Game Seven, page 29
part #2 of Unwritten Rules Series
“What happened?” My curiosity, and memories of long ago clubhouse encounters, prickles in a corner of my brain. “You don’t have to answer, you never have to answer.”
“I grew up with Sutton,” Charlotte gives a nod and settles against her seat, not looking at any of us as she continues, “and we always dreamed that we’d go to college together, but she got a softball scholarship to MSU, and my family moved in the middle of my senior year. We couldn’t afford out of state tuition so I didn’t go to a Michigan school like I’d planned. I ended up at Arizona State, and my love of baseball led me to the ball fields in the spring. Freshman year, I caught the eye of a cute outfielder and we hit it off. He proposed to me the day before he was drafted…and I said no.”
“Tell her the rest, Char,” Sutton says, bringing us bowls filled to the brim with popcorn.
“I graduated and found myself back in Michigan. I missed home, and Arizona was never home for me. I worked in tech and hated it, but I had my resumes out there with every baseball team and the league offices, so I started to play the waiting game. The Mustangs called and while the job wasn’t what I wanted, I grew into it and now I love it. Then I met Dave and thought I’d met the love of my life, but after we got engaged he wanted me to quit my job in baseball and go back to something that would keep me at home. So I ended things.”
“You’re leaving out the most important part, Char,” Sutton calls from the kitchen where she’s gathering a tray of toppings for the popcorn. “If you don’t tell them, I will.”
“Fine. The cute outfielder whose proposal I turned down?” Charlotte heaves a sigh and covers her face with her hands, and I stay silent, remembering that night in the clubhouse just before the All Star Game and wondering if my suspicions are right. “It was Luca.”
Luca Phillips.
Drafted in the first round by the Olympians, for whom he played his entire professional career until being traded to Detroit last season. Luca, who just hit his four hundredth career home run and is finally playing for a team making a run for the playoffs. Suddenly, his turn in mood when Charlotte is around makes a lot more sense; going from loving life, laughing in the clubhouse to dark and brooding every time I see them in the same room as each other.
“Charlotte,” Sydney leans forward and picks up a handful of popcorn, “is it possible you’re still in love with him?”
“I…think I might be,” Charlotte buries her face in her hands and takes a minute to collect herself. “I wasn’t ready to get married back then, and neither was he. We were so young, so in love, and I think he wanted to check the box, you know? When he got sent here last year, I thought maybe we’d patch things up, but I see now how naive I was to think that. And at almost forty…I can’t afford to be naive.”
“I don’t think so.” I slide off the couch and sit beside Charlotte on the floor, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and she leans against me. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you…”
“With anger in his eyes,” she interjects with a sigh.
“Anger comes from love. I know it sounds trite but, you can’t get angry if you don’t truly care about something. Adam and I have had our fair share of angry moments, but taking a step back I can see how they’ve come from a place of love. I don’t think Luca is angry at you so much as he’s angry about the circumstances between you.”
“And his own circumstances,” Sutton muses, drawing all of our attention to her. “Off the record, Mitchell.”
“Always.”
“I was his coach in Seattle, and of course here, there are a few things Luca has always wanted: to play for the Bridges, to win a world championship…”
“What else?” Charlotte whispers as Sutton trails off.
“Something, or someone, to love more than he loves baseball.”
After movie night, I head home late, texting Adam as I slip into bed.
Had a good night at Sutton’s. You’re probably in bed by now, but I wanted to let you know I love you and I’m so proud of you. No matter what happens after tomorrow, you did what you came here to do.
I click off my phone and plug it in on my nightstand before curling up in bed and attempting to sleep. But no sleep comes. My mind starts thinking ahead to the next round of the playoffs, and the next one after that. Detroit hasn’t seen a world championship victory in forty years. Everyone wants this. I think of Luca, chasing this dream for more than half of his life and finally coming close to tasting it. I think of the young ones like Liam and Marco and Herman, who were called up this year when injuries struck the lineup and have had the good fortune – thanks to the baseball gods and the luck of the 40-man roster – to be able to stay.
At two in the morning, when I still haven’t fallen asleep, I roll over and check my phone. Turning off sleep mode, I check all the notifications that have collected over the last few hours, almost all of them from Adam.
There’s a video about a new coffee roaster that’s opened in Detroit. A pizza place he promises to take me to in San Francisco. A clip of the Australian cartoon dogs playing with a balloon. And finally a message:
I can’t sleep. Do you think I could sneak into the stadium this early?
I love you, Molly. I can’t imagine going through this season without you. I’m sure you won’t see this until morning, and by then we’ll be having breakfast together. I’m glad to know you’ll be there tonight.
His texts were sent just a few minutes ago, so there’s a good chance he’s still awake. Sitting up in bed, I tap into my phone and call Adam, hoping he’s finally sleeping but almost certain he’s still awake.
“Hey.” He’s tired, I can hear it when he answers the phone. “You can’t sleep either?”
“Nope. I can’t tell if I’m nervous or excited.”
“Pretty sure I’m just nervous,” Adam replies with a humorless laugh. “I feel so on edge. I tried to take a bath but even that wasn’t relaxing. I need quiet.”
