by Kate, Jiffy
“Come on,” he chides. “One beer...two max. I promise, it won’t kill you. Actually, I think it’d help you loosen up, and everyone knows you could use some of that.”
If it’s not beers, it’s women. They always think I need something.
Get drunk, you’ll play better.
Get laid, you’ll hit harder.
Get the stick out of your ass, you’ll run faster.
“Rook, listen,” Davies says, coming around to stand between me and my locker. “If you don’t learn to have a little fun, this game will kill you.” It’s one of the most sincere statements he or any other player has said to me yet. Most of the time, I feel like I’m in a frat house again, being hazed by the upper class.
“I have fun,” I tell him truthfully. “Lifting weights, running, batting...all fun.”
He rolls his eyes and lets out a humorless laugh. “You need to get a fucking life, man. Do it before you wake up one day and baseball has left you in the dust.” Sighing, he runs a hand over his recently buzzed head. All the returning players shaved their heads on the first day of Spring Training. Some look a little better than others. Davies can pull it off. “Listen, do you know what the average career of a pro player is?”
“Five-point-six years,” I quote. I know all the statistics, everything about the game—the good, the bad, and the ugly.
“Right, so learn to love life outside of the game, because it won’t be around forever.”
I pull my shirt over my back and toss it into the gym bag on the floor. I need to do some laundry tonight before the hotel kicks me out for harboring toxic waste in my room. “I think the argument could also go my way,” I tell him, kicking off my cleats and tossing those in the bag as well. “If I only have five point six years, I want to make the most of it. One of these days, I’ll have all the time in the world to enjoy something besides baseball.”
The thought actually makes my stomach turn. Life without baseball? What kind of life is that?
“Trust me when I say you’ll enjoy the game a lot more if you have someone to share it with...and find some fucking balance,” Davies warns, his finger poking my chest. “I’m looking out for you, Rookie. Been where you are and I promise, I know what I’m talking about.”
With that, he kicks off the locker and walks around me, calling out once more over his shoulder as he leaves the room. “Shortie’s, be there!”
Once I get to the hotel, I toss my bag on the floor and grab my phone off the nightstand, where I left it charging. It’s been almost a week since I talked to my parents, and although they don’t like to hover, they do like to know I’m alive and my dad always needs the scoop on how Spring Training is going.
He’s a high school baseball coach and was once a minor league player for the Kansas City Bluebirds. He’s also the reason I’m the player I am today.
My childhood was spent at the diamond and around players. I was never forced into the game, but growing up in the dugout, it seeped into my soul, took root there and never let go.
I expect to see a missed call or text from him, but instead of his name and message, I see hers.
Charlotte’s.
It’s the last thing I expected.
Sure, she’s been in the back of my mind, only coming to the forefront when I let her, usually at night, when I’m trying to force myself to let the game go for a few hours. I think about her long brown hair that matches her warm brown eyes. Behind the dark liner she wears, there are flecks of gold and a smidge of green. I wanted to tell her about it, sitting in the glow of the hanging lights at the food truck. I wanted to tell her she’s beautiful, but I didn’t, because that would’ve complicated things and I don’t have time for complicated.
I don’t have time for Lola Carradine.
Charlotte: Hi Bo. It’s Charlotte. Just wanted to say I had a really great time last week. And the crepe truck was a great find. Thanks again.
The message itself is benign enough. Part of me wants to reply back. I want to ask her if she’s been back for more crepes. If so, what did she have? Nutella? My dick, who’s been through a drought, is hoping for Nutella.
But I don’t ask any of that. I can’t, because one reply would be like a gateway drug. One hit. One time. And the next thing I know, I’ll be needing rehab to get over Charlotte Carradine, because she feels addictive, like someone I’d probably never get enough of.
She’s not in my plans, nor does she help me reach my goal.
Getting on the major league roster won’t come any easier by texting her.
After a shower and dinner—chicken and vegetables I picked up from the local supermarket and warmed up in the microwave in my room—I collect my dirty clothes and some change off the dresser and head for the laundry.
The glamorous life of a baseball player: sweat, dirt, and body odor...and doing your own laundry.
What most people don’t realize is that until you make it to the big leagues, most players don’t make jack shit. Of course, it’s better now than it used to be and I’m fortunate I have one of the higher salaries in the minors, but it’s just enough to pay my bills and put a little in savings. I’m not destitute, but I also don’t have housekeepers and chefs.
Although, even when I do make the big leagues and get a major league salary—because I will make the big leagues—I probably still won’t have housekeepers and chefs. It’s just not my style. It probably sounds cliché, but I’m not in it for the money.
I’m in it for the love of the game.
I’m in it for the rush of a good hit.
I’m in it for the feel of the ball hitting my glove.
I’m in it for the way my soul sings as the ball flies across the diamond, just in time to get a runner out at first.
Once I have my clothes dispersed between two machines with soap and money loaded, I hop up onto one of the washers. Pulling my phone back out, I go to make the call to my dad, letting him know I’m still here, but Charlotte’s message is still open and staring me right in the face.
There’s an unfamiliar pang in my chest that I try to shake, but I can’t stop reading over her words.
