He got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and headed to his locker. Half the guys were already gone, some out to party, some straight home. Ty would be in the latter group tonight. He was only thirty-one, but somewhere in the last year he’d started to feel much older.
“Rough one,” Reed said, buttoning his shirt.
“Yeah. Too bad.”
He and Reed had been in the two and three spots in the lineup tonight, but they hadn’t managed to repeat yesterday’s success. Reed had gone 2-4, but Ty’s only hit had not followed either of Reed’s, and together they’d contributed zero runs in the team’s 7-2 loss to Toronto.
He pulled on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, then glanced over when Reed awkwardly cleared his throat.
“What?”
Reed looked nervous. “I lied yesterday.”
Ty frowned and tried to think about what the hell Reed had said yesterday. All he remembered was the book. “You weren’t reading that vampire book?”
“What? No, yeah, I’m reading it. Book two, now, actually. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”
Ty glanced around the room, wishing they had company in case it turned out Reed was insane. “Then...?”
The outfielder exhaled, like he was preparing himself for a big reveal. “I’m superstitious,” he admitted.
“What?”
“About the sock? I told you I wasn’t superstitious, but I am.”
Ty shook his head. “I have no idea where you’re going with this.”
“We won with the sock, man.” Reed’s eyes were wide and sincere, making him look like a cross between a fervent street preacher and a door-to-door salesman.
But Ty hadn’t been lying yesterday. He wasn’t superstitious. “It’s just a sock, dude.”
“We won.”
“Yeah, but—”
“And today we didn’t. Just think about it.”
Ty was more anxious to leave than argue, so he nodded along. “Okay, I will. I’ll totally think about it.”
Reed grinned. “Good. That’s all I’m asking.”
Ty grabbed his gym bag and slung it over his shoulder. “All right. Have a nice night.”
“You too. And watch out for vampires!”
He forced out a laugh. “Will do.”
“That was a joke!”
“I know!” Ty lied as he hustled away. He’d been bemoaning the fact that he didn’t have many friends on the team anymore, but maybe this was why. Maybe he didn’t want any.
TY’S APARTMENT WAS a twenty-minute walk from Lennox Field, and he often preferred walking both as a warm-up and to avoid the fans who took their enthusiasm a little too far and waited at the gates to the apartment garage to flag him down for autographs, donations, and more.
He trudged down the block toward his building, one of the nicest in downtown Charleston, and sighed when he saw a small cluster of fans waiting outside the doors. The place was exclusive enough that the doorman wouldn’t let in anyone without identification, something Ty’s management team had insisted be enforced after he’d come home once to find a naked woman in his kitchen. She’d asked him to “make a meal” out of her, but not even at his horniest would Ty have taken up a stranger on that offer.
He kept his head down and turned into the space between buildings half a block away, navigating the narrow alleys so he could approach his apartment from the back. It was dark and muggy, the air thick with the smell of rotting garbage, but it was preferable to forcing a smile after the day he’d had. He reached the private service door, swiped his key card, and slipped inside just as he heard a woman’s voice call his name. He ignored it and slipped into the residents-only elevator, hitting the button for his floor.
There was a time he’d been more than happy to have gorgeous women throw themselves at him, but now was not that time. It hadn’t really been that “time” for a while. He and Connor had made a pact to wait until their careers were over before finding someone to be serious about and settling down, but that pact had gotten harder to keep the older they got. Sometimes he didn’t want the high heels and the fake lashes and the I’m-willing-if-you-are smiles. Sometimes he just wanted someone to be there, to be real. To want him for him, not his fame or his bank account. He’d met women like that over the course of his career, but he hadn’t been ready for them. And now that he was, he really didn’t know where to start. Or rather, he’d kind of had an inkling he might like to start something with a witty blonde with a penchant for racing games and a head for baseball, but he’d inadvertently blown that opportunity to pieces.
The elevator doors slid apart, opening directly into his apartment. He dropped his bag and stepped out of his shoes, sighing as his bare feet hit the cool concrete floor. He’d grown up in Washington state and the move from the Pacific Northwest to South Carolina had been jarring. It was hot. It was humid. It was fancy. He’d rented a cheap apartment near the field for his first year, then when the endorsements started rolling in he’d bought an unfinished unit in this building and hired a designer to make it something he could live in without feeling like he was sullying every surface he touched. Now he had poured concrete floors and pale walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, black leather couches, and a massive television. The kitchen island was a slab of white marble, the appliances stainless steel. The place was sterile and beautiful. He always figured he’d grow into it and make it his own, but life had kept him busy and the only personal touches were a bunch of bananas on the counter and a bar of soap in the bathroom. A housekeeper came in twice a week to tidy up and bring groceries. He wasn’t even sure he knew where the grocery store was.
Ty left the lights off as he padded down the hall to the master bedroom, passing two spare rooms on the way. One was a catch-all for any number of random items, the other a makeshift gym with a treadmill and a small set of weights.
