“How long has she had access to your schedule?” Mack asks.
“She doesn’t.”
“Not your schedule. Your habits. Where you go after games.”
I sit with this for about five seconds and reach a conclusion I don’t enjoy. “She knows my post-game routine. I don’t change it much. Stadium exit, players’ lot, home, or—” I stop.
“Or Ink District,” Mack finishes.
“She doesn’t know about Ava.”
“She knows you’ve been to a specific studio multiple times after games. She knows enough.” He leans back against his locker. “You need to talk to Ava before she sees this.”
I’m already texting her.
My agent calls at eleven.
Derek Paulson has been repping me since the beginning, has the energy of a man permanently on his third coffee of the morning, regardless of the hour, and uses complete sentences with startling efficiency. When he calls with casual conversation, it lasts four minutes. When he calls about something real, it lasts two.
This call lasts ninety seconds.
“Management wants to move on the contract extension,” he says without preamble. “They’re ready to open discussions. Numbers are good. Timeline is favorable. There’s one thing…”
“Say it.”
“They want the next three months clean, PR-wise.” A pause. “Steele, you know I don’t care about your personal life… I care about your market value. Right now, you’re peaking. Career-best ERA, strikeout numbers are outstanding, and every analyst with a platform is talking about you. The extension should be straightforward.”
“But.”
“ButSportsBeatran a post this morning, and two other outlets picked it up by nine o’clock. Mystery woman, repeated visits, ex-girlfriend weighing in. You know how this plays.”
“It plays as nothing because it is nothing.”
“It plays as a distraction. You know management, they love winning, and they’re terrified of anything they can’t control.” Another pause, shorter. “Is there a woman?”
I stare at the hallway ceiling I’ve ducked into. A fluorescent bulb flickers once at the far end, which feels apt.
“Derek.”
“Yes or no is fine.”
“Yes. And no. It’s complicated, and it has zero effect on my game.”
“Your game is the best argument in your favor, which is why I’m telling you now rather than in three months when it matters more. Keep the game clean and the headlines manageable, and this extension is the easiest conversation I’ve had in five years.” He shifts. “I’m not telling you what to do with your personal life. I’m telling you what we’re working with.”
“Understood.”
“Numbers, Reece. Keep giving them numbers.” He hangs up.
I stand in the hallway with my phone in my hand and the distant sound of the team running drills somewhere below me. I think about numbers, what it looks like from management’s position, and what three months of clean headlines buys me.
And what suppressing this for three months could cost in return.
Ava’s response comes in at two in the afternoon, right as I’m finishing a bullpen session.
Ava:I saw the post.
I wipe sweat off my face with the hem of my shirt and type back.