Another thing that isn’t my style is ignoring someone, and ignoring Charlotte feels like an asshole move. I doubt it’s Lola Carradine’s style to be the first to text a guy. Men chase her, not the other way around. So, the fact that she reached out to me feels kind of huge.
When my phone rings in my hand, I jump a little, but then sigh in relief.
Saved by the bell.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, bringing the phone to my ear.
“Hi, honey. How’s everything?” she asks, obviously doing more than just talking to me on the phone. That’s my mom, the multi-tasker. Being a high school teacher, she’s always worn many hats—wife, mom, teacher, bus driver, crowd controller, cheerleading sponsor, coach’s wife. You name it, my mom has probably done it or knows how. She’s one of the smartest, most capable people I know.
“It’s going good,” I tell her with a sigh, staring across at the blank wall as the washer below me kicks it into high gear. “I live to see another day.”
“Where are you?” she asks.
“Laundry.”
She laughs. “About that time, huh?”
“Yep, it was getting locker room level in my hotel room,” I reply with a chuckle.
“Aw, well, I wish I was there to do it for you. I’m sure you’re beat after all they put you through out there.” She’s being serious. If it wasn’t for her job and the fact that it would be weird for her to pack up her life and follow her twenty-four-year-old son around the country, she’d do it. In a heartbeat.
“I can do my own laundry, Mom,” I reply with a smile. “Thanks to you.”
When she sighs, I know she’s getting ready to get sappy on me, so I stop her.
“Hey, is Dad around? I wanted to run a few things by him. We have a game against Atlanta tomorrow and I’d like to pick his brain.”
“Sure, honey. Just a sec.” I hear her call
out for my dad, but then she’s quickly back. “You’re eating well? Getting enough rest? Finding a way to relax a little?” she asks, sounding like Skip and Davies.
“Mom,” I warn.
With a huff, she continues. “Don’t ‘mom’ me. I worry about you and you’re all the way down there in Florida and I probably won’t see you for another month…”
“Unless they send me back to Des Moines,” I add.
“None of that,” she says, always seeing the glass half full. “You’re gonna make it and you’re gonna be great and your dad and I will be coming to New Orleans to see you play as soon as we can.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
After a good talk with my dad—getting one of his famous pep talks about finishing strong and that no matter what happens, this is still a step in the right direction—I hang up feeling good about tomorrow’s opponent.
About the same time, the washer turns off and I hop down to move my clothes to the dryer.
I could leave the clothes and come back for them, but I don’t really have anything pressing in my hotel room except the same four walls I’ve been looking at for the last month and a television playing the same movies I’ve already watched.
Swiping my thumb over the screen of my phone, I open it back up and go to my text messages, reading over Charlotte’s one more time.
What could it hurt? A text message is as benign as it gets, right?
I start to type, but quickly delete the few letters, my heart beating faster in my chest with the mere idea of making contact with her.
“Quit being a pussy, Bennett,” I mutter to myself, punching out a simple reply.
Bo: Hey Charlotte. I’m glad you’re enjoying the crepes...and a little jealous. Have one for me.
I add a smiley face emoji, but quickly delete it and hit send before I punk out.
Later, when I’m back in my room, clothes put away and in bed, trying to force myself to sleep, my phone dings from the nightstand. Normally, I put it on do not disturb mode, knowing I need as much rest as possible to be at peak performance the next day, but once I’d text Charlotte and she didn’t reply right away, I left it turned on.
Charlotte: Took you long enough to reply. :)
See, she can get by with the emoji shit and it’s cute. If I would’ve done it, it would’ve seemed desperate or stupid or like I don’t know how to talk to a woman without emojis.
Charlotte: If it was a bad idea for me to text, I’m sorry. We don’t have to do this. I know you’re busy.
The three little dots let me know she’s still typing...or thinking...or wanting to say something else, so I hold back on replying just a few more seconds. But when they drop off the screen, I decide if I don’t reply, this could be the end of our conversation and I don’t want that. So, I take the bait.
Bo: Sorry, I was in the weight room most of the day and then came back to the hotel for a shower and food. And I had to do some damn laundry before I was turned in for harboring toxic waste.
Charlotte: LOL. Sounds like a busy day. How is ST anyway?
I smile at the screen and take a second to run a hand down my face, letting it soak in.
Lola Carradine—the Lola Carradine—is asking me about my day.
She was the star of a kid’s television show back in the day—Life with Charli. It was actually a little before my time, but I still watched reruns. Then, about ten years ago, she fell off the face of the planet. I remember being in the grocery store with my mom and she was reading an article about her, commenting on how she didn’t know how a pretty girl like her got mixed up with drugs.
The other night, when I couldn’t sleep, I googled her. It felt like an invasion of her privacy with all the details of her life being so readily available.
Drug rehab.
Boyfriends.
A change in career for Charlotte Carradine.
Lola Carradine was seen leaving Chateau Marmont with a band member, Cruise Salvatore.
Are Lola and Cruise dating?
And then there was a grainy photo of someone who looks like Lola leaning over a table, snorting a line of what looks like coke.
