by Julie Cross
She laughs with me. “I don’t think there’s any chance of that happening. I thought I was going to have to break out a whistle or a Taser earlier.”
I lay my head back against the swing. “I’m thinking of crawling into bed and waiting until tomorrow to wake up.”
“Only one more week of school,” Savannah points out. “What are your plans this summer?”
“Run and sleep,” I say before adding, “and community service, of course.”
“How would you like to be my intern for the summer? Help with PR and schedule events and interviews with the players, sift through fan mail…”
I roll my eyes. “Is this a ploy you and Dad came up with to keep me out of trouble?”
“Partly,” she admits. “But I also think you’d be very good at this job. Especially now that you have a clear understanding of both wanted and unwanted media attention.”
Brody comes to mind, and I know I can’t just sit around all summer and wallow in my short-lived moment of rejection. I need something else to focus my attention on. Something safe.
“I’m in,” I tell her. “But if Johnson changes his mind about Brody and the hearing-impaired Disney Channel girlfriend, I’m so not taking on that task. Besides, it has ridiculous written all over it. Like Brody would actually settle down with one girl.”
She eyes me skeptically. “Well, you never know.”
I shrug, not wanting to elaborate on how badly I’d like for that to happen.
Lenny London: No comment.
5 minutes ago
Annie Lucas: No comment.
2 minutes ago
Carl London: Headed to Brazil in two days! All Brazilian women get Brazilian waxes, right? I think I’ve found my calling. Maybe I’ll become a citizen?
1 minute ago
post-all-star
Break
Chapter 16
Lenny London: Ok so maybe I don’t hate physical labor. Just so long as it includes nail guns and Annie Lucas’s homemade brownies.
1 day ago
Jason Brody Royals Pitcher: “Maybe I called it wrong, but it’s official.” —Tommy Connolly, umpire
3 hours ago
Annie Lucas: I always wondered what kind of people sent fan mail. Now I know.
5 minutes ago
“Well, there you go. Here comes Frank Steadman,” the announcer says. “It’s about time. He can’t afford to wait for young Jason Brody to walk three batters in a row before he pulls him out of the game.”
“Yes, he’s clearly run out of gas,” the other announcer says.
“I’d say he ran out about two innings ago.”
I throw a wad of paper at the television in Savannah’s office. “Shut the hell up, douche bags.”
Savannah laughs and then drops her eyes back to the papers in front of her. “I really think Brody needs a bigger, more personal online presence to get those younger fans. What do you think, Annie?”
I wave a hand to stop her. “Don’t jinx it! He still doesn’t have a contract for the rest of the season.” And neither does my dad.
And right now, Brody really does look tired. My stomach sinks, watching him in his blue uniform as he lifts his hat and wipes sweat from his forehead, his glove hanging limply in his left hand as Frank approaches the mound. This is Brody’s fourth game in four days, and he’s pitched at least three innings every day. And they’ve won two of the three games in the series. Winning today against the Twins would be huge.
Which is the only reason I’m obsessed with this game.
It has nothing to do with the fact that I’ve barely spoken to Brody since my idiot alter ego kissed him. Of course it doesn’t. I mean, why should it? It was only the most humiliating, awkward moment of my entire life.
The camera shifts to the bullpen. Dad and the other pitching coach are speaking loud enough to see their mouths moving. The other coach is waving his arms around a lot.
“I don’t know what’s happening over there, but this is why you don’t have two equal pitching coaches for one ball club, right, Dave?” the announcer says.
“Exactly, John. Someone needs to be in charge. Looks like Jim Lucas wants to put in a number five pitcher instead of using the Royals ace. I don’t think Larry Johnson is going to be happy with this move. He’s the most hands-on owner I’ve ever seen.”
“But Frank Steadman does have the final say. And he’s got to be worried about those loaded bases.”
The camera switches back to the mound. Frank is walking away, and Brody is still there.