“It’s quiet here.” I’m met with a long pause, wondering for just a moment if he finally drifted off to sleep.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” I climb out of bed and slip my feet into a nearby pair of slippers before heading out to the living room where I turn on the television and curl up on the couch to wait for him. “I’ll get your spot ready.”
“I love you.”
Ten minutes later, with our favorite baking competition streaming on the television, Adam and I curl up together on the couch, a blanket spread over us, and for the first time in about six hours, I’m able to relax.
“Do you mind if I sleep in your recliner?” He whispers, shifting a little beneath me. “I know it’s weird, but I got really used to it there for a while.”
“Go for it,” I sit up and give him a chance to get up off the couch, watching as he pulls a blanket from the basket nearby and gets situated in the chair, while I do the same for myself on the couch. “But don’t be surprised if I stay out here with you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of talking you out of it.”
I close my eyes and drift off to sleep to the sound of the baking competition still playing in the background, and Adam’s soft, steady breathing. When I wake a few hours later, I sit up and stretch out the knots in my back from sleeping on the couch and walk quietly down to my bathroom for a hot shower to work out the rest of the tension in my body. Doris wants me writing about the playoffs, not as a baseball writer, but as a baseball partner. She wants slice of life stories of the playoffs, which I’m not all that used to writing, but I’d say a night of mutual anxiety and falling asleep in the living room at almost three in the morning is a great place to start.
With my computer and an iced coffee I pour from the pitcher in my fridge, I settle in at the dining room table to start writing my first playoff piece for the Times. Adam is still asleep, and I want to let him sleep as long as possible so that he’s rested and ready for tonight’s game. It’s a big night for him, for this team, and for the city of Detroit. In the last week, we’ve seen the city dress up for the upcoming playoffs with banners and pennants and Mustangs colors in just about every storefront. Tonight there are watch parties at local bars and restaurants, and the game is reportedly sold out. And one of those seats is mine.
Adam needs to be to the stadium in a few hours, but he’s still sleeping, and I hate to wake him up, but I know one surefire way to get him up and moving is with coffee. Pulling my ancient coffee maker from the pantry where I store it, I plug it in on the counter and am quickly reminded of why I don’t use it anymore – aside from the fact that I don’t need to make a full pot of coffee myself – as it splutters and spits loud enough to wake the dead…or the heavy sleeper in my living room.
“Good morning,” Adam groggily steps into the kitchen and takes me in his arms, softly kissing me. “How’d you sleep?”
“Not bad,” I lie, “I’m just glad I slept. You?”
“That recliner has no right to be as comfortable as it is.” He kisses me again, holding me tight in his arms. “I’m so nervous about tonight.”
“I know,” I breathe the words against his chest. “It’s game one of five. You have home field advantage. You have the city behind you.”
“And I have you.”
“And you have me.”
Adam heads home to get ready for practice and grab, in his words, fancy clothes for the press conference this afternoon, and I occupy myself at home for a few hours by stress cleaning my bathroom, mopping the kitchen floor, and changing the sheets on my bed. And the guest room bed. When I can’t take it anymore, I get in the car and drive to Max and Sutton’s place where Max is hosting a lunch gathering for the families of coaches and players, any who want to attend.
There are a few cars parked on the street, and I’m still getting used to being in baseball spaces without Adam; even with Max welcoming me inside, I still feel out of place. Juan Gonzales’s wife is here with her two kids, Caden Vincent’s fiancee Kylie is seated on a stool at the island, and there are a few new faces scattered around the room. Max and Sutton’s little dog Benji is curled up in his bed with a large yellow lab, both ignoring the gathered crowd.
“Molly,” Max leads me into the family room, “this is Sam Henderson, a friend of mine from Seattle. And Maggie de la Rosa, she’s a scout for the Olympians. ”
“Nice to meet you both,” I shake their offered hands. “What brings you to Detroit?”
“I’m from Michigan,” Maggie answers. “I grew up not far from here. I came home to visit my parents and to attend my first ever Mustangs playoff game. Since Seattle is out of the playoffs, my off-season gets to start a little earlier.”
“And I’m from the U.P.,” Sam answers, referencing Michigan’s upper peninsula. “I grew up a Mustangs fan and had to come support Sutton. That’s my dog, Kaline, over there with Benji, and my sister Francine is around here somewhere.”
“I met Sam during my first ever suspension with the Olympians and we’ve been best friends ever since,” Max says, guiding me around the room and introducing me to even more people. “This is Shay, Liam’s girlfriend. And Alec, Marco’s partner.”
“Molly Mitchell,” I introduce myself and shake their hands, “I’m with Adam.”
“You’re the writer, right?” Alec, all six foot something of him, stands and towers over me before offering me his seat. The man looks like he belongs on the baseball field himself; he’s built like a middle infielder. “The Star hasn’t been the same since you left. Elliot doesn’t write about baseball with the same heart that you did.”
Don’t cry, Mitchell. Don’t cry. You just met these people.
I try to pep talk myself through not having a full on cry session in front of these complete strangers that I’ve only just met, but the combination of lack of sleep and not ever being able to take a compliment has tears rolling down my cheeks unbidden as I sit down beside Shay in the seat Alec vacated.
