Game Changer, page 8
The din of chatter stops the moment we hit the cabin, and Chase deposits me in the first row of seats. Brooks starts to sit down beside me, but Chase grabs him by the elbow.
"You’d better sit with the rest of the team, man," Chase urges him even though Brooks looks ready to resist. "She’ll be fine up here with me and Tony and the other coaches. We don’t want to get any tongues wagging. You know the commentators from the network are back there. They’re on the Kings’ payroll and may seem harmless, but who’s to say some of the beat reporters aren’t going to hit them up as anonymous sources the minute the story leaks? I don’t want them pairing you two together. There’s going to be enough going on as it is without some kind of secret romance brewing."
Chase is perceptive—I’ll give him that. I grin weakly at Brooks as he looks back worriedly over his shoulder at me. I hate being separated from him, but Chase is right. We can’t be seen together. It’ll lead to too much speculation that we’re dating, and if the Kings don’t want to emphasize my sexuality in any way, that’ll be a big, black mark against us. Forget Kyle. We have the most prestigious franchise in sports determined to keep us apart.
When it comes to money, power, and influence, there’s no greater deterrent to romance than the New York Kings.
Chapter Nine
Brooks
As a team, we’re allowed to stand in the back for the press conference, and Sasha looks like a deer in headlights as she blinks against the incessant barrage of flashbulbs.
My heart aches when the media pummels her, screaming out question after question. But Terry ushers her away, not allowing her to respond.
I don’t know if that was such a wise move as the reporters start to grumble about being given the story of the century without obtaining a single quote from the girl at the center of it all. Already they smell blood in the water, thinking that Terry is trying to hide something. The Kings are known for going the extra mile to frame the narrative, and the sports writers hate that. They don’t like anyone telling them how to do their job, especially by a Svengali like Terry Bloom. They remember how he tried to sell them on Drake after his signing, so they’re not too trusting of Terry’s recent judgment calls.
I see Gayle Rader start to edge her way towards me when she breaks away from the horde of reporters clamoring for more. She motions to me with her chin to follow her without slowing down. She’s not stupid. She doesn’t want anyone else figuring out what she’s up to.
Gayle is the wife of our beloved play-by-play commentator, Andy Rader. She follows the team for her blog, The Queen of Diamonds, albeit somewhat anonymously. She doesn’t like to broadcast that she’s the owner of the site. She thinks it creates a conflict of interest, and she wants players like me to be able to trust her. Gayle never burns us, but she does like to get the inside scoop before anyone else. She’s going to expect me to give her something on Sasha. I just haven’t decided how much I should reveal. Gayle is the safest outlet by far. She’ll give Sasha a fair shake, but I’m not sure if talking to her will end up breaking any of Chase’s rules.
"How’s K-Rob doing? We’re all pulling for him, you know." Gayle speaks to me out of the corner of her mouth as we approach the clubhouse door, her eyes fixed straight ahead.
A handful of female reporters, like Gayle, are granted locker room access by the Kings. And for the most part, we’ve gotten used to them seeing us in our jock straps or toweling off after a shower. Some guys are more shameless than others, but I guess that goes with the territory. Personally, I’m not a fan of having women around when I’m changing, but I guess it’s not up to me to decide. I just make sure to keep my junk covered whenever they’re around.
Gayle follows me to my assigned locker area and pretends to shoot the breeze, talking just loud enough so that everyone thinks she’s asking me about Kyle. When it seems like no one is paying attention to us, she takes a seat next to me.
"So what does Kyle really think of all of this?" She watches me carefully as I bend down to line up my cleats.
"I wish I could tell you, Gayle, but I honestly don’t know." I raise my eyes to hers, doing my best to convince her that I’m telling the truth. "But I’ve been friends with Kyle a long time, and I know he’ll support his sister no matter what."
Gayle humphs, crossing her legs. "You ain’t fooling me, kid. He’s going to go through the roof. I’ve covered the two of you since before you were able to grow facial hair, and I know K-Rob’s not going to take this lying down—what Sasha’s doing is going to embarrass the hell out of him."
