Game Seven, page 1
part #2 of Unwritten Rules Series
Game Seven
A BASEBALL ROMANCE
THE UNWRITTEN RULES
BOOK 2
MEGAN COUSINS
Copyright © 2024 by Megan Cousins
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
No part of this book may be reproduced, retransmitted, or used in the training of AI technology.
Cover designed by Mia Heintzelman at Dot Covers.
To AH. For helping me reclaim my joy.
Contents
Author’s Note
Prologue
1. Of All the Press Rooms
2. The Wrong Foot
3. Cat and Mouse
4. Shared History
5. A Whole New World
6. Movie Night
7. Windy City Wandering
8. The Power of Our Words
9. No Do Overs
10. Home Sweet Home
11. Level Up
12. Home
13. Travel Plans
14. Steel City
15. Meeting the Family
16. Behind the Curtain
17. Priorities
18. Sick Day
19. Sisters
20. The All-Star Break
21. Regular People
22. Partnership
At What Cost
23. Representation
24. Consequences
25. Roots
26. An Offbeat Beat
27. Love On the Record
28. Support
29. Access
30. Reminiscence
31. Hope
32. Bring Out the Brooms
33. Hard Fought
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Megan Cousins
About the Author
Author’s Note
I started writing Game Seven during a turbulent time in my life. I was burned out at work but didn’t know how to name it. In the middle of writing this book, I quit my job. It was a hard decision to make, and not one that was made lightly. My dear friend Eliza reminds me often that we can’t pour from an empty cup, and my cup wasn’t just empty, the source that filled it had dried up as well. I was in a desert with no hope of that cup being filled again. At least that’s how it seemed. I moved on to a job that filled my cup to overflowing and I’ve slowly been unpacking my experiences.
Why do I tell you all of this? For one thing, as you read Game Seven, you’re going to see Adam wrestle with expectations and whether or not he thinks he’ll be able to live up to them. You’ll see him, in some ways, lose the joy that he had in the game of baseball. But his friends and loved ones will slowly help him reclaim his joy.
As you know, I (almost) always include lived experiences in my books. This book was never planned to include lived experience…until life started imitating art. Adam is a former catcher and is dealing with the health effects of that on his joints, and – this isn’t a spoiler, just a content note – he injures his knee. Some of my closest friends will joke that I took my research a little too far with this book…as I worked to finalize the manuscript and polish it for publication, I was recovering from knee surgery for a torn meniscus. Talk about lived experience.
I put Adam and Molly through a little more than I originally planned, but these two navigate the choppy waters beautifully and come out on the other side with the happy ending they’ve both worked hard for…in so many ways.
This book was born from a painful time in my life, physically and emotionally, and writing Molly and Adam’s story was an outlet that I needed. There were times I almost gave them up, but my people kept me going.
A few things to note before you dive in:
Game Seven is a closed door romance that contains depictions of anxiety, strained parental relationships, chronic pain and injury, and a brief scene depicting gastrointestinal illness (nothing is described on page, and I myself have emetophobia (defined as an intense fear of vomiting) so I was very careful with chapters 17 and 18).
Take care with yourselves as you read, and thanks — as always — for taking a chance on my books.
Yours,
Megan
Prologue
MOLLY
DECEMBER
I’m late.
I’m never late.
Not to work. Not to anything.
If anything, I’m chronically early. But It’s a Monday morning and traffic heading to downtown Detroit is a beast, and now I’m late for work. After years of circulating my resume and waiting for a newspaper to bite, the Detroit Star finally called; they needed a beat writer to cover baseball, and were impressed with my coverage of college sports and the freelance sports writing in my portfolio. After four years in this job, I can’t be late for the most important press conference of the season: the announcement of the Mustangs new manager.
After a disappointing end to their last season, the Mustangs ownership and general management have made big changes; following up on interesting moves made at the non-waiver trade deadline, and off season moves that have some questioning if this will be another “rebuilding” year, or if the team will finally start living up to their potential.
Enter: Adam Powell.
I’ve heard whispers of his name within the organization, and as we approach the winter meetings – when all big league teams and front offices gather to make moves in the off season – Detroit needs a manager.
I peel into the parking lot ten minutes late, slinging my bag onto my shoulder as I climb out of my car, cursing the name of whoever didn’t salt the sidewalks on this icy, frigid, late November day as my foot slips but I maintain my balance just enough to get to the door. I slip into the last available seat in the press room and quickly start a new recording on my phone while digging for my notebook and pencil.
Of course the pencil is broken and I never have any pens.
And my notebook is full.
Looks like I’m relying on the recording.
