flips to first, just beating Sasha by a step.
All of those double plays we turned came back to bite us in the ass. It really sucks being on the other side of one. The organ music starts to play as the inning comes to an end. Jilly is already jogging out of the bullpen, ready to shut this baby down, as I get to my feet and wipe the dirt off my pants. I stretch my back, feeling a little stiff as I toss my helmet over to Chase and wait for Sasha to bring out my glove.
When she hurries out to join me, she has a disgruntled look on her face. "I can’t believe I did that," she mutters, none too pleased with herself even though she’s having one heck of a game.
"It happens. You’re not gonna put it where you want it every time. Don’t beat yourself up over it," I encourage her, not realizing that we’re both holding on to my glove, too caught up in our conversation to notice that we’re being shown on the big screen.
The crowd starts to catcall when they get a good look at us with our heads bent together. It looks more intimate than it is, and we jump apart guiltily. Terry’s making us paranoid, like we’re two teenagers getting caught behind the bleachers. She’s skittish. I’m blushing. Great, just what we need—more evidence of the relationship we’re not supposed to be having but we are.
"C’mon, you two lovebirds. Save it ’til after the game, would ya?" Jim Peters, one of the most respected umpires in the league, calls out.
Drake glares at us over his shoulder before strutting to third, while Scott puts his glove over his mouth, trying not to laugh over at first.
But Jilly is all business as he gets set to face the first Toronto hitter in the top of the ninth. Sasha and I barely have to move out of position as he mows him down in three pitches before doing the same to the next batter. The player who could represent the final out comes to the plate and digs in. The crowd gets loud, urging Jilly to put an exclamation point on what has turned out to be a game for the ages. I can see the Kings’ TV network replaying Sasha’s debut as one of its classic encore presentations. It couldn’t have gone more smoothly. I’m so proud of her I could burst.
Yet with the crack of the bat, the ball takes a strange hop and bounces up right in front of Sasha. I hold my breath as it looks like it’s going to go over her head, but somehow she throws her body on top of it, smothering it. The runner is Toronto’s catcher, who doesn’t have a lot of speed, and she’s able to throw from her knees. The ball lands in Scott’s glove, beating him by two or three strides.
The crowd goes berserk, and I can’t stop a smile from spreading across my face at the outstanding play she just made. It didn’t look pretty or balletic or anything like that, but she got the job done. But what I don’t expect is Jilly’s reaction. He bounds off the mound, swooping down on Sasha, lifting her in his arms, and spinning her around. I can’t believe what I’m seeing as I stand there motionless, just as surprised as everyone else.
After a win, we usually all gather on the field, stand in a line, and give each other high fives before filing into the dugout, but Jilly has other plans. He cradles Sasha in his arms, marching toward the crowd and pumping his fist in the air, and she throws her hands around his neck in order to hold on. The other guys get caught up in the moment and follow behind him, leaving me standing there, gaping.
Drake comes up behind me, slapping me with his glove. "Looks like Jilly stole your thunder, man. At least he’s not a little chickenshit like you."
His taunt brings me back to reality as I trudge after him, the last player on the Kings to leave the field. Sasha is nowhere to be found. I wanted to share in this victory with her, but it looks like she’s already been ushered away, no doubt getting all beautified before meeting the press. I collect my bats and equipment, wanting to go and mope by my locker even though I can’t. I have to keep on showing the world my poker face.
Gayle’s heels click down the steps as she dodges the spit-out sunflower seeds lining the dugout floor. "Feel like being interviewed as my star of the game?" she inquires, knowing that I never refuse whenever she asks.
"Aren’t you going after the wrong person?" I respond sullenly, keeping my eyes lowered.
"I don’t think I’m getting near Sasha Roberts tonight. The Queen of Diamonds is big, but we’re not that big, not when ESPN, CNN, and The New York Times are here. She’ll be answering questions all night long." Gayle looks at me searchingly. "How are you holding up? You all right?"
