The Trade

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Are you okay, man?” Jason asks, sitting next to me on a couch in the locker room. We’re on rain delay, which means we’re playing a waiting game until the umpires believe the conditions are good enough for the ground crew to prepare the field for play.

  I hate fucking rain delays because you spend all your time getting your body game ready, only to have to put it on hold and wait, not sure if you’re going to be getting up in fifteen minutes or an hour.

  “Fine,” I say, bringing my Gatorade to my lips, a slight shake in my hand.

  “You sure?” Jason twists on the couch to face me. “You look pale, dude. Want to go get something to eat?”

  “I’m fine. Just . . .” Fuck, the room won’t stop spinning. I blow out a heavy breath and close my eyes but that makes it worse, so I pop them open and try to fixate on the TV in front of me. “Just a little dizzy.”

  Jason places his hand on my arm and gets closer, examining me. “Shit,” he mutters before calling out to the guys, “We need a trainer in here, now.” His voice is serious and someone off in the distance is calling one of the trainers over.

  The room starts to tunnel in on me. The edges of my vision blur and turn black. The ceiling spins and spins and spins to the point that my stomach rolls. Fuck.

  “I uh, need to go to the bathroom,” I say, scooting to the end of the couch.

  Jason places his hand on my chest. “Stay seated. You’re white as shit, man. A trainer is coming.”

  “Nah, I need the bathroom.” I push past him and stand, wavering on my legs before taking a few steps toward the bathroom, only to lose my legs right beneath me. Suddenly, I’m falling forward and slamming into one of the tables the guys are playing poker on. Chips scatter right before the table breaks beneath me, and I crash to the floor with the wood splintering around me.

  “Fuck, we need someone in here, now,” Jason yells as he drops to my side. Pain ricochets up my arm but nothing else registers.

  Not the trainers surrounding me, asking me to tell them how many fingers they’re holding.

  Not the stretcher I’m placed on, or the IV that’s strapped to my hand.

  Not the ride to the hospital, or Milly sitting at my side, holding my hand, crying.

  Not the twenty stitches sewn into my arm from a piece of wood driven through my skin.

  Not when the doctors talk to my parents and Milly about my exhausted and dehydrated body.

  Not when the guys come to visit me after the game, to see if I’m doing okay.

  The only thing that registers in my mind is Jason standing in the corner of my room, talking quietly on the phone and saying, “Yeah, I’ll tell him. Love you, Natalie.”

  But then everything goes black again.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  NATALIE

  Still July

  Potter Hospitalized, Misses All-Star Game

  The night before the All-Star break, the All-Star first baseman looking to break multiple league records this year, reportedly fainted in the locker room during a rain delay. Sources said he was looking pale and unlike himself during warmups. According to the hospital and training staff, the cause was exhaustion and dehydration, but there have been reports of drug use . . .

  Looks like the pressure is finally getting to the man who acts like he’s God on the baseball field. Oh, how the mighty fall hard.

  I click out of the article and rest my head against my desk, trying to gather myself before I do something like text Cory myself.

  I don’t know why I never thought about it, but the possibility of seeing Cory at The Lineup event never occurred to me until he was standing right in front of me, looking more handsome than ever. I know he’s been working hard, tirelessly actually, from what Jason has offhandedly mentioned, but I never knew how hard until I saw him in person. He looked more chiseled than ever, even while wearing his suit. And yes, he took my breath away with how handsome he looked, but I would be remiss not to mention the sunken set of his eyes, the slight red that rimmed them, the tiny specs of gray at his temples, or when he turned around, the tiny bald patches in his hair.

  Cory might have solidified his place in the Baseball Hall of Fame with the first half of this season, but not without significantly aging himself. He looks nothing like thirty-five, more like bordering on forty.

