Team Player
Page 25
Gwen kept her head ducked as she continued packing up the props. At the start of the season, she’d thought the same of Tyler Ashe. But she’d been very, very wrong.
CHAPTER 20
THEY WERE TWO WEEKS into September and the tension in the clubhouse was so thick it felt like a wall, closing in and weighing hard on the players. With just three series left in the season, the Thrashers were a game back of the Tampa Bay Rays for the second Wild Card spot, and every win was essential. Tonight was the third game of their final home stand against the Rays, and they’d already lost the first two. Fans were disappointed, analysts were criticizing anything from pitch selection to uniform colors, and everyone was on edge. Each loss gave the Rays a full game lead in the Wild Card race, and hopes were slipping away as the gap grew. A win tonight was a must.
The energy in the stadium crackled in the air. Adrenaline pulsed through Ty’s body as he sat in the clubhouse, watching game tape and making notes, his concentration so total he was barely aware of his teammates around him, the coaches talking. He’d gotten off the Keelie Karr “sisterly love” debacle with a slap on the wrist and the delivery of a bottle of extremely expensive wine to Allison’s office. She still mouthed “I’ll kill you” when they passed in the hall, but seemed less serious about it. It was a fair trade. The haunted look on Gwen’s face while he faux-manced Keelie at the fundraiser had confirmed every doubt he’d had about the worthiness of the endeavor, and he’d have done anything to save her that pain, even if it meant bearing the brunt of Allison’s wrath.
“All right,” Strip said, clapping his hands as the review session finished. “You know what to do. Now get out there and do it.”
“That’s the whole pep talk?” Blanche called. “Just do it?”
Strip glared at him. “If it works for Nike, it can work for you.”
Ty grabbed his glove and filed out of the clubhouse with his teammates, heading for the field. Nobody spoke. There were no jokes and no whispers, no taunts and no teasing. Baseball was more than just a game—it was their life, and this late in the season, it was all that mattered.
The first five innings were fast and quiet, just one walk issued, and no runs. The bats woke up in the sixth, with the Rays cashing in two on a towering home run, and the Thrashers retaliating with three of their own on Girardi’s bases loaded double. The score was still 3-2 heading into the ninth, when another two-run home run for the Rays gave them a 4-3 lead. The fans were on their feet, torn between cheering and praying as Reed approached the plate to start the bottom of the inning. He got things going with an infield single, beating out a throw to first by half a step.
The fans’ cries grew deafeningly loud as Ty walked to the batter’s box, the field vibrating with energy. He took a few practice swings, then glanced back at the third base coach, who cycled through a random assortment of signs. He’d already gotten his instructions from Strip—the hit and run play was on. The Rays’ pitching and defense had been stellar, and they needed the surprise advantage. Reed would be running on the first pitch, and Ty had to put the ball in play to keep him safe.
He stepped into the box and looked out at the pitcher. It was a gorgeous late summer night, the sky sliding from blue to indigo, the stadium lights giving everything a haloed, ethereal effect. But all Ty saw was the ball in the pitcher’s hand, disappearing from sight as he reached back, then reappearing, spinning wildly as it careened toward the inside of the plate, right at his knees.
Ty swung, felt the bat hit the ball, heard the satisfying crack of a solid connection. He watched it soar neatly over the shortstop’s extended glove and land safely in the grass in shallow left center. Reed, who had taken off on the pitch and was rounding second before the ball even touched the ground, sprinted for third. The left fielder raced in and bare-handed the ball, throwing it in, hard and accurate. Ty broke for second and watched the play from ninety feet away—Reed diving, the third baseman scooping up the low throw and swiping across the base path, Reed’s fingers curling over the corner of the bag a split-second before the tag, the fans celebrating...and the umpire shouting, “Out!”
Almost immediately the stadium burst into outraged boos and Strip stormed out of the dugout, arguing violently. Behind him, Ty could see the bench coach on the phone with the replay room, getting their take on the situation. He hung up and nodded at Strip, confirming they wanted the call reviewed. Strip ranted some more before making the request, and the beleaguered umpires converged near home plate, pulling on their headphones and making the call to New York.
Reed chatted with the third base coach while they waited, Strip stalked up and down the baseline, and Ty stood on second. He knew what he’d seen. Reed was safe. The play had worked, they had two runners in scoring position and nobody out. A sac fly would tie the game. A base hit could win it. They just needed to execute.
The stadium exploded into even louder booing as the umpires removed their headphones and the crew chief confirmed the call. Reed was out. Strip was irate, the entire Thrashers bench was shouting at the third base umpire, and just like that, it was a different game.
Escobar stepped into the box and took two pitches upstairs before he got one he liked. He hit it well but got under it, sending it deep but too high to leave the field. Ty waited with his foot on second, watching over his shoulder as the right fielder jogged to the warning track, positioning himself to make the long throw to third. As soon as the ball hit the glove, Ty took off, head down, listening for his coach’s cry.
He was vaguely aware of the third baseman straddling the bag, knees bent, glove extending as he reached for the ball. He heard his coach shouting and dove hard at the outside of the bag, jerking his arm out of reach of the swiping glove and letting his foot connect instead, avoiding the tag.