"Yeah, I’m fine," I say, trying to shake off my disappointment at how things turned out so I can be happy for Sasha. I don’t want to be the guy who turns into the jealous boyfriend. That’s not me.
"Jilly and Sasha have been working together quite a lot behind the scenes, haven’t they?" Gayle inquires innocently enough, even though she knows she’s revealing that she’s privy to some top-secret information. "Looks like they’re getting a bit chummy."
"It’s news to me." I play dumb, not wanting to be the source of any leaks.
"Off the record, Brooks. This display by Jilly is only going to feed the flames. People are going to start saying the three of you are embroiled in some kind of love triangle. No one’s ever seen Jilly show that much emotion out on the field. Everyone’s always assumed he has ice running through his veins. It’s what makes him a good closer but not a very good interview. But tonight, he set himself up as your rival, so be prepared." Gayle holds the door for me as we enter what turns out to be a very rowdy clubhouse.
"You think that’s all people are gonna be asking me about?" I lower my voice, making sure only she can hear me.
"I can almost guarantee it, so don’t look surprised when they start grilling you about it. I’m sure a couple of the networks got some footage of you standing out there all forlorn and heartsick when he carried her off the field." Gayle’s personal time with me is up, and she shoves a recorder under my chin to begin her ‘real’ interview.
I answer her questions robotically, giving her what she needs, but all I can think about is that Terry might have been right all along. Mixing business and pleasure might just blow up in my face. Having a woman on the team is stirring things inside me that I’ve never felt before while on the job. I’ve never been jealous of another teammate. Sure, some guys are faster than I am, stronger than I am, but none of them have ever tried to steal the girl I love away from me.
Does Jilly have a thing for Sasha? I couldn’t stay for their secret hitting sessions in Texas because of my suspension. Did Jilly make a move on her when I wasn’t around? He didn’t seem to show any interest in her in Baltimore. How could things have changed so fast? Did he just get swept up in the moment out there tonight or is there something else going on?
Whatever it is, I’m going to get to the bottom of it, and soon. Bottom line—if I have to stay away from Sasha, then so does he.
Chapter Eighteen
Sasha
"Why do you keep looking at your phone?" my dad asks as he folds his slice of pizza to keep the gooey cheese from falling off.
"No reason." I try to slide it discreetly back into my purse even though he just caught me red-handed.
"It’s good to see that Brooks listened to me and took my advice," my dad remarks nonchalantly, and I nearly choke while taking a bite.
"What? You talked to Brooks? When?" His statement is enough to shake me out of my doldrums.
"I like to keep tabs on him." He gnaws on the end of his crust, giving me a significant look.
"Oh yeah?" It’s always awkward talking to my dad about boys. I’ll always be his baby girl, and as far as he’s concerned, no guy will ever be good enough for me. I just hope Kyle didn’t open his big mouth and tell him anything.
"Whenever he’s in a slump, I call him up, give him some pointers—nothing major." He dabs at his mouth with his napkin, ready for another slice.
We’re in one of three booths in some hole-in-the-wall joint in Washington Heights near where my parents are staying. Customers are coming in and out, grabbing food to go, and I’m glad because no one even notices me with my hair shoved in a beanie and my back turned. There won’t be many witnesses if I freak out right now.
"Dad, you talk to Brooks…on a regular basis?" I lean back, gripping the edge of the table.
"Pretty much ten minutes here, ten minutes there. The boy has a rotten father, so I try to check in with him from time to time." He shrugs, sliding the tray closer to him.
"How bad is his father?" I question him, eager to hear more.
"He told Brooks when he got signed that, ‘A real man doesn’t play a game for a living,’ so you can imagine what a tough ass he is. Most fathers would be over the moon to have a son"—he pauses, smiling at me—"or a daughter in the majors. Not him. I guess working on an oil rig eleven months out of the year will do that to a person."
"I had no idea," I mumble glumly, staring off into space.
"Well, at least he has his mama. And you and Kyle."
I can feel my dad’s eyes on me, but I’m too afraid to meet them. He doesn’t live in a bubble. He must’ve heard the rumors swirling around.
