One of his large hands comes up to cradle the back of my head, the other on my lower back. His fingers flex, like he wants to latch on and never let go. A part of me wishes he wouldn’t. That he’ll kidnap me and take me back home. Where it’s safe. Where it’s familiar. Just me and Maddy.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Go kill it, East. Make me proud.”
I pull away, blinking furiously, and swallow the baseball-sized lump in my throat.
“I will, Maddy.” I’ll make him proud.
I sling my backpack over my shoulder and grab the handle of my suitcase. I blow out a watery breath. All right. Time to set out on my own. Independence. It’ll be good. Great. Just doesn’t feel that way.
“Let me know when you land safely.”
I nod numbly. A muscle tics in his jaw, a slight sheen glimmering across his green eyes. I don’t understand why the moment feels so heavy. It’s not goodbye, not really. It’s just goodbye for now.
I clear my throat roughly and hold out my fist between us. “Love you, Madz.”
He stares at it for what feels like a lifetime, then shakes his head and knocks my fist with his own. His attention flicks back up to me, gaze boring into mine. Something flickers across those deep-green irises, there and gone in a blink, but it makes my heart lurch.
“Love you too, East,” he whispers.
Then he gives me a shove, because God knows I wasn’t going to be able to make my feet move on my own.
And I leave my past behind and walk toward my future.
It’s fucking bittersweet.
I scroll through my phone, shooting texts to my mom, Maddy, and Shelby that I landed safely as I wait for my gear bag to come through the baggage carousel. I have a new message from an unknown number and tap it.
Unknown: Hey, man! I’m Shane, your roomie. I convinced the team to let me pick you up instead of the usual staffer. Thought it’d be nice to get to know each other a bit on the drive over. I’ve been here a week already since I’m local, so I can give you the lowdown on everything.
Usually someone on the team’s staff meets the draftees at the airport, maybe a more seasoned player. But apparently, this guy convinced them to let him pick me up. Hopefully, he’s not like…an axe murderer or something. I add him to my contacts and tap out a reply that I’ll be out as soon as I get my bag.
The scout explained that they put all the draftees joining the Surge for the remainder of the season in an apartment together, that way we’re with others in a similar position as us. Helps with getting acclimated. There will be four of us in each apartment, two to a room. The Surge is one of the few teams where their Low-A team is in the same city as their Spring Training facility. So, I’ll report there for all the necessary onboarding paperwork, physicals, and orientation. Then…we play ball. Professional baseball. Damn.
My fingers tap an erratic rhythm on my thigh, watching the bags slowly crawl along the carousel. I hate this part. Meeting new people. Once I get into the groove, once we start playing ball, it gets so much easier. But the initial interaction, having no idea if these guys will be nice and take my quirks in stride…or be straight-up assholes, has a nauseous burn building in my gut. There’s the asshole jock stereotype for a reason. We’re not all like that. Obviously, look at lil awkward ol’ me. But some people wear it like a badge.
Independence.I suppose Maddy had a point. I don’t think I realized until now how much I’ve come to rely on him. How whenever life gets uncomfortable, I turn to him. Like right now, wanting reassurance. I’m a ballplayer. I should probably grow a pair of my own. I laugh at my horrible joke, and the person next to me shoots me a side-eye and steps away. My laugh dies a quick death, and I pull my ballcap lower over my face. Nothing to see here, sir. Just laughing at the conversation I’m having in my head. Totally normal.
My gear bag finally decides to make an appearance. I throw my backpack over one arm, haul my gear bag that weighs a fuck-ton over the other, and somehow manage to grab my rolling-suitcase handle without losing the bags on my back. I head toward the automatic doors. They slide open, and I’m hit with a wall of Florida humidity. I try to inhale, but, shit, this air is thick. It’s not like I’m not used to humidity living in CT, but August in Florida is like a wet blanket you let tumble in a dryer for a while.
I scan the area. Cars whizz past; others are parked, waiting for arriving travelers. I have no idea what or who I’m even looking for. I somehow manage to fish my phone out of my pocket and tap call next to Shane’s name. He answers after one ring.
“Yo, Roomie! I’m pulling up to arrivals now. Orange jeep with the soft top down. I hope that’s okay. It’s fucking saucy today. Ah, I see you! Gotta be you with the behemoth of a gear bag, right? See ya in a sec.”
He hangs up, and I blink at the phone. That was…a lot. I think I like it, though. I have a feeling he’ll be able to fill in my awkward silences.
An orange jeep comes rolling to a stop in front of me,The Hell Songby Sum 41 blasting. A man wearing aviators with windswept near-shoulder-length blond hair jumps from the car and heads my way, a bright white grin flashing at me. He’s got on a sleeveless Billabong shirt, board shorts, and flip-flops. He looks like…a surfer bro. Or like he could be the mascot of the Tampa Surge.
My stomach twists with nerves. Time to be social. I wish I had sunglasses on. At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about eye contact. I clear my throat.
“Hey-ho howdy.” I wince.What the fuck was that?
His grin widens, and he chuckles. “Howdy, cowboy. Aren’t you from Connecticut?”
I laugh nervously. “Uh. Yeah. Don’t think I’ve ever said howdy before in my life. So, yeah.”
He grabs my gear bag from me and swings it into the back of his jeep. I hover silently, shifting back and forth. “So, Connecticut cowboy, what do you go by? Winters?”
“Oh, right. Um. Easton or Winters is fine. Friends call me East.”
