Game Seven, page 9
part #2 of Unwritten Rules Series
“I can do that,” I assure him. “Powell gives me a lot to work with.”
There are times I wonder if he’s going to skip over me and my questions; sometimes he answers with a scowl, sometimes a weary sigh, but he always answers. And when I follow-up he’s gracious enough not to roll his eyes.
“Good. See about doing a sit-down interview with him at some point, sooner rather than later. If he can sell tickets for the Mustangs, I’m sure he can sell papers for us.”
Plastering on my best smile I assure John that I’ll do what I can to get an interview, even though I hate his crass approach to the business. I don’t write to sell papers, or subscriptions to our online content as is more likely today, just like I know Adam doesn’t “sell” tickets. But everything we do now is commodified; writing, managing, playing baseball. Everything is a commodity, including baseball players. They’re used to sell tickets and jerseys and merchandise. And I guess now, to sell papers.
“Will do.” But not in the way John wants.
“Good. You heading to The Stables from here?”
“That’s the plan.” I’m due at Wilson Bank Park, named for a local bank but affectionately called The Stables here at the Star, in the next hour or so. “Powell does a quick pre-game chat in his office, and then I’ll see if I can get access to a few players before the game.”
“Great. Keep up the good work, Mitchell.”
The Detroit Star offices are a short walk from the Fort/Cass People Mover station, where I board with a group of passengers decked out in Mustangs colors. They are fired up for the game today, and they should be. The team is coming home with four wins in seven games under their belts. After the disastrous opening in Chicago, the Mustangs set off for Minnesota with fire in their veins and swept the Lakes in spectacular fashion. On Sunday afternoon, Adam gave me a quote in his press conference and I ran with it. Like any good chef, I play with the ingredients I have in front of me until the combination of flavors works.
The combination worked in Minnesota. With Luca back in center field where he belongs, a musical chairs of middle infielders, and some bullpen shuffling, the Mustangs came out of the gate ready to fight. A recipe for success, I called it. And apparently it stuck. At our next stop, another group of fans boards, and one is wearing a Detroit Mustangs apron and chef’s hat. He high fives everyone in our car and when he turns around I see the words recipe for success crudely scrawled in marker on the back of the paper hat. A reminder of the power of media shaping public perception.
Usually when riding the People Mover, or any other form of public transit, I’m watching; the landscape of the city, the rise and fall of skylines, but today I tap into my phone and pull up a message thread.
Happy home opener, Powell.
You too, Mitchell. You gonna be here for pre-game?
On my way.
I smile as I respond. The thought of him asking after me, worried I won’t be there for his pre-game press gathering, sends a bit of a thrill through me. A feeling that I try to brush away and pack into a neat little box to deal with later.
Had a meeting with my editor. Should be there soon barring delays on the People Mover.
Adam’s response typing starts and stops and starts again, and soon he’s sent me a short video on the history of the Detroit People Mover, and I shouldn’t be surprised, because it’s so on brand for him and for the messages we’ve gotten into the habit of sending each other.
Ever since that night in Chicago, something has shifted in our relationship. Barriers that I was so careful to keep built up during spring training are slowly being chipped away, and as I get to know him more, the more time I want to spend with him. Outside of baseball, outside of managers’ offices and press rooms. But I know that this game affords very little personal time to anyone, least of all the manager. Whatever time we do manage to have together is still surrounded by the reality of baseball and the reminders that any kind of non-professional relationship would be a risk.
That’s why we have this message thread.
In the press room we’re reporter and manager, but in this message thread, this safe space we’ve carved out for ourselves, we’re Adam and Molly. We have shared interests, and inside jokes between us now. All of it kept within the safety of this app. The safety of this message thread that sometimes gets buried among messages from my sister and other friends, so at first glance our conversation – our tentative friendship – is hidden from everyone but me, should anyone happen to look over my shoulder.
Why the People Mover?
He finally asks.
Because there’s a station right by my office, the fare is literally pocket change, and I’d rather not pay for parking.
A one-way trip on the People Mover is seventy five cents. But beyond that, it allows me to do one of my favorite things in the world: walk to the stadium with the crowd. After pulling into the station and disembarking at Broadway, I join the crowd – early, enthusiastic, and loud – and make the pilgrimage from Broadway, just behind the Opera House and Athletic Club, to Wilson Bank Park.
Tailgaters are out in full force in the parking lots nearest the stadium, the radio station is broadcasting from the sidewalk outside the home plate gates, and I have to weave in and out of lines of people waiting for the gates to open to get to the staff entrance. With my credentials hanging from my neck, I’m waved through the door, and I make my way right for the tunnel, my feet carrying me through the lowest level of the stadium to the manager’s office.
When Roy Chambers was manager of the Mustangs, this level of the stadium, at least on the home side, was quiet. You never heard music, or laughter, or much of anything at all, but there’s electricity in the air today; music pours out of the clubhouse and when I enter Adam’s office, it’s a different space than I remember. Roy kept the room dark, had bare, painted cinder block walls, and looked formidable when seated behind his enormous desk.