  Seeing him was probably one of the most painful things I’ve done in a long time, but then he approached me and to this day, I still can’t recall what he said to me, or what I said to him because my heart was pounding so hard in my chest, I could barely hear anything around me. It wasn’t until Nicholas came up to me that I realized what Cory was trying to ask me, but when Cory spotted Nicholas, it was too late. Cory shut down and walked away, leaving me wondering what the hell he was trying to do in that moment.

  Nicholas spent the rest of the night at my side with the wrong impression. He was in Chicago for the week and it just happened to be when I was holding the event. I invited him because he has money, and we want it for our foundation. It wasn’t a date, nor was it a moment for him to claim me in front of anyone. But he acted like it was and when the night was over and he tried to kiss me, I had to turn him down again.

  He asked me if it was because of Cory and I desperately wanted to tell him no, that the ship on that relationship had sailed months ago, but I’m not kidding anyone. I’m still hung up, unable to move past the pain I can’t seem to let go of. It’s why I keep turning down every blind date my friends and even Mom try to arrange, or don’t pay attention to any of the dating apps Monica set me up on. I can’t find it within me to move on, especially when I see Cory’s cheery and magnetic personality slowly fading with each passing day.

  Looking down at my phone, I open up a text message.

  Natalie: Is he okay?

  Three simple words, words I write every week to Jason, just needing reassurance that he’s not slowly killing himself. I didn’t ask for details from Jason about what happened in the locker room, but I did ask if he was okay. All Jason said was, it was the scariest thing he’d ever seen and he’s glad Cory is going to be okay.

  Thankfully Jason texts me back quickly.

  Jason: I think so.

  I roll my teeth over my bottom lip as my emotions start to surface.

  Not again.

  I’m not going to cry again.

  Sucking in a sharp breath, I set my phone down with the knowledge that he’s okay, and I open my inbox. I have work to do.

  * * *

  August

  Is Potter a True Rebel Now?

  After a small break to recover from a terrible fall in the locker room and twenty stitches in his right catching arm, Cory Potter is back in the batter’s box and once again hitting the leather off every baseball thrown to him, bringing his team straight into the last two months of the season with a positive outlook on the post season. His teammates might be happy, but the fans are still not convinced this is the man they want leading their team.

  Rumor has it, Potter is desperate to win fan approval and will go to great lengths to make that happen and has started looking for recreational drugs to get him through the long hours on the field. This would explain the red-rimmed eyes and erratic behavior in the locker room.

  When will it end? When will he finally give up and try to break his contract? Only time will tell.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath and close the article. Cory is the healthiest guy I know; there is no way he’s doing drugs, especially during the season. I don’t believe one word of the article besides the red-rimmed eyes. In interviews I’ve seen recently, I can tell he’s still not the same man I fell in love with, but he does look healthier than a month ago.

  Needing that reassurance, I send Jason a text.

  Natalie: Is he okay?

  Jason doesn’t text back until later that afternoon, but his short text gives me peace of mind.

  Jason: Yes, he’s good.

  * * *

  End of August

  Natalie: Is
he okay?

  Jason: Better.

  I look at Lake Michigan as I sit across from Frankie Donut, getting lost in one of my favorite places in Chicago. Today is his birthday and I’m tempted to send him a text, to let him know I’ve been thinking about him, every day, almost every hour, but something’s holding me back. Pride? Hurt? Nerves? Whatever it is, I decide to text my brother instead.

  Natalie: Is he having a good birthday?

  Jason: I think so. We got him a cake, surprised him. He looked like he was going to cry from being overwhelmed.

  My lip trembles just thinking about Cory’s reaction. Through Jason, I know the team has slowly tried to get closer to Cory. It’s taken a lot of time and a lot of trust, but over the last month, the team has become a solid unit, sticking together and having Cory’s back, even to the point that now the players are tweeting about the false articles about Cory and starting to contradict each of them with a picture of Cory hard at work, laughing with the guys, or eating a pizza. I know this because I have the hashtag “PotterWatch” on alert.

