I shrug, because I’ve grown up with coaches barking mean shit at me. A lot of dudessaythey can handle criticism, but I really mean it. I didn’t get to be this good because my coaches were nice to me. They pushed my ass, every day. Hell,Ipushed myself twice as hard as they did.
“You know what you need to work on, Hunter? Your arm care.” Coach’s expression matches Roddy’s now. I’m fucking this up.
“Yeah, okay. I got it,” I mumble. I head out of the bullpen and up toward the clubhouse without looking back again.
The trainer is finishing up my massage when Roddy makes his way into the room. I lift my chin when our eyes meet, and he rolls his eyes before heading to the other side of the room where one of the young catchers is working on hip mobility.
“Pfft, whatever. Maybe spend more time with the catchers and leave me alone,” I mutter.
Mike, our trainer, stops his compressions and follows my gaze to where Roddy and the young catcher seem to be getting into it.
“Roddy’s old school, ya know,” Mike says.
“Oh yeah, believe me . . .I know.”
Mike chuckles and heads toward the ice machine to fill the bag for my wrap.
“He’s the best, though. And people he’s caught for? They win Cy Young awards.” Mike drops the Ziplock of ice on the table next to me, then tugs my sleeve down before holding the ice in place against my bicep tendon. I wince from the instant chill.
“Yeah, I know his story. And he’s good. I’ll give you that. He’s just so . . . prickish. I mean, why does he have to fuck with that kid’s head too? Look at that. Kid’s marching out all angry. I bet he’s going to have a shit practice thanks to Roddy’s words of advice.
“I’d be careful here,” Mike warns.
I glance at him but before he can explain things further, Roddy is at my side with his mask tucked under his arm.
“You should know you threw some great stuff today. That conversation I was having with Coach? It wasn’t about you.” He holds my stare for a few painfully long seconds, and dammit if I don’t swallow under his scrutiny.
“Thanks,” I eek out.
“Also,” he begins.
My head falls back and my eyes flutter shut as I exhale. Here comes the lesson. It’s bad enough I’m trapped here to take it, thanks to Mike wrapping ice against my arm.
“Not everything is about you. When you were at San Diego State, it probably felt like it. Hell, I’ll give you that—you put that team on your shoulders. But out here, you’re one of many. And I do meanmany.So, do your job, work hard, and when you finally get called up, remember to listen to your fucking catcher.”
I drop my chin back to my shoulder and meet his hard stare.
“That what you tell the kid?” I shift my eyes toward the exit, where the rookie marched out a few minutes prior.
Roddy chuckles, and I can’t be certain, but I think Mike just tsked under his breath.
“You’re good to go. See you in two days,” Mike says, slapping the end of the wrap along my shoulder before making eyes at Roddy.
“Take it easy on him, boss,” Mike says to Roddy before packing up his tools and moving to the next massage table to work on one of our infielder’s hips.
I swing my legs around and move to slide from the table, but Roddy cages me in before I can, leaning over me with his hands on either side of my body, forcing me to lean back so far I fear I might flip backward and tumble to the floor.
“Shit!”
“Yeah, shit is right. Now, listen to me when I tell you this one . . . last . . . time.”
I’m done playing tough. Roddy’s shorter than me, but he’s twice as thick. And being this close gives me a clear view of what looks to be a well-earned scar that cuts from under his right eye toward his jaw. I’m sure it was baseball related, but I also wouldn’t be shocked to learn that he got it when some mugger slashed his face with a knife. Just like I wouldn’t be shocked to find out he then made said mugger swallow the knife whole.
“Not everything is about you. Tell me you hear me.”
I nod, but that doesn’t seem to be good enough. He slaps the bench on either side and lunges a few extra inches closer to me.
“Say the words,” he commands.