Robert Bronson, the Mustangs President of Baseball Operations sits alone at a table at the front of the room, an empty chair beside him draped with a jersey.
“Join me in welcoming Adam Powell.” Mr. Bronson stands as a side door opens and Adam Powell steps into the room.
The first thing that strikes me is his height.
The man spent his career as a catcher, a position dominated by shorter ball players, but Adam is tall. And he has a little swagger in his gait, or his years spent crouched behind home plate have changed the way he walks. His dark eyes scan the room and the row of cameras, his jaw clenched, set with determination as Mr. Bronson holds out the jersey and he slips his arms into the sleeves. He sets a cap atop his salt and pepper hair, most of the gray settled at his temples, and takes a seat at the table beside Mr. Bronson.
The other thing that strikes me is his body language throughout the press conference; he’s tense, not necessarily nervous, but something feels…off. Especially when Mr. Bronson starts listing his career highlights. Highlights I’m familiar with since I started researching him as soon as his name was whispered. Adam’s carved jaw clenches even more when Mr. Bronson reminds us all of the hometown connection.
“We’re glad we could bring you home, Adam.” Bronson laughs and Adam flinches. It’s so subtle I doubt even the cameras in the room picked it up. He shifts in his seat as Bronson continues.
Adam was born and raised in Detroit.
Drafted in the fourth round by Pittsburgh.
Spent several years in the minors before finally getting called up.
Bounced from team to team until going back to Pittsburgh, where it all began, retiring in the black and gold uniform of the Bridges.
Most recently, he’s been coaching for the Philadelphia Founders.
As the press conference goes on Adam looks more and more comfortable, answering questions with ease but always sidestepping questions that lean into a more personal nature. When the press conference wraps up, I make the ten minute drive from the stadium to my office and get to work on my article. Something nags at the back of my mind as I supplement my notes with more research about Adam; the hometown angle is stuck in my craw so I run with it. And I keep on running until my boss pokes his head into my office at the end of the day to send me home.
Home.
It’s not much yet, but it’s mine.
The only place I’ve lived on my own.
The only time in my adult life that I’ve had roots. No plans to leave for the next new adventure. I’ve never been in one place for more than a couple of months. The longest stretch of time was in Upstate New York while my sister recovered from an injury sustained while playing professional soccer. When she insisted she was fine on her own, I packed my bags and headed back to Boston for a few weeks. After Boston I spent time on the Oregon coast, in Montana, and at one point found my way down to Texas. Always freelance writing, always dreaming of one day having something steady, something constant. A place of my very own to call home.
And now that I have that, it scares me.
That’s why I’m thankful for a job that will put me back on the road once the season starts, otherwise the walls start to feel like they’re closing in on me, like my freedom is gone. A freedom that has kept me safe. A freedom that kept me from hurting the people I love. If I’m always moving around I can never be uprooted.
You can’t uproot what was never planted to begin with.
CHAPTER ONE
Of All the Press Rooms
ADAM
A HERO’S WELCOME
The headline that’s been haunting me since the first of December. Since the announcement. Since the winter meetings. My sisters – four in all – have bugged me about it relentlessly. Mom clipped it from the newspaper and sent it to me in a Christmas card. And printed it from the Detroit Star website, sending it in a birthday card in January along with heaps of Midwestern Mom guilt for not telling her I was being hired by the Detroit Mustangs. For not coming home for Christmas. And for not talking to Dad the last time he called.
I don’t know which is worse, the teasing from my sisters, or the guilt from Mom. Or the fact that I took that printed webpage, folded it up, and tucked it in my wallet. And now it’s on the slightly sticky hotel bartop in front of me, my seltzer flat and long forgotten. Ice melted, and condensation puddled under the glass as my eyes scan the article that I’ve practically memorized.
A HERO’S WELCOME it proclaims, bold and clear and taking up the top inch of the paper. Adam Powell, new manager of the Detroit Mustangs, is returning home to Detroit, Michigan, after a respectable baseball career spanning the last twenty years; the first fifteen as a journeyman catcher – functional, but not a consistent hitter. Meanwhile, the last five have seen him in various coaching roles…
It’s the byline that gets me though.
M. Mitchell.
Beat writer for the Star.
I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting them yet, but know enough to know that I’m not a fan. Whoever they are didn’t care enough to attend my first press conference, or contact me for quotes or an interview for this…I won’t call it drivel, because as much as I hate it, it’s well written. It’s the weight behind their words that settled into my chest as soon as they registered in my brain.
A leader in the clubhouse, quiet and thoughtful in the dugout, and someone teammates – especially his pitchers – say you could count on. As a coach, he’s helped the Philadelphia Founders find their way to the playoffs twice in the last five years…
Functional.
