“Nice to meet you both officially,” I say. “Sarah said lunch was set up in here and I’m starved, so I’m going to make a plate.”
“Help yourself.” Fields motions to the buffet set up along the edge of the room. “Come have a seat and talk with us while you eat. We have some time before batting practice.” I nod and hurry along to get some grub. I won’t pass up the opportunity to sit with the team captains and soak up their knowledge before I take the field with them.
With a full plate, I sit down at their table and they fill me in on the game day schedule, training schedules, and introduce me to other players who trickle in to grab food and get started on their warm-ups. I’m on information overload but loving every minute and already feeling like part of the team. I was worried I’d be ostracized as the rookie or the replacement for the injured player, and I’d have to work my way in by proving I deserve to be here. But with Fields and Miller, I don’t feel that way. They made it clear they expect my head to be on straight and to contribute to the team, but they readily accepted me as soon as I stepped foot into the building.
It’s refreshing and catches me off guard. I’m used to a battle from the beginning. It’s part of why I’ve been labeled as a troublemaker. On the field, I tend to show out. I’ve always been the best at my role on any team I’ve played on. My bat is hot. My glove is solid. I steal bases and make no apologies for my on-field persona. I’m the tatted up young gun with a cocksure attitude and the talent to back it up. I didn’t make many friends in the minors. Partly because I didn’t intend to stay for very long and partly because some of my teammates didn’t like the way I played. I was there to advance. To hone my craft. To make a splash. And to debut in the majors as soon as possible.
I achieved that.
Today is the culmination of all my hard work.
The afternoon passes in a flurry of activity. Batting practice. Stretches. Cardio. Team introductions and a pregame meeting. Before long, it’s game time. I put on my jersey in the locker room with the rest of the team. The blue home jersey has BENNETT emblazoned on the back above the white number three. “Troubadours” stretches across the front. The white pants fit like a second skin down to my ankles over my cleats.
I check the posted lineup and find my name fourth, just under Fields and Miller. I sigh. I usually prefer to be at the top of the order, but I guess cleanup hitter will do. Hopefully once I prove myself capable of getting on base and add to my stolen base percentage, I can be the lead-off hitter. “You ready, Rook?” Fields asks, nodding his head to the exit.
“Sure thing, cap.” I respond and follow him out of the locker room. Our cleats click against the concrete floor. At the bottom of the stairs leading to the field, I go through my routine, bouncing on the balls of my feet, cracking my neck from side to side, shaking out my arms. When I’m ready, I climb the stairs and feel the excitement of the crowd in the stands, purposely keep my eyes away from the offices as we move through our warm-ups. I don’t want to think about her in this moment. I need to be fully present. This is my time. There’s no room for her brand of distraction. Not until I’m alone in my condo later and need that particular form of relief.
Glove in hand, I watch from the dugout as Fields' and Miller’s names echo throughout the stadium, announcing their role in the game. They run onto the field, tipping their hats to the standing crowd before taking their respective places for the anthem, Miller behind the plate and Fields behind second base.
“And making his major league debut, give your best Music City welcome to shortstop, number three, Chase ‘The Chaser’ Bennett,” the announcer calls over the loudspeaker.
The crowd hoots and hollers for me as I take the stairs two at a time and bounce on the sidelines. I take my hat off and raiseit to the fans in the stands, slowly circling to acknowledge their welcome. The stadium is packed. Everyone on their feet. My skin prickles in anticipation and I can’t help the smile on my face as excitement courses through me.
When I turn to take the field, my eyes meet Bree’s. She’s standing directly behind home plate with Ivory Crenshaw and the blonde woman I recognize as her friend from the bar. When her eyes meet mine for the briefest second mid-laugh, my heart skips a beat. So much for not thinking about her.
The top of the inning passes quickly with Montana, the Troubadours’ starting pitcher, striking out the first three batters. It’s our turn to bat, and I’m antsy to make a name for myself. Fields gets a hit and makes it to first. Brady strikes out. Miller hits a line drive past second, which gets Fields to third and Miller on first.
I take the batter’s box with a runner in scoring position and another with potential. The first pitch down the pipe, I foul off. Strike one. The second pitch is a ball that goes wide and behind the catcher. Miller takes a chance and steals second, making it two runners in scoring position.
It’s now or never, Bennett. Let’s fucking go.
The pitcher winds up. I lean back in my stance ready to rip the seams off this one if it’s anywhere near the strike zone. The pitcher releases a perfect ball down the middle of the plate. In my peripherals, I see Miller take a lead off second, readying to run, knowing I’m going to smack this ball. I drop my shoulder, pivot my hips, and swing.
The sound of the bat meeting the ball greets my ears and I smile.
My first big league hit.
I take off for first, rounding to second while watching the ball. It lands in center field.
The centerfielder picks it up and throws it in, but I slide into second just in time. Standing up, I clap my hands together andlook toward home plate. Field and Miller both scored. The crowd is going insane.
Palmer steps up to bat next, and I take a lead off the bag, ready to steal third. I have the highest stolen base rate in the minors, and I plan to take the title in the majors as well. It’s one of my favorite parts of the game. The pitcher doesn’t know me yet, so he doesn’t pay enough attention when I take a giant lead and take off for third as soon as the ball leaves his hand. I make it to third, standing on the bag and smiling again at the thrill of getting my first double and stolen base in my major league debut.
Palmer strikes out and we’re at two outs. I’m still on third when our center fielder, Watkins, taps his bat on home plate, getting into his stance. The pitcher eyes me as I take a lead off the base. The pitch clock counts down and he winds up releasing the ball. It’s a little high. I’m halfway home when the bat connects with the ball. It’s a grounder through the gap between first and second, giving me the perfect chance to score. I slide into homebecause I can.
As my hands cross the plate, I smile wide and meet those blue eyes behind home plate before fluttering my tongue and curling the ends.
There’s your sign, Princess. I can still taste you on my tongue.
Jumping to my feet, I rip my helmet off and shout in celebration as I run into the dugout to celebrate with my new teammates. They pretend to ignore me when I come down the stairs and start walking down the aisle of the dugout. A common prank when a rookie scores. In jest, I high-five the air and engage with imaginary teammates. When I reach the end of the line, they all jump in and pile on the cheers.
“Good job, Rook.” A tap on the head.
“Keep it up, my guy.” A slap on the back.
“Nice slide.” A pat on the ass.
“May want to keep your tongue in your mouth next time.Don’t want a cleat to take out your secret weapon.” A quip from Miller.
