“Fuck off.”
* * * *
Hours later, Zade and I were joking around with the rest of our teammates who’d gone. I remembered, my freshman year, how some of the older guys went out of their way to welcome the newbies. Sure, they might have hazed us a little bit, but I’d felt right at home. I wanted to do that to the new ones. Zade had the humor and unique ability to make anyone feel comfortable. That wasn’t my style. I was messy. I came with baggage.
I wanted to be the guy that our team could turn to when shit hit the fan. I was great at helping others pick up the pieces, just not myself. Coach pulled me to the side after it concluded. Zade said he would wait and I walked toward Coach’s signature stern look. “Hilly, glad you made it.”
“Thanks for the invite, Coach.”
“Be a sponge. Soak this up. Shortstops are the hardest position to find a lot of success. You need the mental stamina and you’ve been through the wringer. You might not know it yet, but others follow you.”
I nodded. I’d always assumed people followed Jeff and Zade with their pitching and catching combo. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t just call you over here to butter your ass. I have some scouts coming to watch practice next week. You’re one of the names.”
“Excellent.” My throat constricted with emotion. This was it. This was what I wanted more than my next breath.
“Have you Googled yourself recently?”
“No. I prefer not to. I’ve only posted stuff with Greta the past four months.”
“Well, most of the stuff that pops up is your stats and about your dad. You need to think about doing an interview or something to generate talk.”
“No. I don’t want to do an interview,” I scoffed. “Too personal.”
“Think about it, Hilly. These scouts are going to Google the hell outta you. If I can stumble across the post with those pictures, so can they. I’m not telling you what to do, but think about it.”
“Fine. I will.” My lifted mood plummeted. “Thanks for looking out.”
“I’m not lecturing you, kid. I’m rooting for you.”
I ran my hand down my face. “I know. I just… Putting my life out there scares the shit out of me.”
“It’s better to control what press you can. That’s all I’m saying. Now, go out and have fun tonight.” He clapped my shoulder and joined the other coaches from the staff. I spotted Zade laughing with a punk named Elijah.
“Eli, Zade. How does a beer sound after sitting for four hours?”
“You know I’m not twenty-one yet, Hilly.” Eighteen-year-old Eli frowned. I chuckled.
“There are some perks of being on the baseball team and with us. I can get you in. But no drinks.”
“Really? Fuck yeah!” He clapped. “Let’s go now.”
Zade and I shared a look—this kid had too much energy. “What did Coach want?”
“He thinks I should do an interview.” Eli didn’t know about the fake relationship, but everyone on the team knew about my dad and the shit-storm photos. Eli was smart enough to let Zade speak first—he was older and one of my best friends.
“Damn. I see his side. But I know you.”
“What’s the harm in a little interview? I don’t get your holdup,” the punk-ass replied, his gaze darting between the both of us as he realized he was the opposite opinion. “Shit. I mean. If you do a small interview and have premade questions done in advance, you could control the conversation, you know?”
I hadn’t thought about that. It still didn’t sit well with me. But I’d table the idea and think about it. Coach had never steered me wrong before. “Thanks, Eli. That’s not a half-bad idea.”
He smiled, relieved. “Now, how about this bar?”
We laughed, talking shit about him the entire walk to where Greta was playing. I knew she was on stage when we walked in. Her throaty voice never got old. My heart raced and my mood became better without explanation.
“Damn, Hilly. Damn,” Eli said, his gaze directed at Greta on stage. She wore tight black jeans, a grunge tank top and a goddamn fedora.
