Game Changer, page 21
A bell sounds, indicating that the taping is about to resume, and Jeff rushes back behind his desk to welcome his next guest. A stagehand directs us to the green room. Sasha’s hand bumps mine and she lets it linger there until I make a move and grab it. She looks up at me, granting me a smile for my boldness. I know this interview was hard for her to do. Kyle had a really difficult day today, and I know she would have rather stayed with him at the hospital. It was our last off day before we enter into the madness of October, and the doctors told Casey that it doesn’t look good…that he’s running out of time. I just hope some way, somehow, they can pull off a miracle.
"Come back to my apartment with me," I whisper as we grab our things and get ready to head in separate directions to the two chauffeured town cars waiting downstairs.
"Sandy, we can’t—" she starts to protest, but she stops when she sees the way I’m looking at her.
"We can order some Chinese, watch The Hobbit movie you haven’t seen yet, and wait for After Midnight to come on." I make the offer sound as enticing as I can. "Let me torture you with my Gollum impersonation. ‘We swears to serve the master of the precious. We will swear on… on… the precious!’" She laughs, so I go on. "Do you really wanna go back to the Roosevelt Building, sit around by yourself, and worry about Kyle? You know Casey said they’re limiting him to morning and afternoon visits so he can rest. Let me help take your mind off everything for a while."
Her eyes never leave my face as she studies me. "Okay," she whispers, giving me a shy smile.
"Awesome," I grin back at her as I place my hand on her lower back, happy that she’s coming home with me.
***
About five hours later, we’re stretched out in my TV room, surrounded by a plethora of half-eaten takeout containers and a good number of empty beer bottles.
"Oh dear Lord, run!" Sasha shouts as she watches the scarily realistic CG dragon launch itself at poor little Bilbo Baggins. She’s a lot louder than normal, no doubt due to the amount of alcohol she’s consumed.
I, on the other hand, can’t seem to keep my eyes open. I stare at the screen, my vision bleary, trying to make sense of what’s going on. I’ve seen this movie over a dozen times, so it’s not like I have to stay awake to catch the ending, but I do enjoy listening to Sasha’s running stream of commentary. She even threw her rubber-banded chopsticks at the TV when she thought the ‘cute dwarf’ was about to die.
"Sandy, don’t you dare fall asleep on me!" I vaguely hear her yelling from her perch on my recliner. "We’re going to be on Jeff’s show in like ten minutes."
I nod absentmindedly and allow my head to fall to the side of the couch. There’s no way I’m staying up for it. This always happens to me at the tail end of the season—my energy gets zapped. I must’ve played in about all but seven of our one hundred sixty-two games this year, a new career record for me, and my body is feeling the effects of it.
"Wake up, sleepyhead!" Sasha teases. My eyes flicker when I feel her shadow fall across my body, blocking out the light coming from the screen. "You still have to drive me home, or do you expect me to call a cab?"
I reach out blindly, stabbing at the air until my hand finds her wrist. I just want to sleep, and I need her to stop talking. She’s not going anywhere tonight. She’s staying with me.
She plops down beside me, reaching for the remote that’s sitting on my lap, turning the movie off, and flipping to the right channel. This is nice. It’s like how I always imagined being with her—free and easy, like we’ve been together forever. She fits into my life seamlessly, like she was meant to be by my side as we go through the ups and downs of day-to-day life.
"Oh, they just showed our names in the opening credits!" she exclaims, all excited.
I want to share this moment with Sasha because it’s all so new to her. I can’t believe how jaded I’ve become. Since when did being on national TV stop being a big deal for me? I really am starting to take things for granted. I guess I’m going to have to make an effort to break out of the bubble that encompasses the universe of the New York Kings. The world is a vast place. It’s not just made up of stadiums and airports, and I’d do well to remember that.
But that’s why I’m glad Sasha is here, pulling me out of my head, making sure I live in the moment. She doesn’t take any of this for granted. She feels like she’s been given a rare gift and she’s going to cherish every part of the journey she’s on, from singling out one kid in the stands to touching millions like she’s bound to do tonight. To her, it’s all the same and just as important.
I listen to her snort over something in Jeff’s monologue, smiling to myself over her semi-inebriated state. She lightly bumps against me, her shoulders shaking in merriment. I don’t even know what Jeff said that tickled her funny bone, but her laugh is gladly something I’d listen to every night as my lullaby of choice.
"Oh God, Sandy," she sighs. "You look so devastatingly handsome. I can’t stand it." She playfully punches my arm, causing my eyes to open for a second.
And there we are on the screen, side by side, for all the world to see. I thought I’d come across as nervous and uncomfortable, but I like the way I look next to her. She seems so delicate next to my big, strapping frame. She’s even sinking toward me on Jeff’s couch as the weight of my body draws hers closer to mine. There’s still a little bit of space separating us, but not much. No one for a second is going to believe that there’s nothing going on between us. I can only imagine what Terry’s going to think when he sees this.
But Sasha’s face lights up the screen as she banters with Jeff, clearly holding her own against one of the more seasoned personalities on television. She comes across as sincere, her warmth captivating and inviting. Men desire her. Women admire her. Kids idolize her. And I’m the one she wants to be with. Man, how did I get so lucky?
