For nine innings, her eyes never left the tiny television. That was the night I learned she attended the home games of as many sports as she could. Bundling up for hockey season, sweating under the hot sun at track meets, and sitting courtside at basketball games. But my favorite was when she came to baseball games.
Shay knows baseball. From history to stats to how to improve. BYOB nights taught me that. With every sticky note she wrote, she broke down each play with knowledge and grace.
“Want to go on the field?” I ask.
She chews on her full bottom lip. “Can I run around the bases too?”
Her excitement is contagious as I swing the door open to the dugout. “Anything you want, Agent Shay.”
“This smoothie is like ninety-nine percent milk. No wonder the locker room smelled like ass.”
I choke on my peanut butter smoothie, coughing over a laugh. “Poor Marcus. And the queso didn’t help.”
The tour has gone longer than either of us expected. Restricted areas like the recovery room, data and analytics office, clubhouses, and equipment storage aren’t shown to everyone, but she deserves more than the usual fan tour.
“You’ve never come to a tour? The Pilots host them often for agents.”
She tosses her empty cup into the trash. “I’m not usually invited to things like that.”
The words are tossed out like nothing, as if it’s okay and normal. But it’s not, and I need her to know that.
“Well, as my agent, you have a forever pass to this stadium. Restricted areas and all.” I nudge her shoulder. “And if anyone has a problem, point them my way. I’ll take care of them.”
Uncertainty swims in her dark eyes as we enter the guest lounge, but she gives me a small smile. I’m about to return it when a flash of yellow paper reminds me why we’re here. Shay isn’t running laps around the bases and reminiscing about the good times as my girlfriend. She’s my agent, here to do her job.
Which is ripping me to shreds.
Once seated, she opens the thick binder and jumps right into it. “This isn’t urgent, but I’m curious. Why don’t you have any endorsements?”
I decide to go with a partial truth. “I haven’t had time.”
“Are you interested in one?”
I shrug.
“What if it was for your favorite hair care line?”
My interest piques. “Loc & Key?” She slides her iPad across the table. I read the whole email three times before I can speak. “How did you do this?”
“I didn’t do anything.” Leaning over the table, she taps the screen, pulls up the photo of us from the farmers market, and points at the brown bag hanging from my wrist. “Apparently, their sales jumped after their logo was plastered in theCarolina Gazette. They asked if you’d be willing to work with them. I think it would be good for you, and fun too. It’ll require you to spend an afternoon in—”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“I can’t miss practice. Baseball has to come first.”
There it is. The other half of the truth.
It’s clear how much those words cut into her. After being drafted, I spent our months apart choosing baseball over her every time.
But it’s the truth. Who cares if I have an endorsement if I play like crap? Without baseball, there is no me, and that’s been made clear at every turn. When I wanted to join the swim team with Kenneth in junior high, I received a resounding no. When I debated staying at CLU to finish my degree, Jon reminded me that baseball won’t wait for me.
No baseball. No golden boy. No Cade.
Her retort dies on her lips as she locks the tablet with a quiet finality. “Alright. I’ll let them know. Back to the player development agenda. I wanted to talk about a few things.”
“A few?” I scoff, unable to hide my frustration. “That binder probably weighs as much as my sister.”