He flopped on the bed and sighed. The housekeeper had been by today and the sheets were pulled tight, with military precision. They smelled like fabric softener, and Ty turned his head into the pillow and inhaled. He’d spent time bouncing around foster homes before finding a permanent placement, and while he’d been fortunate to stay with nice families, nothing had ever felt like home. No one had taken the time to make his bed, fold his clothes or pack him a lunch. His housekeeper did all those things, making him feel cared for. In return, he left a check on the kitchen counter twice a week.
He grabbed his phone and checked his email. He had a Thrashers account for in-organization emails, and a personal account, and both inboxes were overflowing. Ninety-nine percent of the Thrashers emails were from Allison with an increasing number of red exclamation marks next to the messages, and most of the emails in his personal account were notifications about online posts that mentioned him. He used to like reading about himself online. There were always going to be trolls and haters, but for the most part the press had been positive. Now it wasn’t. Now it was hard to let the criticisms and insults roll off his back. It was even harder when he didn’t have Connor there to rib him and tell him it was all true.
One notification near the top caught his eye. It was a post on the Thrashers blog talking about the visit to The Rack the night before. He clicked the link and scrolled through the photos, smiling at the shots of his happy teammates, Blanche’s white hair glowing like a beacon, Ibanez wearing pants for once, Reed mugging for the camera.
He frowned as he got to the bottom and saw he wasn’t featured. Every player who’d been at the club was on the page, but he was nowhere to be seen. He’d gotten a notification, though, so he had to be mentioned somewhere. He returned to the top of the page and studied the photos more closely, squinting at the grinning faces. Girardi, Escobar, Lewis, Bowers, Price, Alexander, Garcia.
And there, cropped out of a photo with three of his teammates, just his hand showing and identifiable only by his gold watch, was Ty. Part of his limb, anyway. He read the caption: Thrashers’ three-game win streak is a team effort. Pictured from left to rig
ht: Shawnee Lewis, Edwin Escobar, Anthony Girardi, and Tyler Asse.
Ty put down his phone. It looked like Gwen had survived the nondisclosure fiasco.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON Ty entered the Thrashers gym to hear Reed and Lewis talking as they rode the stationary bikes side-by-side. “So then she jumps off the cliff, right?”
“Yeah?”
“And then something catches her.”
“She doesn’t die?”
“No! Can you believe it?”
“That’s crazy, man. What happened next?”
“Well—”
Reed broke off when he spotted Ty reflected in the mirror, and Lewis hastily put in his ear buds and pretended he hadn’t been enjoying a recap of the second vampire book.
“Still bonding with your daughter?” Ty asked.
“Yeah,” Reed muttered. “Something like that.”
They finished their workouts in silence, showered in silence, and took batting practice in silence. Ty would have preferred for the entire day to pass in silence, but Joanna Liu accosted him on the field when he finished hitting, and he forced a smile that felt more like a grimace.
“Hi, Ty,” she said, thrusting a microphone into his face. Behind her, little kids waved frantically, hoping to get autographs.
“You and Reed are in the two and three spots again today,” Joanna continued. “What are you hoping for?”
“A win,” Ty replied. “Always.”
“But you two, specifically. You and Connor Whitman have been staples in those positions for nearly a decade—how are you and Reed working together?”
As it always did, his smile faltered at the mention of Connor, but he managed to keep it glued on. “We’re teammates,” he said. “It’s a new arrangement, and there’ll be growing pains, but we’ll get through them and figure things out.”
“Are you two getting along off the field?”
“Of course,” he said, which was technically true. They weren’t really speaking, but they weren’t trying to tear off each other’s faces, either. “Thanks for your time, Joanna.” Ty shook her hand and walked away, stopping for a few more fan photos as he left the field.
He returned to his locker to change into his uniform, and was tying his cleats when Reed appeared, got half-dressed, then paused, holding his socks.
Ty watched from the corner of his eye as Reed passed the socks from hand to hand, contemplating. His comment about superstitions came back, and Ty glanced at the spare socks in his locker. He was not superstitious. He didn’t want to be superstitious. He didn’t wear old underwear or grow playoff beards or eat the same meal before every game. He was good because he practiced hard, not because of a gimmick.
Still, when Reed pulled on one sock, then started, then stopped, then started to pull on the second sock, Ty couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed a sock from his locker and tossed it at Reed.
“If we don’t win, we don’t do this again, got it?”
Reed yanked on the sock at record speed. “Got it.”
“And don’t tell anyone.”
“Tell who what?” Ibanez asked, strolling by in glittery purple underwear and nothing else.
“Shut the fuck up,” Reed replied.
Ty hid a smile.
THREE HOURS LATER, it was the top of the sixth and the score was tied at three. Ty was, thankfully, back at shortstop today, but he was less than thankful for the Thrashers dugout being on the third base side where he had to hear Ibanez’s shouts of encouragement. As if he needed a twenty-two-year-old giving him fielding advice. He shot yet another dark look toward the dugout, catching Escobar’s smirk as he rested against the fence next to Ibanez. He had the day off as they tried out a new catcher, but unlike Ty, he had the sense to act calm and respectful, and as such, Strip had not yelled at him for anything.
