“Cade! It’s really you!” Reed Jessen pulls me into a bear hug and lifts me like I weigh nothing. “I knew you were playing tonight, but I didn’t think I’d get to see you before heading back to Arizona! Have you gotten taller?”
“Nope, but you may be getting shorter. And I’m sorry I missed the All-Star Futures Game. I would’ve loved to see you play out there.” Placing my hand on Shay’s upper back, I push her forward. “Reed, this is my agent, Shaylene Turner.”
I don’t need to explain who Reed is. The glimmer of admiration in her gaze tells me she’s reciting his stats in her head.
“It’s great to meet you, Reed.” After folding the third sticky note, she hands it to me. “You two should catch up. I’ll see you at the red carpet. Good luck out there, Cade.”
As she disappears into the sea of people, Reed’s hulking figure steps into my eyeline. I haven’t seen my old friend in two years.
We hadn’t been friends before the draft, but in the days leading up to the best day of our lives, a bond was formed. Between orientation with the staff, fittings for jerseys, and interviews, we were glued to each other’s sides. Then, after being announced as the first draft pick, Reed was wheeled out of the ballpark and rushed to the hospital.
My chest aches. “I’m sorry I didn’t reach out sooner. Ishould’ve—”
A squeeze to my shoulder stops me. “I could’ve called you too, C. Don’t apologize. For that, or for what happened at the draft. To be honest, I’m surprised I didn’t have a panic attack sooner. It was just bad luck that it happened on stage.”
I shake away the mental image of him collapsing and try to smile. “Have things been better?”
The elastic band around his wrist snaps. Once. And then again. “Honestly? Yeah. Dad isn’t pleased that I’m still in the minors, but oh well.” A bony elbow jams itself into my side. “But enough about me. I see they’re still calling you the golden boy. I hoped we would both be free of our weight by now.”
Reed was the closest thing I had to a kindred spirit in baseball. High expectations shaped us both, but he is major league royalty.
“Free?” I blow a raspberry. “Impossible. Are you free?”
“I think so, yeah.” His easy smile stiffens at the edges. “When we first met, we were the same. We ate, breathed, and shit baseball, trapped by the pressure to excel and succeed.”
“Exactly.” I point at the laugh lines around his eyes. At one point, getting him to smile felt like pulling teeth. “And now you look better.”
Reed leans in. “What if I told you the secret is therapy and meds?”
Shoving him away, I laugh. “Honestly, I’d probably believe you. But seriously. How’d you do it?”
A hotel lobby isn’t the place for a serious talk, but I need to know.
“You might not like the answer, but here’s the truth.” His eyes pierce right through me. “My life got easier the moment I stopped giving a shit about what was expected of me and started doing what I wanted. When I did, baseball became fun again. Hell, life became more fun. People were forced to see me for me and not the person they expected me to be. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I’d do it all over again if I had to.”Then, as if he didn’t rewire my brain, he stands and pulls me into a hug. “I’ve got to catch my flight, but message me. Let’s get dinner!”
As I watch him go, his words play on repeat. People’s expectations didn’t stop; he stopped holding on to them so tightly.
It sounds impossible, but as I reach into my pocket as unfold Shay’s note, my heart skips a beat at the words. Reading them, I feel like I could do anything.
Just be Cade. That’s all that matters
There’s no space for negative energy at Peach Pit Stadium.
Coach Baxter’s pre-game speech was about having fun, and my teammates are doing just that. Garrett Blane is laughing it up at first base with the opposing team’s runner. Randy Alba did cartwheels after hitting an out-of-the-park home run. Even Marcus, who is eerily serious for games, is chatting with fans from his crouched position behind home plate.
I’m likely the only person in the stadium frowning.
Groans fill the air as a ground ball slips past me and heads to the outfield, thankfully picked up by an outfielder.
If Jon were still my agent, he’d document that mistake and spend the rest of the game thinking about how if I were better and faster, I wouldn’t have let it get past me. Our postgame meeting would revolve around planning extra practices and conditioning sessions until he was confident I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
But Shay’s my agent, and she smiles at me from behind the dugout.
Good or bad, rain or shine, there’s no scowl, no snarling anger, and no yellow notepad. Just an unwavering support I never want to lose.
“Breathe,” she mouths. “Just be.”
I close my eyes. Fun and baseball haven’t been used in the same sentence since I was in high school. That’s when the game moved from something I loved and enjoyed to something that defined who I am.