"Do you think people are going to believe what I said?" she asks, sobering up a little. "I’d hate to see all of our hard work go down the drain just because someone happened to take a random picture from a subway train. Tony said that my chances of hitting a home run all come down to the element of surprise, but I think that’s out the window now, don’t you? Any baseball person worth his salt is going to figure out what we’ve been up to."
"I don’t wanna sound like a downer, but does it even matter?" I mumble, rubbing my eyes while sitting up. "It’s not like you even hit one out yet. Yeah, you’ve made contact a couple of times, but you still haven’t taken Jilly deep. It was a brilliant idea by Tony—don’t get me wrong—but if you can’t execute it, what difference does it make?"
"I know," Sasha admits dejectedly. "I just don’t have the arm strength to turn on the ball. I think my bat speed has improved, but I’m not sure I have what it takes to drive it out of the park."
"Your defense is solid. You’re laying down the majority of your bunts. I wouldn’t worry about it. You’re doing more than enough, more than anyone ever thought possible." I reach out and rub her back, kneading her muscles with my fingers.
"I just don’t want to let the team down." She sighs when I start massaging her shoulders with both of my hands, feeling her melt into me.
"You’re not," I whisper against her ear, and she surrenders to my touch, her body going limp in my hands as she lets out a moan.
My lips move along her neck, her hair brushing across my face. I lower my hands, skimming my fingers along the dip in her jeans. She shudders, arching her back, resting her head against my shoulder. I raise her arms, tossing her hands around my neck, elongating her spine as I run my palms down her sides, tracing her ribs while watching her breasts press together, her cleavage spilling out of the front of her top.
She’s so damn sexy as her breathing increases. This could be it. We could do this right here, right now. There’s nothing stopping us this time. I’m well prepared. She’s practically begging me to undress her when she angles her body so that my fingers extend inside her shirt. I let out a groan that issues from the back of my throat.
"Please, Sandy," she whimpers, her nails skating across the edge of my hairline, driving me insane. "Please…"
But that’s when her phone buzzes on the table, changing everything.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sasha
My brother is dying.
Yeah, I’ve known that for a while now, but knowing that he’s on life support, on the brink of death, is something else entirely.
He lost consciousness during the airing of our After Midnight appearance and never woke up. Casey called me after he went into cardiac arrest and said that he was clinically dead for two minutes before they were able to get his heart pumping again. The doctors won’t be sure if there was any brain damage until he wakes up—if he wakes up. The oxygen level of his blood is dangerously low, his heart now too weak to circulate it efficiently through his body. His feet and hands have turned a translucent shade of blue. His once robust, athletic build is now nothing more than a gaunt skeleton wasting away, his eyes sunken in, his breath rattling in his chest.
That’s all I can think about as I step to the plate in the bottom of the seventh, sleepwalking through game one of a World Series we fought so hard to get to. I don’t even hear the crowd chanting my name. I don’t see the hundreds of camera flashes going off around me. I’m locked in on the ball coming out of the pitcher’s hand. That’s all I see. I key in on the umpire’s voice because his ball-and-strike calls are all I hear.
We quickly disposed of Oakland in the best-of-five American League Division Series, ending their season with an efficient three-game sweep. I hated traveling to the West Coast for one game, knowing that I’d be so far away from Kyle. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen to him while I was gone, so I played my worst game of the entire season. I smacked a ball straight into the pitcher’s glove. I got caught stealing third with two outs. I collided with Brooks, bashing our heads together on a routine pop-up. Yeah, it was ugly, but somehow we still managed to shut them down. The other guys picked me up when I needed them to.
Next, we battled through seven hard-fought games with Cleveland in the American League Championship Series that included some of the longest playoff games ever recorded. One went sixteen innings and didn’t end until almost one o’clock in the morning, and we lost, which made it all the more painful. The next night, we bounced back, but the game extended well past midnight in another extra-inning romp that depleted our already-taxed bullpen, forcing some of our position players to take the mound and pitch. Drake looked like a jackass when his ‘wicked’ underhand curve got hit all over the park. It was an unorthodox series to say the least.
Now, we’re facing St. Louis in the World Series, the team with the best record in the majors. They achieved a better win-loss ratio and their payroll is half of ours. Terry hasn’t been happy about the David-and-Goliath comparisons that have so far dominated the media coverage. He doesn’t like seeing his mighty team compared to a bunch of scrappers that scratch and claw their way to victory on determination alone. They got all of their wins by the sweat of their brow, playing small ball. They don’t have very many sluggers in their lineup, so instead, they hit-and-run, steal bases, and draw walks.
Which is exactly what I’m trying to do now.
The bases are loaded. We’re down by a run. The score is four to five with two outs. The count is full at three balls, two strikes. This isn’t the time to bunt. After crouching behind the plate all night, Pedro would never be able to make it in from third on his tired legs. The infield is playing straight up, so even if I swing away, there aren’t many holes I can sneak the ball through. I’m a contact hitter, but a short contact hitter, my range not extending beyond the base paths. The only reason Tony’s not having someone pinch-hit for me is because he wants my glove out there for defense now that we’re in the later innings of the game. He knows that, while I might not be able to score or drive in a run, I can most likely save him one if I end up making a play that keeps St. Louis from scoring.