"That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?" I square my shoulders, ready for the onslaught. Gayle is one of the most player-friendly reporters out there, but if she feels this strongly about how Kyle’s going to react, I don’t know how I’m going to persuade her otherwise.
"I grew up in the Bronx, kid. Harsh is the only setting I have. I love you and K-Rob. You’re my boys, but what exactly is this chick up to? If you ask me, having a girl on the team is just asking for trouble." Gayle shakes her head at me, reaching for the pen she has stashed behind her ear.
"It was either that or have Terry trade for a new second baseman. If you love Kyle so much, don’t you wanna give him something to fight for?" I give Gayle an injured look as she starts jotting down every word I said on her steno pad.
"So she’s throwing herself on her sword to save her brother? How very noble of her," Gayle deadpans.
"What is it about Sasha that has you so bent out of shape, huh?" I raise my eyebrows at Gayle, genuinely perplexed. "I thought you’d be all for a woman joining the team, not against it. I thought women always stick together when it comes to stuff like this."
"I don’t know her, all right? Nobody knows her. She could be a little tramp or as pure as the new, driven snow. It doesn’t matter what kind of player she is. That’s all the media’s going to concentrate on—looking to see what member of the Kings they can match her up with. And I’m afraid, my friend, the mantle is going to fall on you." Gayle clicks her pen and eyes me with a hint of motherly concern. "You’re Kyle’s best friend. You’re one of the last remaining single guys on the team. The story doesn’t play as well if they pair her up with Drake or Scott. No one wants to see the girl next door with one of those clowns. You’re the perfect fit."
"I hate to disappoint all those matchmakers out there, but it’s not gonna happen." I try to let Gayle down gently, but I can tell she’s not buying it.
She sees right through me, just the way Scott does. "Kid, I caught the way you were looking at her in the pressroom. You can’t deny that you have feelings for her. Undoubtedly, the two of you have some kind of history. She’s your best friend’s sister. It’s a no-brainer that you must’ve been in each other’s company before all of this. The speculation is going to focus on how much and how often." Gayle sits forward, forcing me to meet her gaze. "Brooks, I’m only the first one to pick up on all of this because I knew where to look, but it’s not going to take the others long to sniff it out. You’re going to have to be more careful if you don’t want it getting out."
I lean back against the wall and let out a sigh. The other guys are starting to look over at us. Gayle’s been here too long. She shouldn’t linger. If they think I’m trying to gain some extra exposure out of all this, it’s not going to make things any easier in getting them to accept Sasha as a member of the team.
"You’re a handsome, young ballplayer from Oklahoma. With those broad shoulders and that blond head of hair, you could be this generation’s Mickey Mantle. Don’t blow it by becoming tabloid fodder for the bottom-feeders." Reluctantly, Gayle gets to her feet, ready to move on down the line.
"I’m nuthin’ like The Mick," I protest gently, ribbing her because she’s clearly exaggerating.
"You could be." She gives me a sly wink. "It’s better than being the next Chase Whitfield, isn’t it? Has a better ring to it, I think."
I watch her cross the room and stand in front of Pedro’s locker as he cleans the mouth guard on his catcher’s helmet.
Yeah, Gayle’s great. I just hope she keeps my secret.
Chapter Ten
Sasha
I’ve never been so nervous in my entire life.
I think I’m going to throw up as I wait on the dugout steps with the rest of the guys, ready to sprint onto the field after our first three hitters went down in order.
Tony Liotta called me into his office before the game and told me that I was batting ninth. All he said was to keep my chin up, that every player only gets one first game in the majors, and that I should try and enjoy it. Tony didn’t want to fill my head with a lot of information that he correctly assumed would fly right out of my head. He assured me that he’d work with me over the next few days and bring me up to speed on most of the plays. But tonight, he just wanted me to go out there and do whatever I could—no expectations, no pressure.
