I shrug. “I mean, obviously. I’d be an idiot not to.”
“Ohhh,” Hudson nods in understanding. “I get it. You told Hollis and she didn’t want you to go?”
“No,” I say, even if I completely understand why he’d think that. “Actually, she was the one who encouraged me to look at all the options and choose whatever felt best. The problem is, the only thing that feels right is making a decision that will keep her in my life,” I sigh, pulling off my hat and tossing it to the side. “Unfortunately, she isn’t interested in moving things forward with me, no matter what decision I make.”
Hudson lets out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s cold.”
“Look, man,” Easten says, leaning back against the wall. “I get it. This whole situation fucking sucks, but I think Hollis is right. You’ve worked your ass off to get where you are, and it’s only right you make a decision that’s best for you, and only you. Who knows, maybe the right choice will be signing with a team, moving to a whole new city, and finding someone even better than Hollis.”
"There’s nobody better out there for me than Hollis," I say, annoyance pulsing through my veins.
They shoot each other furtive glances. Sure, maybe I sound like a child throwing a temper tantrum, but don’t I deserve to? This is my future we’re talking about here.
“I’m sure it feels that way right now, but the thing is, you’re never going to know until you actually make a decision,” Easten says.
“Exactly,” Hudson adds. “And who knows, maybe you and Hollis are meant to be and the two of you will figure things out and live happily ever after, but that can’t happen until you make the best decision for you and only you... and not one that’s made just to keep her in your life. Because if that happens, I’m pretty sure you’ll both be stuck wonderingwhat if.”
He’s right, or at least I assume he has to be, since Hollis said something fairly similar. Too bad it’s not that simple. What if I make the wrong choice not only for me, but for her as well, and cost both of us a possible future together?
“Fletcher, Kane, Wells,” Bruce, our coach, hollers as he pops his head in. “Get your asses out here! We’ve got some excited kids losing their minds over meeting you.”
I close my eyes, and take a much-needed, centering breath before reaching for my hat and sliding it into its usual backward position.
I know I need to make a choice, and I will, but not tonight.
Tonight I’m shoving every last ounce of confusion, sadness, and heartbreak away and locking it up until later. These fans came out here to meet Mason Fletcher, star shortstop of the Houston Honky Tonks, and that’s exactly who they’re going to get.
I might be feeling off, but I’m forcing myself to stay present. These people paid money to be here. The least I can do is show my gratitude by providing them with the show they came here to see.
Most ballparks are all about the game itself with fans rolling in with just enough time before the first pitch to grab a hot dog and find their seats. At the Houston Honky Tonk Ball Stadium, we do things a bit differently.
Our fans are encouraged to show up early for what we call the Grand Slam Jam. The gates open, music blasts, and the fans are given a chance to walk on the field to mix and mingle with players from both teams. We also offer a wide variety of themed food and merch for people to purchase, as well as fun, interactive activities for the entire family.
I spot a kid wearing a number eight on his Honky Tonk jersey and lightly toss a baseball in his direction.
Catching it in his glove, he runs toward me. “Oh my gosh! You’re Fletcher!” he squeals, jumping to meet my offered high five. “Can you please sign my jersey?”
“Of course. What’s your name?” I ask, grabbing the offered black Sharpie.
“I’m Blake.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Blake,” I say, wearing a smile just as big as the one on his small face. “Thanks for coming out tonight.”
I twirl my finger, and he obediently spins around. I crouch to his level, and my grin only widens. It will never not feel surreal to see my last name plastered on a jersey that someone has willingly chosen to wear.
“Oh yeah. This is the coolest thing ever. I’ve seen all your videos and watched every single game online with my dad,” he proudly announces as I scribble my signature beneath my last name.
“All of them? Wow. That’s so cool. Thank you so much for being such a big fan,” I say, giving his shoulder a pat before rising back up. “Do you play baseball?”
“Of course I do,” he happily beams as he spins around to face me, and I give back the black marker. “You’re actually my all-time favorite player. And I told my mom that when I grow up, I’m going to be just like you, and I’m going to be the shortstop for the Houston Honky Tonks.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve been told this. I’ve heard it from the mouths of many young fans, but this time it hits differently.
Growing up, I’d watched some of the greats, with my absolute favorite being Derek Jeter of the New York Yankees. Like Blake, I’d also told my parents I was going to be just like him and become a shortstop for the Yankees.
I may not have achieved that, or at least not yet since that door has possibly been opened, but maybe that particular dream is a bit outdated.
Playing with the Honky Tonks, I’ve never been happier. Not only do I have real fans who give me the opportunity to be an actual role model, but I’m now playing baseball without the constant stress of wondering if what I’m doing is enough.