“Thank you,” I wipe my tears with a watery laugh, “that means a lot.”
“Are you still writing?” Alec walks to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of sparkling water. “Can I get you something while I’m here?”
“Water’s fine. I am still writing, but my focus has changed a bit. I’m writing for the Sporting Times now. Still covering baseball but less of a game recap more of a…slice of life?”
“You’re not writing about us now are you?” Shay asks, and I bristle, that familiar feeling of hurt and rejection creeping in. She’s young, I’m sure she didn’t mean anything by it, but it still stings.
“Shay,” Alec’s smile disappears, replaced with a stony expression as his eyes track from me to Shay. “Be nice.”
“I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean anything by it,” Shay squirms in her seat a bit. “Liam has told me about you, and how much he respects you as a writer. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s okay, honestly,” I do my best to reassure her and Alec that I’m fine, “I’ve heard a lot worse, and am pretty used to being asked some version of that question.”
“You shouldn’t have to though. Not when you’re just living your life.” Alec stands up and heads back to the kitchen where he jumps in to help Max finish getting lunch ready. The journalist in me wants to dig into his reaction to Shay’s question, but as we just discussed, no one needs to deal with interrogatory questions when they’re just trying to live their lives.
“Molly, I really didn’t mean anything by that,” Shay scoots closer to me. “I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t worry about it, Shay. That’s a question I’ve never been able to escape.” I just wish it didn’t always make me prickle with anxiety when I hear it.
Max calls us all to the kitchen for lunch, and I find myself at the dining room table in between Shay and Alec, and across from Sam and Maggie. Max waits until we’re all seated before raising his glass in a toast.
“Thanks for coming this afternoon. I’ve been wanting to host something like this for a while and thought today would be a great day for it. If your person is anything like mine, I’m willing to bet they’ve been a bundle of nerves lately. That takes a toll on us as much as it does on them, so I hope that you’re able to relax this afternoon.” Max raises his glass, and the rest of us do the same. “To the Mustangs, and the people who love them.”
While we eat, I learn that Shay is working on a masters degree in social work and that Alec is an elementary school teacher. Sam runs a veterinary clinic and animal shelter, and Maggie has been a big league scout for the last five years.
“Are you from Michigan?” Shay asks at some point in our conversation.
“Boston, actually. I ended up here when the Star hired me.”
“There was a time we thought Liam would play for Boston. They traded him to the Mustangs organization about three years ago now? As much as I loved the thought of him being a Beacon, I’m really glad we landed here.”
“I told Marco the same thing when he signed here,” Alec speaks up from my other side. “I’m from Toledo, so when he played there I didn’t have to move, which was great, but coming to Detroit felt like coming home in a lot of ways. And now that I’m teaching here? I feel like I’m a part of the city in a way I never could have imagined. I love this organization.”
The more I get to know the people around this table, the more at ease I feel. And the more they talk about this team – about Adam – the more it confirms for me that this is where he belongs, and I’ll stay by his side here for as long as he wants me. Max catches my eye from down the table and smiles, nodding in a you’re doing great kind of way. It feels good to have my own baseball space outside of being with Adam. To have this group of people who understand what it’s like to love someone who lives and breathes the game. Who understand the disrupted schedules and the long weeks spent on the road. Who have their own stories to tell of being sick and alone with their person traveling for the game. I haven’t experienced these struggles yet, at least not on the level they have, but I know when I do they’ll have my back.
“Max,” I hug him at the front door as I’m getting ready to leave. “Thank you for inviting me. That was…I needed this.”
“I told you I’d be your support, Molly. Let them do the same.”
“Thanks Max.”
I head home to quickly change my clothes before driving to Adam’s apartment where I park and make the walk to the stadium along with what feels like the entire population of Detroit. The air is electric as I approach the gate and scan my ticket. There’s something about a stadium on gameday — the people, the music, the commotion on the concourse – but this isn’t just any gameday. This is the start of the playoffs. Tonight, the pulse of the stadium is seismic. The floor shakes beneath my feet, the excitement of the crowd is contagious, and as I walk to my seat, Max on one side of me, Sam and Maggie on the other, I take it all in.
And when Adam’s name is announced, the stadium erupts, and the tears I’ve been holding back all day flow freely.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Bring Out the Brooms
ADAM
The stadium rumbles overhead as we troop through the tunnel into the dugout. The sun is setting behind the Detroit skyline and the sky is streaked orange and red and pink. The kind of sky my dad would call a baseball sky. There’s electricity in the air as I climb the dugout steps and shake hands with the manager of the Boroughs and the crew of umpires. And then the lineups are announced.
“The Detroit Mustangs, managed by Adam Powell!”
I stand along the third base line, facing the Mustangs dugout as the crowd thunders with applause and cheers. Sutton is introduced next and she grins as she jogs up the steps and stands beside me while the rest of the coaching staff is announced. Bending down, she scratches three letters into the dirt by her feet, as is her custom. Her dad’s initials. When she stands to her full height, I clap her on the shoulder, noticing the tears falling down her cheeks as she takes in the sight of the crowd.