  The negative articles are becoming fewer and further between, but the fans still seem to not appreciate Cory for who he is; the best first baseman in baseball, let alone the best bat in baseball as well.

  Glad that he at least has the guys, I text back.

  Natalie: I’m glad. You didn’t try to kiss him, did you?

  Jason: You know I did, and you know I got his cheek before he pushed me away.

  I chuckle to myself, as I wish I could have seen that.

  Natalie: He seems happy though?

  Jason: No, but I think that has everything to do with you. Come on, Nat, why don’t you just talk to him?

  Natalie: You and I both know I can’t do that. He thought I was dispensable.

  Jason: He thought he was helping you, fuck . . . I said I wouldn’t get in the middle of this.

  Natalie: I’m sorry. I’ll stop asking.

  Jason: Don’t stop, Nat. He needs more people caring about him. Just don’t stop.

  I stare at the text message, Jason’s words ringing in my ears. I stand from my chair and take a walk. It’s all too fucking much.

  Chapter Thirty

  CORY

  September

  “Are you fucking ready?” Jason asks, coming up to me and massaging my shoulders, bouncing up and down. “We are clinching today. We are fucking clinching.”

  End of September, the playoffs are right around the corner, and if we win today, we win our division, which puts us in a pretty spot when it comes to the playoffs. Giving us home field advantage. It will be the first time in seven years the Rebels make it to the playoffs, the first time in twenty years that they win their division, and Jason is right, it’s happening tonight.

  “Is the boss ready?” Maddox asks, walking by while Jason does some weird fucking jig.

  “Ready,” I say, slipping on one of my socks, feeling really fucking good for the first time in a month. Maybe because the season is almost over, which means I get to finally relax, after what will hopefully be a successful playoff run. Maybe because the guys have rallied behind me, shooting down every article or fan who tries to say anything negative about me. Whatever it is, this billowing tightness, that’s been eating away at me all season, has slowly started to dissipate.

  The “PotterWatch” hashtag has been . . . fuck . . . it’s funny. Because the guys have gotten into it now. Every day, at least a few of them has posted photoshopped pictures of me on their social media accounts. It was Jason’s idea. Since the media wasn’t letting up, he said let’s take control of it ourselves and they started counteracting every story with one of their own, or sharing ridiculous pictures of me doing stupid shit like meeting the Queen of England or shaking hands with Leonardo DiCaprio on a movie set, or bench-pressing one thousand pounds. Really stupid, horribly photoshopped shit that has me laughing hysterically every time I see one.

  Laughing . . .

  They have me laughing, which was a sound I hadn’t heard in a really long time.

  Unfortunately, the fans haven’t gotten on the we like Cory train yet, but I’m not sure that will ever change. It’s just going to have to be my new norm at this point.

  “Fuck, I’m so pumped right now, I think I have a boner.” Jason says this while sitting next to me and draping his arm over my shoulders, squeezing tight.

  “Can you not tell me you have a boner while embracing me? Jesus, man.”

  He chuckles and lets go, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Just be grateful I’m not rubbing it against your leg like I do to Dottie.”

  “Did I ever tell you how lucky she is to have you?”

  “No.” Jason looks over to me. “But that means a lot. Thanks, man.” Jason starts thumbing through his phone while he says, “I can’t wait to marry her. She’s so fucking perfect.”

  The uptight-but-secretly-funny boss babe and the quirky, sensitive baseball player are oddly perfect for each other. I’ve never seen the dynamic they have, such opposites that they actually work. She grounds him, he loosens her up, and they meet in the middle. I’m proud to be a part of their wedding.

  “Hey, Orson, can you come here for a second?” Maddox asks from his locker.

  “Yeah.” Jason sets his phone down in front of me and heads over to Maddox.

  Lifting my other foot, I start to put on my other sock when my eyes briefly fall to Jason’s phone. Natalie’s name in fucking bold, as if he magnified the view on his phone to ultra-old-person size.

