* * *
In my hotel room after a game, my heart sinks and fills at the same time.
I’m thrilled for her.
And I’m bummed for us.
* * *
Holden: I’m so happy for you. That’s tremendous, and you’re going to do so much good. I bet you’ll love it.
* * *
That’s the truth. I am happy for Reese, even as she fades from my life. She has to. She’s going to be roaming around in another hemisphere, through small towns with barely any cell service. And I’m trying to make a name for myself in the major leagues.
That’s what I vow to do, focusing on the game more and more, and wondering less and less what would have happened if we’d met at a different time.
But we didn’t. We met at this time. This is how it played out, and no amount of wondering would change that.
Interlude
Three Months Later
7
Holden
It’s one of those rare days in Seattle when the roof isn’t covering the stadium.
No rain—just a clear night sky.
Two men are on. Two men are out. We’re behind by one. It’s the top of the ninth.
Xavier Munoz, the Seattle Storm Chasers’ closer, paces the pitcher’s mound, then stops on the rubber. He tugs on the bill of his cap while he stares at the catcher behind me for the pitch signal.
Xavier throws fastballs 99 percent of the time. The challenge is whether it’s a cut fastball or a sinker, a wicked pitch that drops once it’s over the plate. Our center fielder once said hitting a Munoz sinker is about as tricky as slicing a log while it’s falling from the sky—chances are good that your ax will be kissing air.
He’s not wrong.
But baseball is a mind game as much as a physical one, and over the last year, I’ve learned to home in on the mental preparation. Knowing what’s coming. Studying the opposition. Religiously, relentlessly, committing their strategies to memory.
That’s the thing about athletes.
We love routine. We might think we like to change it up, surprise the opponent. But most of the time, we are servants to the familiar.
That is never truer than with pitchers.
Xavier kicks his leg, goes into the windup, and unleashes a fireball. I swear there’s smoke coming off the ball as it careens toward home plate.
I swing the bat, but when the ball dips just out of the strike zone, I check the motion just in time. I swung at his sinker twice already and missed.
Not doing it again.
“Ball,” the umpire barks, making the count three-two.
This is it.
My jaw tightens, then I take a deep breath. I step away from the plate, adjust my glove, return to my stance, and lift the bat again.
I narrow in on Xavier on the mound. He peers at the catcher. Shakes his head. Normally, I’d expect Xavier to go with the sinker once more, since he snuck that fucker past me two times in this at bat.
But I’m betting on the cut fastball, since he loves to serve those up when there’s a full count.
That’s what I get. Rocket fuel down the middle. I shift my weight to my back foot, rotate my hips, and swing with precision and force.
Thwack.
The crack of the bat is the most satisfying sound.
The ball soars.
Head down, I run like hell along the baseline as that little white orb keeps on flying, soaring gloriously over the fence in my hometown.
I punch the air.
A rush of satisfaction races through my bones as I round the bases, high-fiving the third base coach, then the two teammates I sent home who are waiting for me at the plate.
No time to bask in the glory, though, because we’ve got a job to do—shut them down in the bottom of the ninth inning.
That’s what Shane Walker, our rookie closer, does—he seals the win for us, putting a fork in the series against Seattle, the team I grew up rooting for.
High-fives abound in the locker room as I congratulate Shane. He’s a Brit with a baseball pedigree—an English mom and an American dad who played for years in the majors before he went into the Hall of Fame. Shane’s one of only a handful of British players ever, but he’s already making a name for himself with his fearless style of nailing saves.
“Keep up that good shit and we’ll have to give you a nickname other than bloke,” I tell him, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Iceman, please,” he says.
“You don’t get to pick your nickname. We do,” I say, gesturing from me to our center fielder, whose locker is next to Shane’s.
“Rules. Gotta follow ’em,” Antonio calls out as the pitcher grabs his leather jacket. “Hey! Leatherman! How about that?”
I scoff. “Antonio, we are not naming him after a tool.”
“But he’s got so many wicked pitches; he’s like a Leatherman.”
I turn to Shane, hold up my hands like I’m framing him, then ask, “Leatherman?”
Shane’s expressionless, but I bet that poker face is saying, Please don’t nickname me Leatherman.
“Flamethrower!” Antonio shouts.
I shake my head. “Fireman could work though.”
Shane gives a small smile. “That’s not bad.”
“Shush,” Antonio says, then he snaps his fingers as he stares at Shane’s black jacket. “The British Bad Boy of Baseball.”
I screw up the corner of my lips. “A little long, don’t you think?”
“That’s what she said,” Antonio quips with a wiggle of his brows.
I roll my eyes, then turn back to Shane. “We’ll let you know when it’s official.”
“I’ll be waiting with bated breath.”
“What the hell is ‘bated breath’? Does anyone know?” Antonio holds his arms out wide in question.
“I believe it’s from Shakespeare. That’s what my mom told me once. She teaches English,” I offer. “But I don’t remember which play.”
