by Devney Perry
“I can see why the guys on the team like you,” he muses, leaving me to wonder momentarily if that’s a compliment or a slight. He stands from the table and walks to the window of the conference room to look to the empty ballpark beyond. When he doesn’t finish his thought right away I opt to remain silent and wait him out.
“I came in here today with half a mind to let you go. There are rules. You broke them. There were terms of your contract, and I’m a stickler for following contracts to the letter. More importantly, you did not satisfy our agreement. But between your company’s reputation and your ability to handle whatever is thrown at you, you’ve given me pause in doing that.” He turns to look my way, and I meet him head-on.
“You’re over halfway through the season, Mr. Tillman. Your current physical therapist’s last day is next week and most other therapists qualified to handle a club and its rigorous expectations are already employed.”
He shakes his head and chuckles at my sales pitch. “Very true, so that’s why I’d like to give you till the end of the season to show me what you’ve got. A probationary period, if you will. You can use the staff we have already or bring in your own, but you’ve got the next fifty, hopefully seventy-ish days if we make the playoffs, to prove you can handle the needs of this team.”
I swallow over the nerves that suddenly hit me and allow relief to flood my system. I may not have let my dad down yet.
I hope he can hang on long enough to see it. Seventy-ish days when you’re grateful for the next minute, the next breath, can seem like forever.
“I’ll get the contract drawn up now.”
Easton
“Easton, how does it feel to be changing teams for the first time in your career?”
Cameras flash and add to the percussion pounding in my head as reporters surround me.
“How’s your shoulder? Are you ready to play for Dallas?”
A camera hits against my shoulder. Questions are shouted. Hands on my back trying to steer me. Microphones shoved in my face.
“Easton, at the press conference this morning, Cory Tillman stated you are parting with the team on good terms. We’d love to hear your opinion about that statement.”
I glance up and am blinded by another flurry of flashes as I try to push my way through the throng of reporters. All questions I don’t want to answer. Another dash of salt in my open wound.
“Easton, do you have anything to say to the fans of Austin who have followed you since you started?”
That question stops me and is something I can’t ignore. I pause, my eyes down, hidden beneath the brim of my cap while I figure out what to say.
There’s a slap on my back that I shrug away from. “Need some help?”
I look over to my dad, surprised as hell to see him here. Relief fills me as the sound of the cameras clicking assaults my ears, everyone desperate to capture the photo opportunity. Father and son. The end of a legacy. No more Wylders on the roster.
“Go ’head,” he encourages with another squeeze of my shoulder and nod of his head.
I clear my throat and address the reporters. “Austin will always be my home regardless of where I play. The people, the city, and the atmosphere is in my blood, and I’ve been one of the fortunate few to have had the chance to stay as long as I have with one team. I’ll miss my teammates. I’ll miss the incredible fans here. But more than anything, I’ll miss being an Ace. I wore the jersey as a little boy wanting to be just like my father . . .” My words fade as I look to my left and notice Santiago standing nearby, hands shoved in his pockets, and shoulder leaning against a wall, watching me. Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments and I hate that he’s here, listening to what feels like an intimate moment with the city I swore I’d never leave.
“East . . .” my dad prompts, forcing me to turn my attention to the slew of reporters around me, waiting for me to finish.
“. . . and I was one of the fortunate ones who got to grow up and be exactly what I wanted to be. So yes, I’ll miss Austin. The fans. The team. Even you nosy reporters snapping my every move.” I earn the laugh I was working for and nod my head. This time when I try to walk away, they let me while my dad remains and answers questions.
Glancing back, I watch him in his element—with the attention on him, answering how he feels, knowing I’ve been traded by the team he’s been loyal to his whole life. I can’t help but wonder if his sudden appearance was a sincere show of support for me as my father or as an Aces representative wanting to ensure I gave the proper company line.
Fucking doubt.
It’s like a cancer you can’t erase until it grows and grows and eats at every part of you. I glance over to where Santiago stood and then back to my father, still chatting amiably with the reporters, before heading into the clubhouse, one last time.
“So Dallas, huh?”
I should have known he’d be here. Just like he’s always been throughout my life. There is no Manny-man or Easy-E exchange like we’ve done over the years. This time it’s different, and I know he feels the same.
“Can you believe that shit?” I murmur to try and lighten the mood. I shake my head but my eyes don’t leave my nameplate adorning my locker. That would be his doing. Leaving it there for me instead of removing it the minute the trade has been made like is typical protocol. “I’ve lived my whole life thinking the designated hitter is cheating and now I’m headed for a team who plays with one.”
“Traitor.”
“Let’s save that term for Tillman.”
“Agreed.” His chuckle makes me smile even though I’m at odds with everything about being here. “You okay?”
I sigh and shake my head as I look at the scratched hash marks in the rear corner of my locker. The tally I kept my rookie year of how many homeruns I’d hit, and even despite a clubhouse renovation, he kept those there for me.
When I don’t answer, he goes in for the laugh, in pure Manny style. “I mean we both know you look like shit and smell like eau de whiskey, but”—he places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes—“you okay?”