“I’ll be damned. He’s not taking him out! What is going through Frank Steadman’s head right now?”
I hold my breath as Brody gets in position again. Goose bumps raise all over my arms. He looks so good. Like a star. Nobody should take that from him. Brody focuses intensely on home plate and two minutes later, he’s struck the batter out and the team is jogging into the dugout.
I flop onto my back beside the stack of papers and baseballs on the floor of Savannah’s office. “I think I just had a heart attack.”
“This is why I can’t watch away games,” Savannah says. “I’m only doing this for you. I’d much rather turn it off and hear the results after.”
“But if they end up winning, and Brody’s pitched most of the series, won’t you be glad to have witnessed it live?”
“I can watch it from my DVR and pretend it’s live just as easy. But Brody pitching all these extra innings… That’s really gonna help from a PR standpoint. Gives me a little human interest meat to work with.”
More than the fake girlfriend angle? I hope so. An idea suddenly forms in my head. “Have you ever done something like surprising a player by bringing their family to a game? Maybe reuniting them after a falling out…?”
Savannah’s head snaps up, her gaze sharp on mine. “I would never do that unless a player expressed interest in having their family present. That’s not an area you want to meddle in, understood?”
“Okay, okay,” I say, trying to play it cool. “It was just an idea. You’re the expert, I’m the intern.”
She smiles. “It’s a nice thought, Annie. But family drama can be very damaging to players and to the entire club.”
I don’t know if she has any clue about Brody’s disconnect with his mom or if she was speaking in general terms, but I can’t help but think his mom would be proud to know what her son’s doing. Okay, maybe not the four girls in and out of his hotel room in three nights, but the pitching… Surely she’d be proud of that part.
The commercial break ends, and I turn my attention back to the game. The score is 2–0. Them. And after two outs, Frank does something that causes even me to side with the douche bag announcers.
Brody leaves the dugout with a batting helmet, a bat, and gloves.
“I don’t believe this,” the announcer says. “This is certainly not in the original game plan.”
“Well, we knew he’d have to bat against the Cardinals in two weeks when they play on National League territory,” the other announcer says. “Although no one seems to be talking about the fact that Jason Brody was originally recruited as a closer with no plans to bat on any territory. How many games has he played mid-relief in now?”
“Thirty-two games, Dave. Not to mention starting on opening day. The Royals have suffered from a lack of starters and mid-relief pitching depth these past few seasons. They really didn’t need another closer. Not as badly as they needed starters and mid-game guys.”
“Oh my God, Savannah.” I hit my hand against the desk. “He’s gonna bat. Does he even know how?”
“I have no idea.” Savannah looks just as rattled as I feel. She gets up from her chair and perches herself at the end of the desk. We both lean in and watch Brody on deck, taking practice swings. “He did bat with the farm teams…For that whole half a season.”
“I really hate to question Frank Steadman, but the Royals have a real shot at tying up this game in the sixth inning. Two runners on base and two outs.”<
br />
“Exactly, Dave. I can’t wrap my head around Steadman’s strategy, putting in a cold hitter with a tired arm at such a key moment in the game…and a rookie who’s never bat in the majors before! Things had been looking up for the Royals this season.”
Had been.
We get a shot of the dugout and Dad—not Frank—is passing signals to Brody who sees him, nods, and then steps into the batter’s box.
“Why does this feel like a really, really bad idea?” I say.
Savannah shakes her head, her hands wrapped around the edge of the desk, her knuckles white.
Brody swings at the first pitch. And misses. Strike one.
“Looks like Jim Lucas is sending twenty-one-year old, Campbell, the second year number five pitcher into the bullpen, leaving the Royals ace on the bench,” the announcer says.
Brody looks so much smaller than the hot-dog-obsessed designated hitters who would normally take his place in the batting lineup.
“Talk about pressure. He’s got to be shaking out there,” the announcer says.