“The Merchant of Venice,” Shane says. “‘Shall I bend low, and in a bondman’s key, With bated breath and whispering humbleness.’”
Antonio blinks, then a wicked glint crosses his eyes. He whips his gaze to me. “I do believe we have a nickname.”
I grin, clapping Shane on the shoulder. “Welcome to the club, Shakespeare.”
Shane laughs, then shrugs. “I could do worse. Thanks. . . mates,” he says, then takes off.
After a shower, I change into jeans and a Henley, then make my way out of the locker room, when Antonio stops me, hand on my arm. “We’re hitting a bar on Capitol Hill. Should be a good time. Carson has a bunch of friends who are bringing some friends, if you know what I mean.”
He winks, but I know exactly what he means without it—babes will abound.
“Nah,” I say, tipping my forehead to the exit. “The ’rents are here.”
He rolls his eyes. “Always an excuse with you.”
He’s not wrong.
I don’t party. I don’t cruise the bars. I do like to go out with my teammates, but I’m usually the guy nursing an iced tea, making sure the others don’t make stupid decisions.
Well, as much as I can control that, which is not much. Success at an early age often means you make a lot of stupid decisions.
Besides, that scene can lead to distractions.
I don’t need any.
This last year has been all about baseball. The focus has paid off.
My batting average plus on-base percentage is a thing of beauty. I’m racking up RBIs. And our team has a winning record.
One more year like this at the major league minimum, and I can lock in a hefty raise in arbitration next year—a raise that’ll likely go a long way to making my family secure for life.
I glance down at the ink on my forearm as I leave.
Taking care of my family—that’s how I keep my eye on the prize.
My parents wait for me in the ballpark corridor, my dad looking every bit the teacher with his horn
-rimmed glasses, trim beard, and cardigan. My mom, on the other hand, dresses like a fangirl in her Holden Kingsley jersey, an LA Bandits ball cap, and a foam finger. It’s embarrassingly adorable.
She waves the giant blue finger at me.
“Be careful with that weapon,” I tease. I hug my mom, then my dad, then my sixteen-year-old brothers.
“I see you brought these two troublemakers along.” I pat the twins on their blond heads because it drives them batty, and I believe in driving my brothers batty, especially because both of them are five inches shorter than my six foot two.
“Kids. You can’t leave them behind all the time,” my dad quips.
“Hey, what happened to you in the first inning when you struck out looking?” Cody asks.
“Aww, did I ruin your fantasy baseball stats, sparky?”
He scoffs. “As if I play fantasy baseball.” Sports aren’t his thing. He prefers building skyscrapers out of toothpicks. A good habit to have if you want to be an architect, and he does.
“But I do,” Mason chimes in. “And I like good players. Ergo, you’re not on my team.”
“Good to see you too.” I catch Cody’s brown-eyed gaze. “And to answer your oh-so-sweet question, did you not see the game-winning homer I hit? Why are you giving me a hard time about my first at bat? Also, in my second at bat, I did get to first base,” I point out.
Cody’s about to answer when another voice cuts in. “Ah, glory over consistency. The age-old dilemma.”
The comment echoes from down the hall, coming from a clear and confident voice.
It’s Edward Thompson, striding toward us in his crisp button-down and charcoal slacks. He was a minor league manager, a major league utility player, then a hitting coach for Seattle. Now he’s the play-by-play analyst for The Sports Network, and he has the experience to back up every opinion.
I straighten my spine before I reply. Edward Thompson is that kind of man. “Which do you think is best, sir?”
He scratches his jaw, considering the question. “Both. I look for both in a player.”
“But how many have that?” my mom asks. She’s never met a question she’s afraid to ask or a person she won’t strike up a conversation with.
“Depends on the player,” Edward says, in that calm, centered voice he’s known for on-air and, reportedly, in the dugout. “Sometimes you need someone who plays for glory. Most of the time, you need someone consistent.”
My dad points to me. “And what about Holden? Has he got both?”
I roll my eyes at my father. “Dad . . .” Now is not the time to suck up to the man.
“Seriously. It’s a legitimate question.” My dad is a lot like my mom in this—inquisitive until the end of the world but likely to kill me with embarrassment long before that.
Thompson studies me, eyes narrow and thoughtful. “What I look for are the little things. The way a player stands. Whether he’s putting enough weight in the back foot. Getting enough rotation in the hips. All of those things can make a difference. Can add another ten points to your batting average.”
I stare at him, unsure if he’s giving me advice or criticism or just an observation. Before I can decide, he gives us a tip of an imaginary cap and walks the other way, saying to me, “Have a good season.”
As he retreats, Mom mutters under her breath, “Cryptic much?”
“Just a little,” my dad says.
She grabs his arm, saying in excitement, “He’s like one of those guys in a Webflix Christmas movie, Charlie.”
“Exactly. One of those wise old men who pop out of nowhere and offer sage advice to the hero.”
