Game Seven, page 4
part #2 of Unwritten Rules Series
“Older sister, or younger?” I ask. “I’m very familiar with both.”
“Emma is older. And likes to remind me of that sometimes, along with frequent reminders that she played for the national soccer team.” Molly smiles fondly as she mentions her sister, a woman I watched with awe as she stepped off the field for the last time and announced to the world she was retiring. “What about you? Is your sister older or younger?”
“I have two of each,” I laugh with a shake of my head, a little more comfortable than I’ve been since getting here. Talking about my sisters is easier than talking about myself. “Shannon and Leah are older, Norah and Cassie are younger.”
“What was that like growing up?”
“A challenge.” I’d rather not elaborate. Not yet.
Max and Sutton leave the table, taking our plates and insisting that we stay seated. Get to know each other. But now that our mutual friends have left the table, awkward silence hangs between us. Molly sips on her water, her thumb brushing away droplets of condensation when she puts her glass back on the table. I watch as the moisture pools around the base of her glass. From Max and Sutton’s backyard we can see the back of the stadium's video board, and the collection of practice fields behind it.
Practice fields where, tomorrow, we’ll get back to work. Shake off today’s loss, and try again. Max and Sutton come back to the table with dessert, a flourless chocolate cake that Sutton promises to share the recipe for, and conversation picks back up once they join us again. With these friends, we can just be Adam and Molly, not the manager and the beat writer, but there’s still a part of me that wants to tread lightly.
She’s dangerously disarming. She softens the longer we talk, and I feel myself more at ease with her too.
“I think I’m going to call it a night,” Molly covers a yawn with the back of her hand. Dessert is long gone, and the street lights are starting to blink to life. “Thank you both for dinner. And Adam, it was nice getting to know you a bit.”
“You too.” I can’t ask her to extend the evening, but we are staying in the same hotel… “You know, I should probably get going myself. Max, Sutton, when we’re back in Detroit and have time, I’d love to return the favor and cook for you.”
This earns me a raised eyebrow from Molly, but she doesn’t ask for further clarification or explanation, which is surprising based on every interaction we’ve had since meeting.
“Did you walk here?” I ask as we step onto the driveway and I look around for her car.
“I rode with Sutton,” Molly looks back at the house, something like amusement flashes across her features. “And I think she conveniently forgot.”
“I can drive you. I already know where you’re staying. I could even walk you to your door if you like.” Molly looks back to the house one more time before setting her shoulders and giving me a resolute nod.
“I parked at the training facility today. I have no problem walking back.”
“I have no problem giving you a ride.”
“Think about it for a minute, Adam,” she gives me a pointed look.
It takes me less than a minute to think about all the reasons we can’t carpool. All the reasons why me even taking her to her car tonight is a risk. She doesn’t have the same freedom I do, the same leeway. If we’re seen together by the wrong people it won’t reflect on me, but she could find herself in the spotlight.
“How about I walk with you?”
“Thank you.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Shared History
MOLLY
At the start of Spring Training I saw Adam across the bar, and I knew who he was, or at least who I thought he was. The former catcher turned coach. A mid-level draft pick by a struggling team, who bounced around from one struggling team to the next. His most successful years were in Philadelphia as a coach for the Founders. A Founders team that has been to the World Championship Series twice in the last five years, but has yet to win the whole thing. A Detroit boy, called home in the hopes that he will be the magic touch for yet another struggling team.
Tonight opened my eyes to the side of Adam that most of us don’t get to see. Tonight I watched him laugh and swap stories with Max. Tonight he talked about his family in ways he never does publicly. And as we start walking from Max and Sutton’s house back to the training facility, the awkward silence from earlier returns.
We walk side by side on the sidewalk, Adam’s hands shoved in his pockets, mine…well I’m never exactly sure what to do with my hands. I adjust the bag slung over my shoulder. I check my phone before shoving it back into my back pocket as Adam’s steps fall into line with mine.
“This facility used to be an airfield.” We round the corner from the back of the stadium and the rest of the Mustang’s facilities come into view. “It was used to train pilots in World War Two.”
“Is that why some of the facilities you use look like old airplane hangars?” I ask, knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it from him anyway.
My first year as the Mustangs’ beat writer, I drove to the facility and probably looked a little lost. A dear man on a golf cart found me wandering around the parking lot and offered to give me a tour of the facility before taking me to the practice fields – clear on the other side of the compound from where I’d parked – and of course I said yes.
He showed me to the stadium and the practice fields. The player and staff parking lot. The training and medical facilities. And he spoke with so much respect and reverence for the game and the team that I was enthralled the whole time he was taking me around the complex. For a team like the Mustangs, with a rich history of their own, to come to make this place their winter home, it only makes sense.
“Exactly,” Adam answers, as we continue toward staff parking. “After the war, the city owned the property and the Mustangs were looking to move their winter facilities so they struck a deal with the city.”
“How long have the Mustangs been here?”
“They moved here in the late thirties, took a few years off for the war, and then continued their relationship with the city after,” Adam answers with so much enthusiasm he reminds me of that old, retired tour guide. “The team brings in a lot of revenue for the city every year, and they in turn keep welcoming us back.”