Page after page of gossip mixed with facts.
When I closed out the search tab, I felt sick, not just because of what I’d read, but because I didn’t want to learn about her like that. In the two years I’ve been in the minors, watching major leaguers I know go through shit with the media. I’ve realized that the tabloids can spin a story from nothing.
Bottom line, Charlotte—Lola—Carradine is someone people love to talk about.
And now she’s texting me.
Bo: ST is great.
That’s such a weak answer and doesn’t even come close to scratching the surface on what this past month has been like.
Bo: Actually, it’s the most grueling thing I’ve been through so far and stressful as fuck but I’m hanging in there.
Charlotte: Tell me about it...like what do you do all day? I thought people who were there were already on the team?
Bo: We practice a lot...lots of drills, batting practice, fielding balls, working out in the weight room, running our asses off. But we also play games, kind of like scrimmages. It gives coaches and managers a chance to see the talent in action. There were about sixty guys here a month ago and now we’re down to about thirty. A week left to go. I’m hoping to make it on the twenty-five man roster. We’ve got four more games this week...if I make it through them, I’ll be in.
Charlotte: And if you don’t?
Bo: Back to Des Moines
Charlotte: That’d suck
Bo: Tell me about it
After a few minutes of no response, I almost put my phone back on the nightstand and force myself to try to sleep, but instead I ask her a question I’ve been wondering since our impromptu date.
Bo: Why are you in New Orleans?
Charlotte: I live here. Duh
Chuckling to myself, I appreciate her quick wit and smart ass response. She’s so real...and normal...easy to talk to.
Bo: Are you from here?
Charlotte: Originally, then my parents moved our family to Los Angeles. When I was looking for a place of my own, I found this house and bought it.
Bo: Interesting choice. Being Lola Carradine, I’d think you’d need to be in L.A. or New York or somewhere like that.
Charlotte: *eye roll* Those are the last places I need to be. Trust me.
I want to ask why. I want to know everything. Instead, I tell her goodnight.
Charlotte: Goodnight, Bo Bennett.
A few seconds later…
Charlotte: Knock em dead tomorrow.
Chapter 6
Charlotte
Today is going to be a great day, I can feel it. I didn’t sleep much last night but I was still up before the birds, already bursting with energy. So much so that, after my first cup of coffee, I decided to cook breakfast.
My favorite 80’s music channel is blaring and when I’m not flipping bacon or scrambling eggs, my spatula becomes my mic, helping my impromptu kitchen concert be the best it can be.
Until Casey walks in.
Stomps in, is more like it.
“What is going on here?” My sister is wrapped up in her robe with a rat’s nest for a bun on the top of her head and she’s missing her left sock. “Who are you and what have you done to Charlotte?”
I roll my eyes at her. “It’s me and nothing is wrong. I’m simply making breakfast. You don’t have to eat it,” I say, throwing the challenge out. We Carradines never pass up breakfast foods. I’m pretty sure it’s even written on our family crest.
I watch as she eyes the bacon, eggs, and toast plated on the kitchen island, in addition to the cut-up fruit and coffee already prepared in the French press, just waiting to be poured. “You do know it’s not even seven in the morning, right? Did you pull an all-nighter or something and you’re hopped up on caffeine still?”
Laughing, I shake my head and try to decide how much to tell her. I don’
t want to say too much about Bo because it’s so new and, really, what’s there to tell? We’ve shared one night out and a few texts. That’s no big deal.
Then, why does it feel like one?
“I wrote a new song last night.” The truth is, I completed one song and started three others and I’m dying to get in the studio. This is the real reason I’m up so early. I’m inspired and can’t sit still and it feels amazing.
“That’s great! Are you gonna tell me about your inspiration or are you still keeping it a secret?” Casey chews on a piece of bacon, not giving me any eye contact. I’ve obviously hurt her feelings by not giving any details about Bo, so I decide to share just a bit, hoping it’s enough to satisfy her. For now, anyway.
“I was up late texting the guy I hung out with after the gala the other night.”
“And?” Clearly, she’s unimpressed.
It’s times like this where our age difference is glaringly obvious. People her age don’t think twice about texting; it’s simply how they communicate. If I would’ve said I FaceTimed him or sent him a Snap, she’d be all up in my business. What she’s failing to realize is that I rarely communicate with guys via technology at all. I’ll do an occasional phone call or email but I’m normally more of a face-to-face kind of girl. The fact that I texted an actual conversation and not just one word responses is huge for me.
“And, nothing.” I shrug to play it off. “It was fun and different and exciting, so I stayed up to write about it.”
“Exciting, huh? Did y’all, like, do the cyber nasty? Because, that would be something to write a song about.” She waggles her eyebrows at me as she sips her coffee.
“Ew, no, Casey. What the fuck? We just talked, you know, to get to know each other better.”
“Wow, that sounds stimulating. Just kidding. It really doesn’t, but if you’re happy, I’m happy.”
I flip her off behind her back as she rinses her dishes and puts them in the dishwasher. She’s my sister and I love her, but, damn, if she isn’t annoying as fuck.
