I yank the ring off. My hand looks strangely bare without it, a paler strip of white surrounded by my tan.
I take another swig of cold brew and shove down that thought. I don’t know why I can’t shake thisfatigueas Blake calls it. Maybe I should’ve put something in my coffee to take the edge off. No, I don’t need that. I’m here, proving to everyone how much I don’t need that. I can raw-dog my way through this, no problem, because I don’t have a problem.
I’m about to head to the weight room when one of our catchers, LeBlanc, comes in. His black hair is plastered to his forehead. Grass shavings are stuck to his solid catcher’s ankles. “Forsyth”—his thick Louisiana accent drags the word out—“you gotta come check this out.”
The last remnants of myfatiguethrobs. “I gotta lift.”
“Nah, man, Adler’s on the field and—” LeBlanc catches himself, practically giggling. “Well, go see for yourself.”
What the fuck could Adler possibly be doing that’s that interesting?I’ve never met the guy—when we played Chicago early in the season, he was on the injured list—but he’s got…a reputation.For being a complete fucking weirdo.I don’t really care what he’s doing, because he’s already doing something that pisses me off: playing first base for the Peaches when that was supposed to be what Blake did for the rest of his career.
But Blake’s in Boston with that girlfriend of his and I’m here and LeBlanc is still fucking giggling. I get up. LeBlanc practically crows as he follows me down the tunnel that leads from the clubhouse out to the field. At least the sunlight burns off the rest of my fatigue.
So I am totally alert and sober when I spot what has LeBlanc howling. A figure out on the field on the grass between first base and right field, standing atop a black rubber mat. Doing yoga.Shirtless.
I climb out of the dugout, blinking like my eyes are deceiving me. Adler’s still there. He transitions cleanly from one pose to another, folding himself in half with his ass up in the air. Fucking shameless. He clearly does this a lot because, unlike the rest of us who have some degree of baseball farmer’s tan, there’s not much gradient between the darker olive skin of his arms and the paler skin of his chest.Maybe he’ll get a sunburn.He deserves one for pulling whatever this is.
LeBlanc claps me a few times on the arm in delight. “See, I told you, see. Coach is gonna explode.”
LeBlanc is right—Coach is old-school. He’s going to absolutely fucking hate Adler.Good.
I need to see the expression on Adler’s face when it happens, so I station myself on the right field line, far enough away from where he’s doing his little stretches so that he doesn’t do something like speak to me.
Turns out that’s close enough to see the flex of muscles in his back. Adler is tall and lean. His dark hair sticks to his neck. The muscles at the back of his knees flex as he bends further into his stretch. A tattoo I can only make out part of snakes around his collarbone and shoulders. We’re baseball players. Most of us have muscles and tattoos. He’s notspecial.
He unfurls himself and reaches up with open fingers as if grabbing handfuls of sky.The way he grabbed Blake’s position.I shouldn’t be resentful, but fuck that. Adler’s here and Blake isn’t, and Blake wouldn’t be the kind of showy asshole to do on-field yoga in shorts with a ridiculously small inseam.
Adler must feel me glaring a hole in his back, because he turns to say something just as Coach comes out on the field.
Coach is dressed in a neat team-branded polo tucked into ironed slacks cinched with a braided leather belt. His ballcap is weathered but not fraying, his gray hair squared up. He does not approve of certain things: lazy fielding, what he terms “carousing,” or anyone who puts themselves over team.
Adler’s gonna absolutely get it now. And I have a front-row seat to watch.
“Adler!” Coach barks. “Great to see you out here early.” He marches over to Adler just as Adler drops out of his pose. He shakes Coach’s hand, once, twice, while Coach claps his hand over his approvingly as if Adler isn’t half-naked and dripping in yoga-related sweat.
What the hell?
“Hope you don’t mind me—” Adler gestures to the mat and the field like that’s any explanation.
“Just be careful in this heat,” Coach says. “The sun’s a might more intense than you were used to in Chicago, I expect, and we need your bat in the lineup.”
Adler doesn’t smile exactly, but the side of his mouth ticks up as if he’s considering it. “The whole city is free hot yoga.”
And Coach actually laughs at that. “My daughter’s always on me to try that stuff. Too woo for me. I know trades can be difficult, but it sounds like you’re already settling in. You need anything, you let me know, son.”
Son.I grind my fingernail into my palm.
Coach notices me standing there. “You need something, Forsyth?” Notsonbut better thanBlake.
“No, sir, just taking in the weather.”
For that I get a skeptical look.
“Gonna go get my work in.” I bite back what I really want to say: that I’m here just as early as Adler. That I do plenty of work to maintain my flexibility, none of which I do shirtless in the middle of the goddamn ballfield. That my first day on the team, all I got was a lecture about not being as much of a fuck up as Coach and Blake and my parents and probably Savannah think I am. Certainly not an approving handshake or encouragement to come to the team with my problems. If anything, the team made it very clear I was to take my problems—not that I have any—elsewhere.
“See that you do,” Coach says, then strides off.
I’m about to go get my actual work in when I catch Adler looking at me. He’s done doing dog posture or tree pose or whatever, but his chest is still gleaming from a mix of sweat and humidity. He’s also looking at me with dark eyes like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t.