Terry placed Tony in an extremely awkward position, throwing me at him without any warning. There was no time to prepare. I was just going to have to wing it and make the best out of a difficult situation. The majority opinion around here seems to be that no one expects me to be any good, likening my participation to having the pitcher bat in the National League—an automatic out. They’re just crossing their fingers that I don’t cost them when it comes to defense.
I slide my glove onto my hand, realizing how strange it is to have cleats on my feet again. It’s been so long that I almost forgot what it felt like. My uniform is exactly as Terry prescribed—a more loose-fitting top that falls just above my knees. It’s not tight enough to bring attention to my barely there, A-cup breasts, and it adequately covers my tush area. I give the seamstress credit—it’s not form fitting but it’s not like I’m wearing a paper bag either. It makes me look cute without looking sexy, like an overgrown schoolgirl with my ponytail swinging behind me. I’m not threatening. I’m approachable. I’m not butch. I’m adorable.
Brooks saddles up behind me after taking a slug of Gatorade from the cooler and tossing the cup beneath the bench. "You ready?" he asks.
I’ve been coached well enough to know not to turn around. To the casual observer, it doesn’t even appear that I’m shaking my head, but he catches it.
"Relax. You’re gonna be fine. Just remember I’m right here with you, and I’m gonna try and cover as much ground as possible so you don’t have to worry about a thing. Just stand near the bag, and if there’s a runner on first, be ready in case I need to flip to you."
I listen to his voice and it’s the only thing I hear even though the fans are screaming and the music is blaring. He’s the calm within the storm, my lifeline to sanity.
Brooks steps beyond me as the guys take the field. My legs are wobbly as I try to keep up with them. Their strides are much longer than mine, and Brooks soon leaves me in the dust. I trot past Scott as he stops at first and taps my butt with his glove as I jog by. Ugh, he shouldn’t have done that. But I appreciate the gesture all the same because I’m just starting to realize that the crowd has become aware of me, and the level of animosity being hurled my way is overwhelming.
"You stupid bitch!"
"Get off the field!"
"You suck!"
I can feel my heart get lodged in my throat, and a scalding burn enters my cheeks. I don’t know where to look. I just want to crawl into a hole and die. I’ve never been so publicly humiliated in my entire life. It’s a million times worse than those nightmares about standing in front of a crowd naked. It’s like I’ve been stripped of all concealment, forced to suffer through my own personal judgment day. They’re telling me that they don’t want me here and making it damn clear I get the message.
I glance around wildly, looking for something, anything to focus on, when I spy a sign someone’s waving behind home plate with big, red letters. I swallow hard when I read what it says.
"Did you bang everybody on the team, sweetheart? Or is your brother off-limits?"
I feel the weight of Drake’s stare on me from third. Our eyes meet for an instant across the diamond, his smirk rattling me more than the tens of thousands of people calling for my head. In that moment, I know that Drake wants me to fail. In fact, he’s counting on it.
The cacophony of hatred continues even after the first hitter is announced. Mike Landry, the starting pitcher, paces around the mound, angrily throwing the rosin bag aside as Pedro waits for him to settle down behind the plate. Landry curses when his first pitch lands well outside the strike zone, causing Pedro to have to leap out of his crouch to get it. Sometimes Landry’s shaky in the early innings, but never that wild. The crowd goes crazy when they see that their heckling of me is having an effect on them, and they get even louder.
"If I wanted to pay to see pussy, I’d go to fuckin’ Hooters!"
Pedro lowers his index finger, calling for the fastball. Landry rears back and throws. It sails over Pedro’s head, this time landing at the backstop, and the crowd eats it up.
Pedro immediately asks the umpire for a timeout and goes to the mound to settle Landry down. Neither of them looks back at me, but I know they’re blaming me for this.
I blink to keep from crying. This is exactly what Brooks and Chase were afraid of. They know the sort that frequents ballparks and how ugly things can get.
I brave a look over at the stands and see three boys at the rail, all under ten, giving me the middle finger, and the adults next to them are laughing their heads off.