“What can I do, Man? Isn’t this part of the game?” I turn to look at him for a second, meet his eyes from beneath the lowered bill of my cap, before looking back at my boxful of shit I’ve kept over the years. Good-luck charms and tokens from fans who’d touched me. A St. Christopher’s medal given to me by Dex, the little boy from Make-A-Wish who spent an incredible day with me, and then whose funeral I attended three months later. The tattered note my mom gave me the first time I ever dressed in an Aces’ uniform to take the field.
So many memories. So much history.
“For most it’s part of the game, yes, but not for you. This team is all you’ve known.”
I want to tell him thanks for stating the obvious but don’t even have the effort to muster the sarcasm. Besides, he doesn’t deserve my shitty mood being taken out on him. He’s on my side.
“It doesn’t make any sense, Manny. None of it does. So I’m just trying my best to wrap my head around it and the fact that tomorrow I might be in a Wrangler’s uniform.”
“Might be?”
“Yeah. Finn organized for me to be evaluated by their lead PT. I’ll do the song and dance and if I get approved, I’ll get to play.”
“You’ll get approved,” he says with absolute certainty.
“I will? You never know, every PT has his own opinion,” I say perpetuating Scout’s lie.
“How far is it from Dallas to Temple?” he asks, knowing that my outrage lies with more than just changing teams. He knows about my mom.
I stare at him for a beat before letting it go. “Driving? It’s a little under two hours.” I nod, thinking of how this complicates matters. “It’s a straight shot down I-35 but two hours is two hours, you know?”
“Yeah . . . but it’s better than across the country,” he muses as he takes a seat beside me, facing the opposite way. He doesn’t say anything else when I know he wants to. And as the silence settles, he make
s his point with minimal words like usual.
It could be a lot worse. That’s what he’s implying. And while he may be right, everything about this situation still stings like a son-of-a-bitch.
“True,” I finally say but don’t quite feel.
“You’ll do great there. Fuentes is something else. He’ll be a fun pitcher for you to catch. And a challenge. His curveball is wicked. Then there’s McAvoy. He’s got some high heat—”
“I appreciate it, Manny. You trying to make me feel better so I say this with no disrespect . . . don’t waste your breath.”
“I figured as much,” he says with a soft nod. “Does it make you feel any better if I say you were shafted?”
My laugh this time is real, and it sets off the pounding in my head. “That’s the least of what I got. What are the guys saying?” I ask, curious how Tillman’s playing this.
“They’re pissed. Confused. Rumor is Scout threw you under the bus. Saved herself somehow by screwing you.”
“Are you asking me?”
“Only if you think I am.” And there he goes again with his leading statements. I knew he’d get back to his point sooner or later.
The locker room falls silent. I rub the St. Christopher’s medal between my fingers while he gives me the time I need to figure out what to say. I could throw her to the wolves. Distract. Diverge. Stop people from asking the questions I don’t want asked. Make her the villain to blame. And yet, even I’m not that much of an asshole.
“She didn’t do me any favors, that’s for sure,” I finally say.
He whistles softly. “Screwed by your girl and your team. That’s rough. Sorry, son.”
“Yeah, well, I guess one clean break is better than a few little ones.” But hell if those breaks aren’t hitting me where it hurts.
“Just remember not everything is what it seems to be,” he says, standing to his feet.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, looking up to meet his eyes.
“It means she was fighting for you. And then, if rumors are true, she wasn’t.”
“How the hell do you know that? What are you talking about? Were you there?”
“Only when there was complete chaos. Coffee spilled on everything. Papers everywhere. Tillman’s clothes were splattered with it. People scrambling, trying to save the documents and clean up the mess.”
“What does this have to do with anything, Manny?” I ask as he heads to his office and holds up one finger before disappearing for a few seconds and then returning with something in his hand.
“I helped clean up the coffee,” he says as he stops a few feet from me. “I was there when Tillman’s assistant tore out of the conference room needing paper towels and so me being me, I helped. I didn’t even realize Scout was in there until I walked out and heard her voice. I assume she was under the desk picking up the papers that were all over the floor . . . but I didn’t think much about it. I mean, I knew what the meeting was about, and yet I didn’t worry because it was you. And it was her. I was more concerned with getting back downstairs to wish you luck and to let you know I’d be in the stands. But then the call came through and you stormed out of here. When I found out what had happened, I was beside myself, East.”
“You and me both.”
“It’s total bullshit. I was so flustered by it all, it took me the better part of the game to remember where I put my keys. After searching everywhere, I found them on the credenza in the copy room. Just as I was about to leave, I noticed a sheet of paper on the floor sticking out from beneath it. I thought nothing of it other than to put it back on the table for whoever dropped it . . . but when I picked it up, it was this. It’s so very different than the rumors, so I didn’t want to leave it and get her in trouble.”
“What the hell is it, Manny?” All this build-up and he’s still holding on to it.