  Glancing up at Jason, I see his back toward me, so I do something I really shouldn’t but can’t help myself. I read his text.

  Natalie: Is he okay?

  Jason: Great. Healthy. Happy.

  Natalie: Good.

  Jason: You should talk to him, after the game.

  Natalie: I can’t. I want to . . . but I can’t.

  My breath catches in my chest as I read the last sentence over and over again. She wants to . . . but she can’t. Why can’t she? Because she’s in a relationship? Because she’s nervous? Because she still hates me?

  When I look up from the screen, Jason is standing in front of me now, a wicked grin on his face. He looks over his shoulder to Maddox and says, “Worked like a charm, man.”

  “Knew it would.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I ask, finishing with my sock.

  Growing serious, Jason says, “She asks about you once a week, if not more. She has been ever since you broke up. She’s not dating anyone, never did, because she can’t seem to get over you, despite what she might have said to you at any point in time. And she’s too scared to approach you. There.” Jason holds his hands up, pretending to wash them. “I did my friend and brotherly duty, I wash my hands of this. What you decide to do with this information is up to you.”

  Maddox steps up and drapes his arm over Jason’s shoulders. “Yeah, but you better do the right fucking thing. After we clinch, you’re going to her.”

  “Oooh, I like that idea, so fucking romantic. Shower first though.” Jason nuzzles Maddox’s shoulder.

  “Yeah.” Maddox palms Jason’s head, holding him close. “Shower for sure.”

  Marcus inserts his head into the conversation and says, “I can attest to showering. If you make up, you want your dick clean.”

  “Clean dicks are always appreciated by a woman,” Jason says.

  “And balls,” Maddox says with a smiling face, something that is very rare and only saved for the men in this room. “I’m sure if you need help scrubbing after the game, Jason here will lend a hand.”

  Jason holds up his hands and with a twinkle in his eyes, he says, “I have two.” He squeezes them. “I’m ready to handle the boss.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Although, it does scare me.”

  “Wait . . .” I blink a few times. “Are you calling my—”

  Maddox punches Jason in the arm. “Fuck, dude, we told you not to give it away.”

  Standing now, my lips tilted up, I say, “Y
ou’re not calling me boss . . . you’re calling my dick boss.”

  Three sets of eyes fall to my covered crotch and then back up.

  “I mean . . .” Marcus says.

  “Have you seen . . .?” Maddox adds.

  “Dude, you have a giant cock,” Jason says, thoroughly impressed. “You put my towel picture to shame.” He clenches his thighs together and says, “I feel bad for my sister.”

  “Things you shouldn’t be thinking about,” I say while sitting back down and shaking my head.

  When they fall silent, I look up again to see all their expectant faces staring at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Uh, are you going to go after her? Finally?” Jason asks.

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “Wrong answer,” Maddox says. “Don’t be a fucking moron. You want her, she wants you, end this misery and go after her. But I’ll tell you this, if she ever wears a Bobbies shirt again, I might very well murder her.”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “Or at least photoshop a Bobbies shirt on me to really complete that picture.”

  All at once, the guys yell dibs and then start fighting over who gets to post the picture I just suggested. While they argue, I sit back in my locker, a thrumming building inside me, electrifying my limbs.

  She still wants me.

  She’s not dating anyone.

  She asks about me all the time.

  Well, fuck, I don’t have an option at this point. I need to get my girl back.

  * * *

  Staring at my bat, I take a deep breath and drown out the magnified boos that seem to be rocking the stadium tonight. It almost feels like they gave every fan in the stadium a megaphone, and they’re all using them now.

  We’re down by one run. Marcus is on first, just barely squeaking out a single with his hustle down the line and we have one out in the bottom of the ninth. I’ve had trouble hitting off Toronto’s closer all season, grounding out almost every single time, which I’m sure is what they’re counting on right now, forcing the double play, going home with the W and preventing us from clinching our division title tonight.