It was only a moment but felt like a year before the umpire shouted “Safe!” and the field erupted in screams again.
Two out, runner on third. They needed to score to tie the game.
Girardi strolled to the plate, but Ty knew the swagger in his step was more nerves than nonchalance. The catcher jogged out to chat with the pitcher, and Ty watched Strip flash signals at Girardi, reiterating what pitches he should expect.
The stadium was suddenly excruciatingly silent, everyone holding their breath as they watched the first pitch sail over the outside corner for a strike. The next pitch was in the dirt, and the third was a sinker that Girardi swung through.
Ty’s pulse pounded so hard he could feel it, his skin flushed, his muscles primed, ready to take off for home at the first opportunity. These moments were what turned players into athletes. The ability to knuckle down when the pressure was unbearable, to stay focused, to execute. It was what he lived for.
The next two pitches were balls, and the count was full. The next pitch would be a strike. The Rays didn’t want to walk Girardi and put the winning run on base. Ty pressed his toes into the bag, front leg bent, ready to run.
The pitcher wound up. Ty watched the ball sail from his fingers, whirling toward the plate. He saw it start to drop, sinking low, out of the strike zone. Girardi’s front leg lifted, arms shifting back, the bat swinging forward—and stopping, arms extended, as he recognized it was out of the strike zone. The catcher smothered the ball in the dirt, then scooped it up and tagged Girardi on the thigh.
Ty saw the umpire’s hands move before he fully processed the words.
“Strike three!”
Girardi’s jaw dropped in surprise. He hadn’t gone around, had stopped the swing in time.
Ty was frozen at third, the players in the dugout staring in shock.
Only Strip was in motion, stomping out of the dugout and ranting wildly.
But strike calls couldn’t be reviewed, couldn’t be debated.
The call was made, Girardi was out, and the game was over.
The Rays won, 4-3, and completed the sweep.
Ty made it back to the clubhouse in a stunned daze, the players around him raging at two bad calls in
the ninth inning, Girardi insisting angrily that he hadn’t gone around, and everyone agreeing.
The loss didn’t mean the end of the season, but it put them one step closer. They had less than two weeks left and had to win every series just to stay in contention for the second Wild Card spot. Their already-difficult task had just gotten harder.
“That was bullshit,” Reed said, slamming his hand against his locker door and hurling his glove inside. “I wasn’t out. Girardi wasn’t out. How’s this happening?”
Ty shook his head. “I don’t know.”
There were other rumblings around the clubhouse, all sharing the same sentiment.
“This season’s just been one thing after another,” Escobar muttered, yanking off his cleats. “Every time something good happens, something bad happens. I’m tired of it.”
“Well, you won’t have much more to deal with if we don’t win at least seven of the next ten games,” Reed replied.
“Hey!” Strip shouted over the unhappy din. “Heads up! We played well tonight. We control what we can, and deal with the rest. Tomorrow’s a new day.”
“Tomorrow’s a new umpiring crew,” someone pointed out, to a few whistles and cheers.
Strip waved a dismissive hand. “That’s enough. Go home. Get some rest. Come back ready to play.”
Ty had always respected Strip, but now he felt a renewed surged of admiration for him. He was more upset than anybody by the calls, but there he was, setting the example, doing what was best for the team.
Ty was as frustrated as the next guy, but he was one of the veterans on the team, and he could feel the eyes on him, as the younger players, Ibanez, Girardi—even Reed—waited to see and imitate his response. He wanted to punch the wall and curse out the umpires, but instead he changed out of his uniform and into his sweats, head down, doing his job. He grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder, then nodded at Escobar, who nodded back calmly, following his lead.
“See you tomorrow,” Ty said, heading for the door.
It would be a long time—if ever—before anyone forgot this night, but the action seemed to deflate some of the angry tension in the room. Subdued calls of “Good night,” followed him out, and though he was supposed to stick around to talk to the press, a look from Strip gave him permission to take off early.
Ty started toward the players’ elevator to take him to his car, then decided to walk instead. Despite what he was showing his teammates, he was tense and irritated, and needed to burn off some more adrenaline before he got home. Better to do it strolling the streets incognito instead of with cameras in his face, asking how he felt about things. He had plans to hang out with Gwen, and didn’t want his bad mood to ruin what remained of the evening.
Because the first half of the game had passed so quickly, it was just a little past eleven when he emerged outside, the sky an inky black, the lights of the stadium stark against the dark backdrop. Twenty-foot tall posters of the Thrashers players hung at intervals above the various gates, and Ty glanced back to study his picture over the main entrance. Connor used to hang next to him, but now he was gone and Reed had taken his place. It was a confusing mix of emotions. Proud of his own accomplishments; begrudgingly accepting of Reed and his sock superstitions; sad about Connor. Ty knew he’d been blessed with a skill set that put the world at his feet, and a love of a game that would break your heart just as soon as it filled it to bursting. He couldn’t decide what state it was in right now.