If Kyle is watching this unfold on TV, he must be livid at what a spectacle I’m making of myself. He never would have agreed to this; he has too much pride. I’m making a mockery of everything he’s going through. No matter what I do from this point on to make up for this, it won’t be enough.
I take a deep breath and plant my feet, trying to feel my legs. I just have to get through this inning, take it one at a time. We just have to get three outs before I can duck my head and run for cover.
I don’t even want to think about what’s going to happen when I come up to bat.
***
I’m hiding in the ladies’ restroom, too mortified to come out.
I was supposed to face the press after the game, but after a few hesitant knocks on the door, everyone pretty much just left me alone.
It was a disaster—a complete and utter disaster.
During my first time at the plate, fans in the upper deck hurled mustard-coated hot dog wrappers at me, getting one stuck on my batting helmet, to the delight of the crowd, causing me to strike out with runners in scoring position.
On my second time up, I got hit with a pitch on my forearm, probably because I was crowding the plate. It was meant to be a brushback, but I couldn’t get out of the way in time, my reflexes not yet sharp enough to dodge a ninety-three-mile-per-hour fastball.
I was awarded first base but cradled my arm in agony as the crowd whistled and hollered, taking pleasure in my pain.
My third time around, I managed to get some wood on the ball, trying for a bunt but popping it up and effectively killing the rally we had going on.
Since Landry is mostly a fly-ball pitcher, I didn’t have to make any defensive plays, and Brooks went well beyond his range to save me from having to try.
Needless to say, we lost the game.
I glance down at the black-and-blue mark that’s rising on my arm. It’s turning a funky shade of purplish green and it hurts so bad that I can barely bend my elbow. I hope I can still play tomorrow…if they let me play tomorrow.
It has to be after midnight, but no one’s come to get me. They probably forgot that I’m even in here, locked away in the farthest stall. I need a shower. I need to get out of this uniform. But I’m too dejected to move. How can I face the world after what happened out there? My name will be forever associated with this fiasco, because let’s face it, there’s no hope in my turning this around and salvaging what little self-esteem I have left. It was a nightmare, and it’s going to continue being a nightmare. We have two more games in Baltimore before moving on to Texas for three more.
"Sasha?" A tentative voice I’d recognize anywhere bounces off the tiled walls.
"Brooks, you shouldn’t be in here. Go away," I moan, dropping my head in my hands.
"It’s all right. Everybody’s gone. Chase is getting a cab to meet us at the security exit so we can make a quick getaway and get you out of here." I hear the door swish shut behind him and I know he’s officially entered the women’s bathroom, going well beyond the call of duty when it comes to being a good friend.
I watch his feet approach from underneath the stall door. He’s back in the black, polished loafers he wore on the plane, the crisp pleat of his pants newly ironed by the clubhouse staff. He’s wearing his suit. He must not be going out to eat with the rest of the guys or he’d be dressed more casually. Now I’m keeping him from his dinner when I know he must be starving. What a friend I am.
"Brooks, in no way is this all right. I’m ruining your life. Get away from me while you still can before someone catches you in here with me." I hate that my voice cracks and he can hear that I’ve been crying. My nose is all stuffed up, and I dab at it with a wad of toilet paper, willing my tears to stop.
"If I wanted to ruin my life, I’d go trolling the Baltimore bar scene." He stops, leaning up against the door, his hand coming to rest on top of the divider. "One time when I was here, a guy actually came over to where I was sitting and poured an entire bottle of beer over my head."
I gasp, mortified, but he continues.
"Another time, a woman asked me to pose for a picture with her. She came right over to our table. I was just getting ready to dive into a steak dinner that I was very much looking forward to when she hawked back and spit all over it."
I don’t know how, but somehow he’s able to chuckle.
But Brooks doesn’t stop there—he keeps going. "On more than one occasion, the staff at the hotel’s front desk has given out my room number, causing my phone to ring at various intervals during the wee hours of the night until I take it off the hook and end up missing my wake-up call the next morning. Do you want me to go on?"