There were two outs and runners on the corners, and Ty tuned out the bench and focused on the batter. It was Jones, Toronto’s lead-off hitter, known for lots of ground balls and excellent speed. Tonight he’d lined out to left and doubled down the third base line, and Ty knew the ball was coming his way this time. Bowers was pitching, and now he glanced at Ty. Ty nodded. Like the rest of the team, Bowers’ season had gotten off to a rough start. He’d yet to get through six innings in a game this year, and they knew if another run came in, Strip would go to the bullpen. Bowers was a good guy, and after his last dismal outing, Ty knew he needed to walk off the field with his head high.
The first pitch caught the outside corner but the umpire called it ball one, which had the fans booing. The second pitch was a little high, ball two. Ty flexed his hands and rolled his shoulders, his attention zeroed in on the catcher’s fingers, nails painted bright yellow, as he flashed the next sign. Fastball inside.
Ty relaxed his knees and bounced lightly on his toes. This was the one.
Bowers threw the pitch, right on the inside corner. The batter swung and connected, the sharp crack of the bat the only sound Ty heard despite the cries of thirty thousand excited fans.
His eyes narrowed as he watched the ball hit the dirt, bouncing hard, right at him. One bounce, two bounce, three—
Fuck.
The ball took a weird hop and missed his glove, smacking into his thigh with a resounding thwack. The base runner at third was already two steps from the plate. The runner at first was standing on two. It took half a second to find the ball, which had ricocheted off his thigh and into the dirt right beside him, scoop it up, and fire to first.
The ball hit the glove. The runner hit the bag. Or the other way around. It was too close to call.
After what felt like eternity, Ty watched the umpire curl his fist in the air and bring his arm down like a fist pump, the universal sign for out.
The fans screamed.
Bowers screamed louder, cheeks flushed.
Toronto’s manager held up a hand to indicate he needed a moment to watch the video to determine if they wanted a replay, and the fielders remained where they were. If Toronto’s coaches saw enough to indicate the call was wrong, they’d request a review and they’d have to stay on the field while the call was reviewed.
Ty’s thigh was wailing. They were in the light gray uniforms today and already he could see the goose egg on his leg pressing through his pants. He breathed through it. He was a professional athlete. He could certainly deal with a bruise. He just had to relax—
He grimaced as the surrounding muscles started to seize and a Charlie horse tightened his calf. He rolled his ankle and tried to wait it out, but it was fucking agony.
A cheer went up from the crowd as Toronto conceded the play and the Thrashers jogged off the field. Ty took one slow step, then another.
“You okay?” he heard Ibanez call from the dugout.
Ty raised a hand to indicate he didn’t need help.
“Here, I’ll help you!”
“No—” Ty started, but Ibanez was already at his side, arm around his waist, taking his weight.
“Lean on me,” he said.
“No, I’ve got—”
Ibanez was practically dragging him off the field. He had a cramp, not a gunshot wound. He looked up, the fans ogling his exit, wondering how severe it was. It was mortifying.
He limped along as best he could, but Ibanez was walking so fast he felt more like a dead body being pulled. When they reached the dugout Escobar was laughing so hard he was doubled over nearly in half.
“You need an ambulance?” he asked, wiping tears from his eyes. “Do you think they’ll have to amputate?”
“It’s a Charlie horse,” Ty muttered, slumping onto the bench when Ibanez finally released him.
“I’ll get you a water,” Ibanez said.
“No, I can get my own—”
But nothing he said mattered.
Roger Loop, the team’s head trainer, approached, trying to keep a straight face. “Close call out there,” he said. “How’s your heart? Still beating?”
“Oh, shut the fuck up. You know I’m fine.”
The lump was straining mightily against the fitted pants, belying his words. Loop reached down with a finger and poked the skin near the injury and Ty nearly jumped out of his seat, making the teammates who’d thus far been polite enough not to laugh, crack up.
“Thought so,” Loop said, as Strip ambled over. “Ice, ibuprofen, and a massage.”
“I’m fine,” Ty insisted.
Ibanez handed him a water and gave his shoulder a kind pat.
Strip crossed out Ty’s name on the lineup, replacing him with Ibanez, who’d been sitting today. “You heard Loop,” he said. “Get lost.”
“It’s just—”
“Do you want me to touch it?”
Ty scrambled to his feet. “God, no.”
He waved off snickered offers of crutches and wheelchairs as he limped toward the exit, keeping his expression sober until he was out of sight of his team and the cameras, then slumped against the wall to catch his breath, waiting as the Charlie horse slowly eased. His leg throbbed as he edged his way down the hall and into the clubhouse, carefully stripping out of his uniform and changing into shorts and a T-shirt. He grabbed an electrolyte drink from the cooler before making his way to one of the physio rooms for an ice pack. The first room he came to had the door open a crack, sounds of television filtering out. But instead of hearing the live game as he’d expected, he heard, “We want to see meringues that have a crisp exterior and a marshmallowy interior...”
Curious to know which of his teammates prioritized baking over baseball, he pressed his eye to the door and stopped when he saw none other than caption maker extraordinaire, Gwen Scott. She sat on one of the two exam tables, leg up, ice pack over her ankle, concentrating on the baking show like it held the answers to life itself.
Team Player Page 8
