“That Renleigh I see you walk in with today?” He gives me a sideways look, and my stomach rolls the way it did when I was a sixteen-year-old jumping out of my high school girlfriend’s window when her father came in.
“Yeah, she’s here.” I don’t offer details, but judging by the narrowing of his gaze, I sense I don’t need to.
“It was her idea, for what it’s worth.” I shrug, and he shakes his head, breathing out a slightly judgmental laugh.
“I bet it was. You forget I’m from this town and know the Blackwoods. I saw Sarah Blackwood’s Mercedes in town and at the house. I bet Renleigh couldn’twaitto get out of there.”
Roddy’s word hit less like a joke and more like a warning, the kind that, as he said, comes from history. My chest squeezes, and I’m not sure whether it’s unwarranted jealousy that he has a shared history with Renleigh, or concern that her situation is even heavier than I thought it was.
“I’m thinking about inviting her on the next road trip. You know . . . in two weeks. To Iowa? I don’t know if she can get off work though.”
I’m just thinking this idea through now, and my motivations are rather selfish. Other than the obvious perks of having Renleigh in my room with me, having her come on the next trip gives me a chance to really show her what I’ve got. Iowa promises to be a tough series for us, and I know a lot of the guys who were drafted into that organization. I’m looking forward to throwing against them. I know their weaknesses.
I realize several seconds have gone by without a response from Roddy, so I snap out of my fantasy of getting to be a big hero in front of Renleigh and instead focus on the tightness of his mouth and the wince pulling his cheeks up to his eyes. I call him out on it.
“What’s that face for?”
He sighs and leans back a step, dropping his hands into the pockets of his workout shorts before popping his gaze back to mine.
“I don’t know why I like you, kid.”
I huff out a sharp laugh and blink away the shock from his backhanded compliment.
“Thanks?” I hike my shoulders.
“What I mean is, I feel responsible for you for some reason. I don’t know why, because I’m over this shit . . . being the wise old man hanging around to mentor the up-and-comers. At least, that’s how my agent pitched these last few years on my contract. The money’s good, and I get to be here, which . . . let’s just say, it’s important to me.”
He’s talking about his son, I’m sure.
“I guess, thanks for looking out for me despite your best instincts to not give a shit?” I laugh out my version of what he’s saying, and he chuckles as he pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Yeah, it sounds bad. I know. But I’m on my way out, and to be real with you, kid? I’m tired. Not of the game. I’ll never be tired of that. But all the other shit? Travel, and women, and all the bullshit that’s about to come at you that you don’t even know. I’m sick of it all. But I like you, and I like Renleigh—a whole lot more than I like you.”
“Noted,” I laugh out.
“And I can’t just let it be without making sure you know how fucking hard all of this is going to be. How hard it is.” Roddy’s mouth closes into a straight line as his gaze narrows on me. I think he wants me to nod and say I understand, but I don’t.
“I appreciate it, man, but you’re not telling me anything I don’t know.”
He snickers dismissively at my response and follows up with, “You don’t know shit.”
I purse my lips and brace myself for him to explain.
“Let me break it down for you. You were probably, what . . . twelve the first time you won what felt like a pretty important game?”
I nod and utter, “Yeah, Little League District Championship. We went to the World Series.” I can close my eyes and still hear mine and my friends’ parents screaming their heads off in the bleachers. And the pizza party that night was off the charts.
“Right. Me too. Probably the same for half the guys out here. We all get it. There’s something about playing this game at a high level that’s this massive rush of dopamine. It gets under your skin, and it’s what makes you keep stepping up on that mound or getting up to the plate. In a game of mostly failures, we come out here for the wins. Not just the day-to-day ones, but the minuscule ones. Throwing a one-hitter. Then a no-hitter. Or mastering the curve. Or getting the guy who’s hitting four hundred out swinging.”
My smile stretches with every new goal he states. He’s basically reading my diary.
“Exactly,” he says, gesturing toward me. “That smile right there. That’s the one. And damn, when you get that kind of win, you want to celebrate, you know? And you might be on the other side of the country, and it’s late at night, and you’re hitting the hotel bar, and there she is . . . the blonde who’s been staring at you from the second row for the entire game, or the sexy woman with an accent that sounds a hell of a lot better on her than it does on your shortstop. And that woman smells so good, and even though you’ve got one at home who was watching your game on TV, you just want to indulge this once—to treat yourself. Because you were great today. And what’s one slip?”
I shake my head because I hear what he’s saying, but that’s simply not me. I know I’m not that guy.
“I get what you’re saying, man, and I know the temptations are real. But I’m a big boy. I get what consequences mean, and I wouldn’t do that to someone. I wouldn’t do that to Renleigh,” I say, my tone resolute.
Roddy’s eyes hold on to mine for a long breath before he shakes his head slowly and pulls his mouth in tight.