“You’ve got a hot-headed temper sometimes. I can only imagine how long you stood in that batting cage last night, breaking bats and smashing balls, to try and calm it some.” I chuckle and open my palms face-up so he can see how right he is. The blisters are cracked and swollen. “I know you better than you think, Wylder.”
“True.” And it makes me sad how well he does, and how much I’ll miss seeing his ugly mug every day. “But what’s on the paper?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be so tough on her, huh?”
“How do you know I was tough on her?”
It’s his turn to chuckle then raise his eyebrows at me. His expression saying, I know you better than you think. I roll my eyes as he glances toward the closed door of the locker room before holding up the paper and clearing his throat. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your time. I’d like to give you a rundown of Mr. Wylder’s progress to date . . . ” Manny continues reading Scout’s prepared speech for Cory and with each word, each sentence, the horrible things I said to her last night come trickling back. Yes, I was drunk. Yes, I was angry. But was I really that stupid to think if I pushed her away she wouldn’t look too closely and find the truth?
Hell no. It’s Scout. She’s gotten to me. Like head-over-heels gotten to me.
“. . . And so it is my professional opinion that Mr. Wylder is more than ready to return to the active roster. Not only do I think he’s over the fear of reinjuring it, but his dedication to his physical wellness is unrivaled by any other player I’ve rehabilitated thus far in my career.” Manny looks up from the paper and meets my eyes. He doesn’t say anything else, just hands it to me and nods before patting my shoulder.
I glance down to the paper written in Scout’s penmanship. The all-capital style I’ve gotten used to seeing on her notes.
“It’ll be the first time in my career I don’t have a ‘Wylder’ on one of these,” he says with a sadness I feel in every bone in my body. He slides the nameplate out above my locker and hands it to me. “It’s going to be strange.”
No shit.
And without another word, he walks out of the locker room and leaves me alone. I study the nameplate, turn it over in my hand a few times, and then look at the letter in my other hand.
I stare at the words on the page until they blur together and my eyes burn.
What the hell have I done?
Scout
I made a deal with the devil.
It’s the only thing that repeats in my head. Over and over. Each step on the sidewalk pounds it into my brain. I compromised my morals, gave up a piece of myself, and signed a probationary contract with the Austin Aces and Cory Tillman.
A man I don’t trust as far as I can throw him and with a team who just screwed over Easton.
All for my father. To fulfill his desire to end his career with a contract in every major league clubhouse.
But what about me?
At what point do I do something for me? When do I face the harsh reality that I’m the one who’s going to be left here all by myself, and family loyalty or not, I still have to live. And he still dies.
With each step, each thought, I feel more and more alone. My emotions whirl in a kaleidoscope of frenzied thoughts. I feel weak. Cheated. Complicit. And there’s nothing I hate more than a woman who doesn’t stand up for herself . . . and yet I’ve done just that. I’ve sold my soul to the devil, and my heart’s not in it to make it work, even when I know I have to. Family first.
Add to that, I have no clue how to fix things with Easton. I don’t have a mother or girlfriends to ask for advice, and everything I know about relationships I’ve learned from the male perspective. Unfortunately that doesn’t give me any more insight beyond ignore the person, go drink a beer, and shove the blame onto somebody else. It’s kind of hard to fight for someone when they’re locked in their guarded tower and leaving town soon.
But he slayed dragons for you.
And that thought alone has the tears I’m fighting back burning hot by the time I unlock my front door.
Adding insult to injury, when I enter, everything in my apartment reminds me of Easton. More to the poi
nt, the layer of dust and the empty fridge is a stark reminder of how much I’ve been living with him even though neither of us have officially acknowledged it.
I toss my purse on the couch and wonder how I’m possibly going to accept the outcome of the past twenty-four hours. Can’t I just rewind them? Do them over? I’d gladly welcome the panic I felt when Easton asked me to move in with him instead of this frantic feeling of everything being out of control.
The ringing of my cell breaks my train of thought. I have a ridiculous glimmer of hope it might be Easton, that he’s calling to tell me he wants to see me before he leaves, but the thought dies quickly as I recall the things he said to me last night.
But it’s the caller’s name on the phone that freaks me out and has me answering as quickly as possible.
“Dad?” I’m breathless and chills race over my skin, as the bone deep fear that something has happened to him hits me.
“So?” It’s all he says and the sudden rush of panic I had turns into a tickle of irritation at the back of my neck.
“So?” I mimic with a healthy dose of disdain. Why is he calling me? Was yesterday all an act? The don’t talk to me until you get the contract and all that?
“Did you get the contract?”
“A probationary one until—”
“That’s not a contract.”
Seriously? That’s all he has to say? I grit my teeth and bite back the smartass remark on the tip of my tongue.
“I’ll be in charge of the Aces’ PT until the end of the season, and then the organization will determine if they want to give me next year’s contract. I’m sorry if that’s not good enough for you.” There’s an unexpected bite to my tone but it’s been a rough few days, and he’s being an ass trying to make me feel like I didn’t fulfill my responsibilities.
He makes a noncommittal sound on the other end of the line and it only serves to fan the flames of the anger I harbored on my walk home.