He took the long way home, winding through quiet side streets, avoiding large crowds and keeping his head down. The walk wasn’t really helping. After a game like that he and Connor would bitch and vent until they’d gotten out their righteous frustration, but while he knew he’d set a good example for his younger teammates, it hadn’t done much for him. He didn’t feel better. Bad calls felt like an injustice, leaving a sour taste and a sting that lingered. And in an important game, everything was intensified, made worse, more painful.
He approached his building and sighed when he saw the small cluster of people gathered at the doors. Sometimes he stopped to sign autographs, but tonight he didn’t feel like it. Tonight he didn’t trust himself.
He ducked down the dark alley, holding his breath against the dumpster smells as he hustled two blocks to his apartment and swiped his key. From the elevator bank he had a clear sightline to the front doors and glanced over to nod at the doorman, stopping when Gwen squeezed through the throng at the entrance and did a double-take when she spotted him. She had a key and the staff knew her now, but she and Ty had always been careful not to enter the building together, and never at the same time. She must have heard he’d skipped out before the interviews and assumed he’d be upstairs, not realizing he’d walked home.
Still, it’d only be more noteworthy if she abruptly bolted back out the way she’d come, or if he scampered into the elevator without waiting, so instead he held the doors and gestured her into the car ahead of him with a polite, neighborly smile. He could see a couple of faces outside, peering through the glass, trying to spy what was going on as the doorman valiantly held them back.
There was a moment of tense silence as the doors glided shut, trapping them in, then Gwen turned to him with a strained smile. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
She looked tired and pretty, her hair coming out of its ponytail, strands falling across her forehead. This was the hard part about having his girlfriend both work for the team and be a fan. When he and Connor lost games and came back to vent about it, they were in the same boat. They’d played poorly, the umps were wrong, it was just bad luck—but with Gwen he felt like he’d let her down, like she was the face of the 40,000 fans who’d left the park disappointed tonight.
But of course she’d never say so.
“I thought you’d be upstairs already,” she said instead, a note of apology in her voice for having met him in the lobby.
“I walked home,” Ty replied. “You couldn’t have known.”
They stopped on the top floor and the doors opened.
Gwen stepped into the apartment before him and kicked off her flip-flops. “I couldn’t believe those calls. Total bullshit.”
“You’re preaching to the choir.” Ty dropped his bag on the floor and went to the fridge. “Want a beer? I’m having one.”
“I thought you didn’t drink in September.”
The remark was harmless enough, Ty’s stance on taking September seriously as publicly known as his one against relationships. Lots of people had superstitions, but Ty’s position was more practical. If his team was in contention for the play-offs, he needed to give one hundred percent of himself. Eat right. Sleep well. Stay focused. But he’d already broken one of his cardinal rules this year, and a beer wasn’t going to hurt.
“It’s just one,” he said, more sharply than he intended. “Do you want one?”
“Sure.”
Gwen was seated at the island, and now he cracked the lid off a bottle and slid it across the marble to where she sat. She lifted the bottle and drank, closing her eyes briefly, like he wasn’t the only one feeling the strain.
“Allison was looking for you,” she said eventually. “For the post-game questions.”
“Is that why you’re here? With questions?”
Her eyes flickered to his. “What? No.”
“Good. ‘Cause I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I was just making conversation.”
“I’m not in the mood for conversation.” He wasn’t in the mood for anything, the more he thought about it. The more he missed Connor, missed having someone to bitch at, who gave as good as he got, who knew what was inside his head better than he knew it himself. It wasn’t fair to blame Gwen for not being Connor, but sometimes life wasn’t fair. He knew that, too.
Gwen pushed aside her bottle and stood. “You could have texted me,” she said tightly, “if you weren’t in the mood for ‘conversation.’ It would have saved me a trip over here for nothing.”
“I am going,” she snapped. “I deal with baseball player egos all day. I didn’t come here to coddle you because you had a bad game.”
“I didn’t have a bad game! They were bad calls!”
She shoved her feet into her flip-flops. “Whatever.”
“I—What? Whatever?”
“Yeah.” She shrugged and swiped the beer caps off the counter, using her foot to open the trash and toss them in. “They reviewed the call and— What are these?”
“What are what?”
She reached into the garbage can and pulled out a fistful of papers with phone numbers, plastic hotel room keys, and a cologne sample he’d confiscated from Ibanez.
Ty froze. They were the things he’d emptied from his pockets a couple of nights ago so his housekeeper could take his suits to the dry cleaner. Apparently she hadn’t taken out the trash at the same time.
“They’re phone numbers,” he said, because there was no point in lying.
And Gwen had to know this happened, it was part of the business, part of his life, but she was still staring at them in shock. “There are so many.”
“They’re in the trash for a reason.”
“Why did you take them home? Why did you take them at all?”
“It’s not always up to me. Women put them in my pocket—”
She swiped them back into the garbage, her lips pursed. “Right.”
“It’s part of my job, Gwen. I throw them away.”
“Were you not in the mood for their conversation?”
Ty rolled his eyes. “I’m not in the mood for this.”
“Good. Me either.” She picked up her purse.
“Are you seriously leaving?”
She gaped at him. “Why wouldn’t I be? You said you didn’t want me here.”
“I said I didn’t want conversation!”
“It’s possible to not want conversation and also not be an asshole at the same time.”