I’ve already chewed away all the skin around my thumbnail, so I sit on my hands just as the pitcher releases the ball. I squeeze my eyes shut, but that doesn’t keep me from hearing the crack of the bat connecting with the ball. My eyes fly open, and I jump to my feet.
“A line drive out to right field!”
“Ohmigod,” I say over and over. Brody takes off for first base. The ball gets scooped up in the outfield. The Twins right fielder throws home. Lenny’s dad had been on third base and he easily beats the ball home. The runner on second slides into third and the camera shifts back to Brody running.
“Look at the speed on that kid!” the announcer says. “He’s going for second!”
The Twins scramble to make the throw to second base to get Brody out, but he’s much faster than they anticipated. Brody easily slides into second and the runner on third touches home base.
“What an unexpected play for the Royals!” the announcer shouts. “Nineteen-year-old rookie pitcher Jason Brody just tied up this game in his first major league turn at bat. I bet the Twins never saw that one coming!”
I’m jumping up and down, and Savannah’s phone is ringing like crazy. She hurries around the desk, back to her chair, and starts fielding media calls. She’s got the cool-we-totally-planned-this voice down so well, but her expression is ecstatic.
“One more run, guys,” I say to myself. “Just one more.”
Third Base is up next to bat, and he’s one of our best hitters. He’s had fifteen home runs this season already. The Twins shift around in the outfield, obviously anticipating a long hit.
But he doesn’t go for the home run. He drives the ball right to a hole between shortstop and the outfield. And Brody’s on the move long before the ball is picked up. He sprints toward third base and doesn’t stop there.
“And Brody’s heading home! Look at him go.”
The throw to home plate is so fast I’m sure Brody’s about to get tagged out, but he slides with perfect timing. The umpire leans in and waves his arms, shouting, “Safe!”
“Yes!” I scream.
Savannah covers the phone with one hand and waves at me to hush.
“And the Royals have just taken the lead in the sixth inning of this four-game series, thanks to the nineteen-year-old temporary pitcher from Chicago, Illinois.”
“John, didn’t we hear rumors that Jason Brody’s contract with Kansas City is only three months?”
“I heard the same thing, Dave. Larry Johnson and Frank Steadman will have to do something about that very soon.”
Shortstop bats next and strikes out and the Royals grab their gloves and jog out to the field again. Brody stays on the bench, finally getting a chance to rest.
“John, I don’t know about this pitching decision… They’ve gained the lead and Jim Lucas is still dead set on taking another big risk with Campbell pitching. He’s nearly as green as Brody.”
“Well, they’ve had some luck already, maybe Frank Steadman is hoping it’ll continue.”
“Dave, you could be right, but remember? Jim Lucas has been out of this game for sixteen years. Does he really have the experience to choose a pitcher at a crucial time like this?”
I hold my breath on and off for the rest of the game, watching the other young relief pitcher get more time on the mound in one game than he got all last month. I only know this because the announcers say it like five hundred times. Campbell isn’t as talented as Brody, but he holds his own and we end the game 3–2.
Five minutes after the game ends, Savannah is still on the phone setting up interviews and giving statements about both Dad and Brody. Suddenly, the announcers vanish and the shot goes back to the field where Brody and Third Base are standing beside a local Fox Sports reporter.
“Let me call you back,” Savannah says, her eyes on the TV. She hangs up the phone, turns the ringer off, and returns to her seat at the edge of the desk.
“What was going through your head standing in that batter’s box?” the interviewer asks Brody.
Brody pulls his hat down further over his eyes and shakes his head. “I was kinda hoping for a miracle or four bad pitches.”
The interviewer laughs and then sticks the mic out to Third Base. “You’ve got fifteen home runs this season, but you didn’t go for the homer tonight. What was the strategy in tonight’s game-saving play?”
“Winning is all about skill and strategy. With this move, we went with strategy and it worked,” he explains simply.
