I glance over, but he continues to unbutton and undress, not looking over. “It did. I’m just hoping this feeling sticks around until the next time I’m in the box.”
He chuckles and nods. “Nothing harder than coming back from a slump, but you were great out there today. Behind the plate especially. Tell me Taz thanked you.”
I shake my head and my mouth tips down at the corners. “Taz doesn’t roll that way. I will say though, I know you and your brother aren’t exactly besties, but Foster always thanked me before he stepped off the field.”
Decker nods. “I’m not surprised. He has some good qualities.” He pats me on the shoulder. “See you in there. Good game today, but I’d still love you even if you struck out.” He winks and laughs, heading into the showers.
I sit on the bench and grab my phone out of my safe.
Mom: I hope you’re happy and proud. Love you.
Dad: You’re back in the saddle again…
I shake my head at how he always uses song lyrics to get his point across and scroll down to the next message.
Foster: Sitting here watching your game-winning hit like a proud dad. At least my brother has one good quality, he can run fast.
There’s no message from Callie, which is odd. She usually messages me win or lose, but she left for her tour yesterday, so I’m sure she’s busy preparing for her kickoff show in New York.
I stuff my phone back into my safe and follow everyone else into the showers.
An hour later, we’re showered, dressed, and out of the media room, which surprisingly went well. I guess that’s what happens when you don’t fuck it all up but actually help your team win.
Easton and Decker are grabbing their bags and talking about how they’re going to order every appetizer on the menu, and that soup and salad are a must. Decker says he’ll order all the desserts and part of me feels bad for the DICs, but then again, they’ve been cocky assholes, saying it’s the old men against the young bucks. Give me a break, I’m thirty-fucking-two, far from an old man.
My phone is vibrating as I open the safe, and I see ten missed calls from Callie and a slew of texts that go from nice to mean to meaner.
Call me when you get this.
You fuckwad, where are you?
I’m going to strangle you.
Haaaaaayessssss… where are you?
Your game has been over foooreeevver….
Call me back as soon as you see these.
My stomach drops down to my toes. I dial her right back, fear like a class six rapid rushing through my veins. You’d never guess I felt so light and free a minute ago when I stepped out of that room where those reporters were praising me.
Callie picks up, sounding frustrated. “What the fuck, Hayes? Your game ended a long-ass time ago.”
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Oh shit, no… sorry… I didn’t mean to panic you.” Her anger dissipates, and I fall to the bench, the emotional roller coaster taking a toll on me.
“I got asked to be in the media room,” I tell her, so she knows I wasn’t dodging her.
She sighs. “Really? I’m the asshole then. How was it? Great? Dreamy?”
“Dreamy? What’s going on, Callie?” I’d usually tell her how much better this is than last year. Like winning the lottery when you’re dirt poor. One day, your entire life changes with the scratch of a penny.
I appreciate her asking, but I want to know what has her in a panic, since usually there are only a couple of things—her podcast, our parents, and Leighton. With everything going on, Leighton is the most likely cause.
“It’s Leighton,” she says.
I pick up my bag and swing it over my shoulder. “What’s going on?”
