It’s true enough.
“I’m not the marble statue I used to be,” she says quietly. “At least, I wasn’t. Until I found out Santiago’s retiring.”
I angle a look at her.
“I can’t—I don’t—when people take advantage of you and watch for every mistake to try to prove you don’t belong, it’s hard to not put up walls so they can’t hurt you. My longest gig before coming here was about eight months. I spent the first two years here waiting for that call into the office to be told that someone had complained that I’d looked at them wrong, or I’d crossed a line that a female coach shouldn’t cross with a male player, or that I wasn’t living up to expectations.”
I squeeze her arm again. “You kick ass, and the Fireballs know it.”
“I started to believe that. We won the whole damn thing, and I started to relax. The team, the coaching staff, management—they made—makeme feel like I belong. Like we’re family.Goodfamily. And I was still scared, but I wanted to trust it. So I started to loosen up. Be moreme. And it felt good. But going through the process of thinking about applying for the manager position, telling the Fireballs staff to put my name on the list, thinking about how I can level up as a coach—it’s put my brain back to allof the interviews I went on after college, when I was switching jobs every four to six months and feeling like I didn’t belong anymore.”
“You smiled before the game yesterday.”
“My boss asked me why I was being an asshole to the players.”
I jerk my head up. “Seriously?”
“Not quite those words, but he did say I’d seemedstressedand the players had noticed. So I—I’m trying to remember to be moreme.”
“Believe in what the universe has planned for you,” I muse.
Yeah, I’m better.
Because she’s here.
I’m not alone.
She makes me okay.
“I really love working for the Fireballs,” she whispers. “Before coming here, I was starting to doubt I could make it. They made me believe in me too.”
“Good. I don’t have to secretly hate them.”
“I just don’t want to cross a line that I don’t even realize I shouldn’t cross and lose it all. I’mreallyhappy here.”
“Favorite coach I ever had was the one who pulled me into his office to chew me out when my game was shit right after my divorce,” I tell her. “But he didn’t chew me out. He sat me down, said,son, you’re gonna get through this just like I did. Told me about his wife leaving him. About drinking too much after. About having to find what was good in the rest of his life to live for again. Told me to call him day or night, no matter what.”
Her arm tenses under my hand. “I’m glad you had good support.”
“Wasn’t just me. He talked to the whole team about the shit we’d all been through. Sometimes privately. Sometimes to all of us. First team I played with to win the cup.”
“I was fired once for giving a player a hug right after he lost a parent,” she whispers.
“That’s complete bullshit. I hug my teammates all the time. Coaches too. Don’t tell me baseball dudes don’t hug. I’ve seen them.”
“I know. But knowing it and getting over it are different.”
I scoot lower on the floor so I can lay my head on her shoulder. “I feel better. Thank you.”
She checks her phone. “Management says the power’s out on the whole block. Crews are working on it. Should be up in half an hour to an hour. They can call the fire department if we need outnow.”
“I’m okay.”
“I have to get to the ballpark. No one has to know you hate elevators.”
“I do hate elevators. But I don’t mind being stuck with you.”
Her shoulder lifts, then settles back as a heavy breath leaves her nose. I watch as she replies to the text from the building’s management.