Very diplomatic answer. “And how about your arm, son?” he says to Brody. “Pitching four straight games isn’t following the normal rotation.”
“Steadman and Coach Lucas gave me the choice to sit out one of the games, but I’ve learned that you gotta take all the chances you can get,” he says. “My arm felt good, some of the other guys are just coming from injuries, and I was happy to help the team take this series victory. It’s something I only dreamt about as a kid playing little league ball.”
The interviewer is all smiles. “So we can all assume that your game-saving play hasn’t sunk in yet?”
Brody laughs and shakes his head. “Not at all. Maybe after I go home tonight and watch the replay about a dozen times.”
“What do you think? Everyone on Twitter is now claiming you’re the fastest runner in the league?” the interviewer says. “Are you?”
Brody tilts his cap back, revealing more of his forehead before looking right into the camera. “I have a very inspiring workout partner, and I’ve gotten a lot faster over the past couple months.”
My face heats up instantly. I can’t look at Savannah. He’s got to be talking about me. Who else? The treadmill in the training room? Even though he’s got his own apartment, and I have Lily and her bike, Brody still found an excuse to run with me at least a couple times a week. Well, at least he did until the little incident in his car. Maybe this is his way of saying he wants to run with me again?
Don’t read too much into this, Annie.
And it’s true. He could mean a dozen different things, all involving me and none involving liking me like that. Or needing me to continue hanging out with him one-on-one. Maybe he’d hate to let a girl beat him or just that I gave him advice on his technique. Although he sprints and I’m more mid-distance.
I’m dying to grab my phone and text him, make some joke about his comment or him shaking in his boots while at bat, but I can’t. Not like I used to.
Annie Lucas: If you weren’t just watching that freakin’ amazing baseball game, I’ve officially disowned you. OK, I’ll give you a chance to explain yourself, but there better be an awesome story involving three-headed people or Hollister models.
20 seconds ago
Savannah walks across the office and shuts off the TV when the station goes back to the news desk and ends the post-game interviews. “See what I mean?” she says. “He’s insanely charming and youthful on TV. We need that same feel for his social m
edia outlets online.”
I shake off my Jason Brody love haze and turn to face her. “Wait, you mean like his Facebook page? The one with all the song lyrics and famous baseball quotes?”
“Yes, exactly,” Savannah says like I’m supposed to understand what she means. “I think fans want to know where he’s having dinner or coffee or what clubs he’s hanging out at. What he thinks before a game and what’s he feeling walking into Wrigley Field or Yankee Stadium where players older than his great-grandfather made baseball history. The music references are great, but we need to know what he likes about that band or group. What’s he watching on TV? This is how people get to know celebrities nowadays.” She shakes her head and laughs. “Why am I even explaining this to you, you probably understand current social media better than I do. Everyone knows if you have a question about the internet, ask a teenager, right?”
“Maybe if you just gave him some pointers?” I suggest.
“I have,” Savannah says. “A few times actually, and he tells me it sounds like a great idea and then nothing changes. Maybe he’s just been too busy to keep up with it all. Lots of travel.”
I shove the mail and baseballs aside and plop down on the floor again. I understand what she’s trying to say perfectly, and I might know why he hasn’t made any changes. It’s not really my place to tell Savannah, but I trust her. “I think I know what the problem is…” Her eyebrows rise, waiting for me to continue. “He’s probably copying and pasting quotes and lyrics…”
“Probably.”
“He’s dyslexic,” I say. “He can read and everything, I’ve heard him read before. But the process of putting words from his head into a tweet or Facebook might be more difficult.”
Savannah is already scrunching up her forehead, thinking it through. “But he’ll text you, right? And he read something out loud to you?”
“It was just like two sentences.” I’m quickly growing uncomfortable discussing this without him around. It feels like a betrayal. “And yeah he texts me, but I bet the real issue is the public aspect and representing the team… It seems very official and probably intimidating.”