“You forgot something.” We come to a stop in front of the stadium, right outside the team store at the home plate entrance. “You forgot to mention that the stadium is named for the former head of parks and rec.”
“You already know the history.” He smiles, hands in his pockets as he looks up at the towers of the Spanish Colonial Revival style stadium facade. “Why did you let me keep rambling?”
“I mean, you clearly love this place. And the history. I didn’t want to interrupt you.” It doesn’t hurt that his voice is ridiculously attractive and I’d let him read a grocery list aloud to me. But I can’t say that.
Adam watches me for a charged moment. A moment that lasts just this side of too long, and I want to put distance between us. I want to get in my car and drive away before either of us says something we shouldn’t.
“I’m not a hero,” he says, his voice is pitched low, almost a whisper, underlined with so much emotion. “I’ve never wanted to be. And if that’s what the team and the fans are expecting, I think they’ll be disappointed.”
“Adam…I…”
“Goodnight, Mitchell. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
His words follow me all the way back to the hotel, where I sit down at the small desk in my room and begin to type up my notes for the day.
I’m not a hero.
I didn’t want to take that angle. I’m sure he was referencing the article I wrote after his announcement as manager.
A HERO’S WELCOME.
My editor insisted. He thought it would be provocative, stir up a response from readers and Mustangs fans. And he was right. I got great feedback on that article; emails from Adam’s former coaches, teammates, and friends from his neighborhood growing up. There were critics of course, there will always be critics as long as there are opinions, but there was overwhelming support.
I didn’t like writing that article.
I didn’t trust my sources. I disagreed with the angle my editor wanted me to take, and more than that, I was upset – and still am – that the Mustangs didn’t give me access to Adam for any kind of interview. Robert Bronson, the Mustangs’ owner doesn’t give me the time of day, but feeds quotes to staff writers who pass them to me. Bronson was hesitant to even allow me to be issued a press credential and only did because my editor wined and dined him, and because of that I write what I’m told.
A HERO’S WELCOME.
I wrote what I was told.
And in some respects I was proud of that article.
Except tonight I don’t feel like writing. There’s never been a time in my life that I haven’t wanted to write. Never been a time that I haven’t been able to get the words flowing, but for some reason tonight words won’t come. They wouldn’t come last night either. Like last night, I tried to rest instead of writing. Crawling into bed earlier than usual, but my brain wouldn’t turn off. I couldn’t think to write, and couldn’t stop thinking so I could sleep.
So, once again I find myself seated at the hotel bar. It’s two in the morning and the smell of pool chlorine overwhelms the space. My notebook sticks to the bartop and a small pot of hot water sits in front of me; the bartender offers me a selection of tea bags, and I pluck one of each from the basket, lining them up in front of me on the bar in descending order of caffeine content.
“Hitting the tea hard tonight?” I don’t have to look to know that it’s Adam. And I don’t have to check and see where he’s sitting when his arm brushes mine as he settles onto the barstool next to me.
“Helps with writer’s block.”
“And hopefully sleep.” Adam scrubs a hand down his face, his stubble a bit grown out from when I last saw him. He’s changed into shorts and a Pittsburgh Bridges tee shirt that I find a bit surprising.
“Same as the lady?” The bartender asks.
“Yeah,” Adam nods, giving me a lopsided smile as if we didn’t just spend the whole night together at Max and Sutton’s. But there’s something about this sticky, dark hotel bar that makes it a lot easier to drop the barriers we both tend to put up. “Why not?”
The bartender grabs a mug, your standard mass produced food service mug that somehow makes coffee and tea taste better than they do from a regular mug. Adam accepts the mug and waits for the small pot of hot water to be placed in front of him, along with a selection of tea bags.
“What are you having?” Adam asks, nudging me with his elbow.
“Chamomile, which is supposed to be calming, but so far I can’t corroborate that.”
“Well, let’s see.” Adam rips open the wrappers of two bags of chamomile tea, dunking them in the hot water. “Maybe two will do the trick.”
“Can’t sleep?” I ask, but it’s two in the morning, so the answer should be pretty obvious.
“No. You?”
“Can’t sleep. Can’t write. My brain won’t quiet down but it also won’t let me write. It’s the worst.”
“I wonder if you and I might be dealing with the same thing?”
“Oh,” I turn my body to face him before taking a long sip of tea and immediately regretting it. The water hasn’t quite cooled to drinking temperature and my throat and mouth burn with the heat that I will likely be feeling the effects of for days. For just a minute – less than a minute, a split second really – I worry, I wonder, if he might feel the same inconvenient, unprofessional, and unavoidable attraction I do. But I can’t let myself think that, so I deflect. “Do you have writer’s block too?”
“No,” Adam does his best to hide a laugh – it’s more of a chuckle covered by a cough – and pushes my tea away from me, situating it closer to his, giving them both a chance to cool down. “I think you and I are both afflicted by expectations.”
So many expectations.