Mason rolls his eyes. “These two are so obsessed with Webflix holiday movies, even when it’s not Christmastime.”
My mom smiles. “What can I say? We like what we like. We’ve even been known to watch them during the summer. Like the other night.”
“You two sure know how to have a rocking time,” I say as we make our way to the exit.
“You got a problem with that?” my dad challenges, full of fire in that playful way of his.
I hold up my hands in surrender. I know better than to argue with my parents. If they want to watch Christmas movies in July, then they damn well should. I want them to have everything they crave, including being able to retire when they want.
The more success I have in the majors, the more of those things I can give them.
We head to our favorite diner in Ballard, near our home. My folks study the menu like it might have changed in the decades since we’ve been coming here, and Cody opts for his usual—burger and fries.
That one word—fries—lingers in my mind.
Takes me back in time to another night at another diner, a night that led to so much sexiness, so many kisses, and so many possibilities that ended too soon.
When we’ve ordered and the waiter leaves, I drum my fingers on the table, a little lost in time still. “Did you know that french fries are the exemption to every food rule?”
My mom furrows her brow. “Is that a quote from a movie?”
“Or maybe a TV show,” my dad suggests.
“Ooh! It’s from How I Met Your Mother,” Cody says, shooting his hand up, a grin spreading across his face.
I snap my gaze to him. “How old are you? Thirty? You watch How I Met Your Mother?”
He gives me an epic eye roll. “Retro TV shows are so in. Don’t you know anything?” He shakes his head like I’m a pop-culture traitor for not keeping up with what decade-old TV show is popular again.
“Whatever you say, Cody.”
“So, the french fry rule isn’t a line from a TV show,” my mom continues after the waiter drops off our drinks. She’s hunting for a reference that she won’t get. Best to end this pursuit.
“It’s just something someone said to me once. No biggie.” I take a sip of my iced tea, hoping the small little smile that tugs at my lips isn’t obvious.
But my mother can see through anything. She leans in closer. “What’s that faraway look in your eyes?”
I shake my head, putting on my game face. “It’s nothing.”
She wags a finger at me. “No, it’s something. You definitely have a look. Like you were thinking of someone.”
She should be a detective.
“I swear it’s nothing.”
“You met a woman, didn’t you? You’re holding out on us. Who is she?” My mother’s apparently a pit bull too.
Time to adamantly deny her speculation. And by adamantly deny, I mean move the hell on like my ass is on fire.
“I am hopelessly devoted to the baseball diamond.” I shift my focus to my dad, since he’s easier to distract. “Now tell me, Dad, did you listen to that new podcast about Charles Manson?”
His eyes light up. “I did. Amazing stuff.”
We proceed to deep-dive into his other obsession, and with that, I successfully shove the memory of Reese Fallon out of my mind.
Yet again.
I’ve become particularly good at this since she’s been out of the country and out of my life.
It’s for the best. It was only one night.
But what lasts longer is the advice Edward Thompson gave me.
Advice that’s not so cryptic to me as it was to my parents.
For the next few weeks, I focus on little adjustments at the plate—a shift of my hips, a small switch in my stance.
By the end of the season, I’ve padded my batting average by ten points, finishing with .319—one of the best batting averages in the major leagues, and not too shabby for a guy in his second season.
That bright spot, though, is marred by a post-season interview that goes sideways.
8
Holden
The day after my sophomore season ends, a reporter from a Seattle paper asks the team’s publicist about interviewing me for a profile piece—a local-boy-makes-good kind of thing. I agree to meet the guy at Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium in Capitol Hill while I’m visiting m
y parents in Washington.
Carlotta can’t make it to the interview, since she’s in Los Angeles, but we review talking points in advance—focus on the season, goals for next year, and all the things I love about the city.
“It’ll be a puff piece,” she says. “Just go on and on about the Space Needle.”
I groan. “I hate the Space Needle. No one from Seattle likes it.”
“Don’t say that to Vince,” she says. “How about the Gum Wall? Everyone Instagrams that.”
“Chewed gum pasted on a wall is nasty. No self-described Seattleite likes it.”
“Don’t mention that either, then. What do you like in your hometown?”
“Lots of stuff. The Ballard Locks. They help salmon swim upstream. Also, coffee. And walking around the city with my parents.”
“Perfect. Talk about fish, caffeine, and family.”
“Easy enough.”
Famous last words.
The day of the interview, I head into the coffee shop, looking for a bearded guy with glasses, someone who matches the headshot that runs with his articles. I spot him in the corner, laptop open, watching the door. As I make my way over, he rises, flashes a grin, and says hello. “Cortado for you, Holden? That’s your favorite, right?”
He must have listened to Reese’s podcast. That was the first time anyone asked me about my drink of choice. Suddenly, I’m picturing her face, her lips, her smile.
“It is. And that’d be great.”
He heads to the counter while I trip back in time, to that one perfect day.
The honesty and the connection, the banter and the real talk.
The Virgin Game Plan Page 7