It’s a controversial move, and I’m sure it’s one that a lot of the sports writers will lament if I don’t come through here. I look at Tony to see if he wants me to swing for the fences, if now’s the time, but Gary Reynolds is a breaking-ball pitcher. He doesn’t throw a lot of hard stuff. Our plan of my coming in to save the day by blowing them away isn’t going to work in this situation. I still haven’t hit a home run off of Jilly, never mind a grand slam in the World Series.
Before the game, the Kings offered a moment of silence in honor of Kyle before Carrie Underwood belted out the National Anthem. The Jumbotron displayed his picture along with the message, "Our thoughts and prayers are with you, K-Rob." The number twelve has been stitched onto the back of all of the caps we’ll use for the duration of the series. Everywhere I turn, I’m reminded of how much my brother means to everybody, from his fans to his teammates. He was the feel-good story that was supposed to end happily but didn’t. No one thought Kyle Roberts would actually die. That’s not how these things are supposed to work.
And that’s when I get mad—really mad. What the hell? They’re not living this. This isn’t happening to them. It’s happening to me. It’s happening to my family. We’re not some fictional drama that people can turn on for entertainment. This is real life. Things don’t always go according to plan. My family’s tragedy isn’t being broadcast for their amusement…or is it? An image of Matt and Nate sitting stoically side by side in the stands flashes on the screen. They’re powerless to do anything except watch their sister hack away at the plate while their brother fades away across town.
The crowd notices the shot of my two older brothers and the response is enough to grab my attention. I hold up my hand, asking the umpire for time, and I step out of the box to readjust. If I mess this up, I’ll never forgive myself. Taking game one of any series is always important, but none more so than this. This win is within our grasp, if I can just hunker down and by sheer force of will get myself on base.
I tap my cleats with the barrel of my bat, trying to calm myself enough to focus. Reynolds has to be as nervous as I am, and I need to use that to my advantage. My strike zone is already small, so I crouch in my stance to make it even smaller. His control isn’t as sharp as it was in the first few innings. He’s starting to tire. I just need to make him throw me one mistake.
I step in and hold my breath as Reynolds comes set. My heart accelerates as the red seams on the ball fly toward me, dead even with my chest. I swing reflexively, fouling off another one. That was too close to take. There’s no way I’m going to stand there and take strike three. If anything, I’ll go down swinging.
We do it again, with the same result, and another lucky fan gets a souvenir.
I don’t even know how many pitches I’ve seen during this at bat. Twelve? Thirteen? It seems like an awful lot, but I lost track. I feel the rumble of pounding feet vibrate through the dirt under my spikes. The crowd is frantic, but all I hear is a dull roar in my ears. Reynolds is sweating profusely as he steps off and wipes his brow.
I hold my breath as he resets and pitches from the stretch. The ball’s coming in high again, and I hold my bat aloft. If it drops down and away at the last second, I’m going to look ridiculous, but my gut is telling me to let it go. I shut my eyes when it blows by me and wait for the umpire’s call.
"Strike three!"
I hear the expletive-laced jubilation of Francisco Lima, St. Louis’s catcher. He can’t believe his good luck. I open my eyes and see the umpire still in the position of ringing me up.
The crowd erupts in frustration when I toss my bat aside. Pedro trots home dejectedly, touching the plate anyway. We’re still in this game, but you wouldn’t know it. The way everyone’s reacting it’s like we lost the whole damn thing.
Chase greets me on his way over from first, swinging his arm around my shoulders, drawing me in. "That was the most fucking unbelievable at bat I ever saw!" he screams right in my ear in order to be heard. "You never gave up. You hung in there. No one else could have done that, Sasha. Only you, baby girl! Only you!"
I nod to show that I’ve heard him, but he’s looking over my head at the crowd. It’s like a rolling sea of humanity, waving arms, clapping hands, stomping feet, a teeming mass of people all in motion. I wish I could let it go, but I can’t. The bottom line is that I didn’t do my job, and even if I had, drawing a walk and tying the game isn’t going to give my brother a new heart. I was so naïve going into all of this, but I’m not blind to reality anymore. Winning the World Series isn’t going to help Kyle. I know that now.
Chase taps me on the shoulder. When I stare up at him, he points at the dugout, and there, with one foot on the top step, is Brooks, smiling over at me. It’s not the pitying expression that Chase and everyone else is wearing. No, it’s tender and patient, my quiet refuge in the midst of the storm. He knows what a grueling at bat that was for me and how disappointed I am that it wasn’t enough. No matter what I do on the field, it’s not going to give me what I need. If I lose my brother, all of this will have been for nothing.
And it’s in Brooks’s look, in those eyes I call home, that I know what I have to do.
***
As soon as the game is over, I don’t stick around to commiserate over the loss with my teammates. When Jake whiffs on the final pitch of the night, I dash through the tunnel leading to the clubhouse, bypassing it for the elevator that will bring me to the upper levels of the stadium.