Respectable.
Quiet.
Thoughtful.
All code for unremarkable and destined to fade into baseball’s memory. Not Hall of Fame bound or having my uniform number retired and painted on a stadium wall. That’s not why I got into the game. That’s not why you get into this game. I’m lucky to have had the career I did. To have made it to five years as a player, let alone fifteen. That’s unheard of in baseball these days, and to be able to coach after? That’s a greater honor to me than any plaque in a museum or number painted on a wall.
But there’s one thing I’ve never seen in my career.
The thing they’ve called me home to try and achieve.
A World Championship ring.
For the Mustangs.
For Detroit.
For me.
To prove that I deserve this. That I am the man for the job, despite what a baseball writer says. A baseball writer who likely never played the game. Who doesn’t know me. Who writes from the safety of the press box and an office a few blocks from the stadium. Who doesn’t understand the hold their words have had over me for all these months.
And sure, this team has some obstacles in front of us; a mix of young players and veterans on their way out the door. A pair of last minute trades last season and a pitcher retiring have left general management scrambling to fill some necessary holes in the roster. They’ll be tested and put through their paces when training starts, and it’ll be up to me and my coaching staff to put together a team that we think will rise to the challenge.
No pressure.
It’s the pressure that has me here, in Lakeland, Florida, in a hotel bar just past midnight, ignoring my seltzer and rereading the words that have kept me awake at night for months. At least I have company. Besides the bartender, there’s a woman sitting across from me at the bar, nursing a small pot of tea and writing in the notebook that sits in front of her on the polished bartop. There’s a furrow in her brow as she writes, a determined set of her shoulders as her pencil, short and well used, scratches across the page.
“Do I need to cut you off?” The bartender asks the woman and she smiles, never looking up from her notebook.
“One more, and I’ll call it a night,” her voice is soft, pitched low. “Chamomile this time, if you have it.”
“I’ll have what she’s having,” I motion to the bartender, and he nods.
“Careful,” She says, looking up and meeting my gaze, her eyes a rich chocolate brown, framed with long lashes. Her berry red lips curve into a smile, “He has a heavy hand with the tea leaves.”
“I think I can handle it.” I stand up and walk to her side of the bar, leaving one open stool between us and holding out a hand. “I’m Adam.”
“Nice to meet you, Adam.” She stops writing for the first time since I’ve been here and slides her hand into mine. “I’m Molly.”
“Nice to meet you, Molly. What brings you to Lakeland?”
“I’m here for work.” She smiles, eyes lighting up, even in the dim lights of the hotel bar.
“What a coincidence,” the bartender brings us our tea and I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my bones. “So am I. Tomorrow’s my first day.”
Molly tilts her head at me, a silent question churning in her eyes, but she doesn’t say anything, she only smiles. For a minute I thought she recognized me. When I was coaching in Philadelphia, I couldn’t leave my house without someone recognizing me on the street, but here in this hotel bar in Lakeland, Florida, on a chilly February night this tiny bit of anonymity is refreshing, pleasant even. Molly’s eyes roam my face and if there’s any recognition she hides it well.
“To new beginnings,” Molly raises her mug to me.
“To new beginnings.”
Tomorrow is the start of spring training.
The newest of new beginnings for me as I step into the role of manager for the very first time. After retiring from my playing days with the Bridges, I was on the Founders’ coaching staff – bouncing from infield coach to first base coach and back again – and then the call came from Detroit. They needed a manager; someone new, a fresh face for the team, the city, and the organization as a whole. They have no reason to trust me, no reason to even like me, but spring training is just the place for me to prove to everyone that it wasn’t a mistake to trust me with this team.
Molly makes a few notes in her notebook before closing it and tucking it into the bag beside her. My eyes are drawn to the emblem on the hat that peeks out of her bag, the same one on the uniform that I’ll be putting on for the first time tomorrow. Finishing her tea, she leaves a tip for the bartender and walks away, but not before stopping, one warm hand on my forearm.
“See you tomorrow, Adam.” She’s gone before I have a chance to ask her what she means, and I’m too tired to deal with it tonight. Finishing my own tea and paying my tab, I make my way back to my room where I drop into bed without bothering to change my clothes. But I can’t sleep. I lay awake watching the ceiling and listening to the sound of the reruns being played on the cooking channel. A baking competition show for hours on end until my alarm goes off; between my anxiety over the new job and the nagging pain in my knees, I haven’t slept a wink.
So far this day is off to a terrible start.
A terrible start that only gets worse.