Adam, in contrast, is seated on a couch upholstered in a deep shade of navy, dressed fairly casually in his short baseball pants and high socks, with a long sleeve team tee under a sleeveless hoodie. Behind him and lining the walls are pictures that reflect the history of the team and the city, and even the walls have been painted, now a soft, cool gray.
“Hey Mitchell,” he raises a hand in greeting when I step inside the small space, the first of the handful of reporters that will join him for pre-game.
“Morning, Powell. I like what you’ve done with the place.” I walk around the room taking in the pictures on the wall, iconic shots of the team winning world championships. Interspersed among pictures of those teams, are pictures from the city during the same years. Then finally, a picture of the team from spring training, a candid shot that I took to accompany a column, and a picture of the skyline from the stadium now. “It feels…hopeful.”
“That’s what I was going for.” He’s behind me now. Not crowding, but close enough I can feel him. “That one’s my favorite.”
He points to a picture from the series in ‘68, of the pitcher and catcher embracing after a huge win, his arm reaching over my shoulder, drawing us even closer to each other.
“I wore the number eleven everywhere I could because of him.” When I turn around, Adam is right there. Startled, I stumble and he steadies me with a hand at my waist, gripping my hip in his strong hand. “You okay?”
“Never better,” my voice is a hoarse whisper as I press into him, closing the distance between us. Something flashes in his eyes, heat fills my body from my head to my toes and for a split second his head tilts toward mine and I find myself hoping for the thing I absolutely shouldn’t be hoping for. My hands grip the fabric of his hoodie. “Adam…”
“Where should I set up?” De'Andre’s voice calls from the still open door and I want to curl into a ball and hide under the desk nearby. Adam takes a half step back but keeps his hand at my waist, lighter than before, but reassuring somehow. “I can come back if you’re busy.”
“You can set up by the desk,” Adam’s voice rumbles, eyes still locked on mine. I dip my chin low, trying to break the hold he has on me, but that hand drifts higher and he tips my chin up ever so slightly giving a shake of his head. A silent message not to be ashamed, not to try to hide. “Give the print media the front row.”
My heart races as Adam lets me go, stepping back to the other side of the room and taking up his perch on the couch again, a copy of his lineup in hand. I do what I can to steady my breathing, feeling the phantom pressure of his hand at my waist and wondering what would have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted. I try not to think about the way he’s looking at me now as the room fills with more reporters. Or the way he says my name when he calls on me for a question.
I ask a question and I think it’s coherent but all I see is his smile, which is rare in this setting. It’s thrilling and a little unsettling what it does to me when he turns his smile in my direction. I sneak out as soon as we’re done, and slip up to the press box, distracting myself from whatever that was with Adam earlier, by tracking down a snack from the catering spread, and the biggest, darkest coffee I can pour myself.
Can we talk? After post-game?
A message lights up my screen and I hesitate before responding, for just a minute. My mind racing back to that office, back to him, the warmth of his body at my back, the smile that lit up his face.
Of course.
That’s the last message between us before the first pitch is thrown.
Between the first pitch and the last, the Mustangs scored ten runs, shutting out their divisional rival, the Cleveland Rockstars. It’s always nice when we can beat Cleveland, but it’s even better to do it at home and in such spectacular fashion. After packing up my scorebook and my work bag, I clean up my workspace in the press box and make the trek down to the post-game press conference. I want it to go on forever. I don’t want it to end because there’s a small part of me that’s afraid of what Adam’s going to say.
All things I’ve heard before: too threatening. Too brash. Too much to handle. When I’m writing and reporting on the game I have a job to do, but I want Adam to know me as Molly, too. Not just the beat writer.
And then it’s just us in the room.
The cameras are gone. The lights are packed up. The door is closed. He’s behind his little team branded podium and I’m seated in my usual spot in the middle of the third row of chairs. Adam steps down from the small platform at the front of the room and sits in a chair in the first row, as far from me as possible, his body turned to face me, a concerned furrow in his brow.
“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable earlier. In my office. That was never my intention.”
Not for one minute was I uncomfortable. If anything, I was too comfortable. Too close to kissing him. Too close to holding onto him longer. Too close to jumping off a cliff I don’t think I could ever come back from.
“You didn’t,” I immediately protest. My brain shouts at me to close the distance between us, but my body remains rooted to my seat. “Make me uncomfortable, I mean.”
“Mitchell,” he exhales my name on a small huff of laughter, “you ran out of there like your feet were on fire.”
My whole body was on fire.
“I know. And I’m sorry…”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he interrupts, reaching out a hand to stop me but still too far away to touch. “I want you to be comfortable here.”
“I am,” I assure myself as much as him. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Where are you headed from here?” He asks, his casual tone slipping a bit when he looks at me.
“I’ll walk to the Broadway station and head to my office. I parked there.”
“Let me ride with you.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I protest.
“I want to.”
I want that, too.