Mostly from myself. Some from my editor. But mostly me. There’s a desire to prove myself. To show the Star and the city and the readers…and the Mustangs…that I deserve my press credential. That I deserve to be in the clubhouse doing post game interviews, in the press box during the games, and here at Spring Training.
“We’re off the record,” I close my notebook, pushing it close to the teapots. “I’m off the record. Not much of a record to be had when I can’t find the words.”
Adam nods, gaze locked on the television behind the bar that plays a repeat of today’s On the Field, showing highlights of the Mustangs split squad games.
“Sometimes when the expectations feel like they’re too much and we think we’ll never achieve anything great, we need a reminder. A highlight reel of sorts. Consider this a highlight.” Adam pushes away from the bar, leaving behind a folded piece of paper that he removed from his pocket. Unfolding it, I’m faced with my own byline. My own words staring back at me from the page. A Spring In Their Step. The article I wrote just after pitchers and catchers reported. Just after his opening press conference. It was printed that night, according to the time and date on the top of the page.
I don’t know what to do with this.
CHAPTER FIVE
A Whole New World
ADAM
Waking up after a win is a lot easier than waking up after a loss. Sutton will be proud of me for being up before my alarm and ready to report to the training facility, but first I stop in the hotel breakfast room for a cup of coffee, just like I have every morning since talking that night – or early morning – in the bar with Molly.
This morning, she’s at her usual table in the back of the room, seated in a corner so she can face the whole room. She’s hunched over her notebook, always a notebook, never a laptop. Her pencil flying across the pages, always a pencil, never a pen. I want so badly to ask her why, but I don’t know if we’re in that place yet, so instead I fix myself a cup of coffee, raise a quick hand in greeting when she looks up and meets my gaze, and then get out before I think too long about the shade of maroon on her lips today.
With coffee in hand, I make the short drive to the training complex for a breakfast meeting with my coaching staff. Sutton gives me a small nod of approval and half smile when she sees me come in ten minutes before our scheduled meeting, and I wish that affirmation didn’t fill me with as much pride as it does. I don’t need her approval, but I’m glad to have it. It gives me the boost I need as we start our first full-squad training.
“Take a breath,” Sutton stands beside me as we survey the players in the clubhouse. Some are literal teenagers who look as wide-eyed and fish out of water as I feel. “It’s just media day.”
There’s a note of humor in her voice that sets me at ease. She grins when I meet her gaze and we both laugh. Sutton and I are no strangers to larger than life personalities of pitchers. But position players? They’re wild cards. Especially outfielders.
One such wild card saunters into the room and drops into the chair in front of his locker, long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles as he takes a sort of king of the clubhouse pose. Luca Phillips was traded to the Mustangs at the deadline last season in a last ditch effort to shore up the outfield. He started in center field for the Olympians before he was traded to the Mustangs where he was moved to right field. My plan is to shift him back to center; I need his bat in the lineup, but more than that I need his leadership in the outfield and the clubhouse. Luca is the senior member of this team, and I know the pressure – the expectation – that comes with that.
The rest of the team wanders in and find their lockers, some chatting, some with headphones on and heads down. Their chatter goes quiet as a group of front office staff joins us in the clubhouse. My heart rate immediately ticks up a notch; when I was a player, a visit front office staff spelled nothing but bad news. It usually meant someone was being sent to the minors, or cut from camp, or…the list goes on and on and on.
“Social Media team,” Sutton sidles up beside me and leans casually against the wall behind us. I wish I was half as calm as she is right now. “They’re here to go over basic dos and don’ts with the team and coaching staff. You should have been in these meetings when you were with the Founders.”
“I don’t have social media.”
You could hear a pin drop in the room as all eyes turn to me.
“That makes my job a little bit harder,” someone from the team steps into the middle of the clubhouse and turns to me with a wry smile. “You should have social media. You’re one of the youngest managers in the league, and with a face like that you’d help us with a particular demographic.”
“That’s Kelsey,” Sutton giggles but covers it with a cough as I go hot from head to toe. And I’m sure my face is red to match. “They’re the social media manager. You’ll get used to them. For now though, corral your team.”
Sutton’s disapproving eyebrow is on the warning track of her forehead and if I don’t do something about the team, I’m going to get the disappointed mom voice. I already have one of those, and I channel her the best I can.
“Alright…” I start to address the team but Kelsey interjects instead.
“Mouths off, ears on!” they bark, and Sutton can’t hide her laughter this time, but it gets the job done with the team. “This is the most important thing you’re going to learn in camp so I need one, two, three eyes on me! That goes for you too, Skip. We’ll have you set up with a few accounts before the day is over.”
Wonderful.
I can hardly wait.
“You are the public faces of the Mustangs,” Kelsey addresses the team, moving to a spot where they can see all of us in the room. “You are a reflection of the team. My job is not to police your thoughts, your politics, your morals, your belief system. My job is to create content that will engage our fans through team social media accounts. My job is to drive traffic to your accounts through the team accounts. My job is not to clean up the messes you might make on your own accounts, I’m not your babysitter. But I will give you the tools you need to clean your own messes, is that clear?”