I just want time with him away from baseball. Away from the stadium. Outside of the message thread that we’ve had running since that day in spring training. I don’t say any of that, though. I can’t bring myself to.
“I’m going to go talk to the team. I’ll meet you…”
“In my office.”
“Sure. I’ll meet you in your office.”
Luca Phillips is usually my first player to chat with for post-game comments. He’s always showered and changed pretty quickly, and today is no different. He holds court from the chair in front of his locker, dressed in dark charcoal slacks, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up with a few buttons undone at the neck. His blond hair, still damp from the shower, hanging in waves that skim his shoulders.
“How did it feel playing in front of this home crowd today?” I ask, knowing that for a while Luca wasn’t the biggest fan of being in Detroit. He was traded here at the deadline last season, and had some growing pains as he got used to the team.
“It finally felt like home. When I got here last year it wasn’t under great circumstances – being traded at the deadline is a little like having the rug pulled out from under you, and I wanted to be anywhere but here – but I was traded with a friend. Coming over with Max Harrison made it easier. He retired and I had to learn to swim on my own. The crowd today was electric, and I finally feel…like I’m part of something.”
“Thanks Luca,” I pocket my notebook, a signal to Luca and every player I talk with that we’re off the record. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad to have you here.”
“Thanks Molly. That means a lot.”
When I’ve wrapped up player interviews, I head back to Adam’s office where Sutton is seated inside, going over something with Adam on the tablet in her hand. Adam is no longer dressed in uniform; he’s changed into a pair of sleek, slate gray joggers and a black hoodie that appears molded to his upper arms and chest. He leans across his desk, looking at whatever Sutton has on her tablet.
It’s none of my business.
I hang back in the hall until I hear the scrape of Sutton’s chair against the floor.
“Coach Powell,” why so formal, Molly? Play it cool. “Can I clarify this quote from earlier?”
“Sure. Come on in.”
Sutton looks between the two of us with an air of suspicion but, blessedly, doesn’t say a word. She just shakes her head as she walks out of Adam’s office. Adam reaches for a bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he stands up from his desk, giving me the full picture of post-game Adam Powell.
“Wow.” Smooth, Mitchell.
“Yeah,” he laughs, plucking at the front of his shirt as if there’s lint he’s trying to get rid of. “I know. It’s not really my style, but my sisters were getting sick of my jeans and fifteen year old tennis shoes when the Founders were posting me on social media. They ganged up on me and got me ‘clothes a hot, young manager would wear.’ I can’t begin to express to you how weird those words are when coming from the mouths of my sisters.”
“No, it works. And they’re right…” He is young-ish, still older than me by a handful of years, but young for a manager, and yes, incredibly attractive. I’ve seen those pictures from Founders social media the last few seasons and while he made the old – not old, well-worn – jeans work, the joggers are an even better look. Especially with that hoodie and the way it just…fits. “You’re one of the faces of the organization now. Fans love the hot, young ball players, and it’s not often we get a hot, young manager.”
I regret the words almost as soon as they tumble out of my mouth. He looks at me with a crooked smile. “It’s not weird when you say it.”
His response hangs in the air between us, his eyes searching mine, that hand – oh, that hand – finding my waist again as he steps closer, his fingers curling in the comfort of my sweater.
“Are you ready to go?” He asks, the moment broken, but his fingers still curled into my sweater.
“I am,” I exhale a weary sigh. Ready to go home and sit in my quiet house for a while. “It’s been a long day, but I don’t have to tell you that.”
“You don’t, but I’d like you to.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Level Up
ADAM
My hand at Molly’s waist feels like breaking the unwritten rules between us. It feels like a turning point that we can’t come back from. But I like it. She’s soft under my fingers, and I want to hold onto her just a while longer. As we walk out of my office, I let my hand linger, guiding her out the door before shutting it behind me. I want to linger with her. Make the most of this time we have away from the game.
“Tell me about your day,” I ask as we exit the stadium and hit the sidewalk in the chilly April-in-Michigan air. “What is a typical baseball day like for you?”
She looks at me like I’m speaking an ancient language she doesn’t understand, stopping on the sidewalk to dig a pair of sunglasses out of her bag. Aviators. Which surprises me, but probably shouldn’t. There are days she looks like she stepped out of a poster from the 1940s and other days she looks like she should roll up on a motorcycle, and every single day I find myself looking forward to her stepping into my office with her lipstick and her notebook and whatever outfit she put together that day.
Today it’s black jeans that hug the curves of her legs, and short black boots with a long, cream colored cardigan over a simple black tee shirt. Her lipstick is the same berry red that it was the night we met. I think it might be my favorite color. Either this one or the bold red she was wearing the day I found out that she’s M. Mitchell, beat writer for the Star.
She slips her glasses on and starts out at a brisk pace that I do my best to keep up with and soon my knee starts a screaming match with my hip and my brain, all three telling me to slow down. But while she walks, she talks. And I want to hear what she says, so I will myself to keep up.
