Me:How bad is it from your end?
Three minutes pass.
Ava:Zoe found it this morning. She’s thrilled. I told her nothing.
Me:Smart.
Ava:She’s going to figure it out.
Me:How much does Zoe talk?
Ava:Fortunately, only to me and her plants. Unfortunately, her plants are not under any contractual silence agreement.
I laugh out loud in the middle of an empty bullpen, which is the kind of thing Ava does to me without trying. I’m standing in cleats on a practice mound with my arm still warm from the session, and I’m laughing at a text message like a man who has completely lost the plot.
Me:Did you see Lena’s comment?
The dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Ava:Yes.
Me:She’s behind the original post. Or she fed the source. I don’t know which.
Ava:Does it matter?
Me:It matters because it means she’s watching us. And if she’s watching, she knows more than what’s in the photo.
A longer pause this time.
Ava:How much more could she know?
And here’s the problem with texting instead of having this conversation in person. I can’t read her face. I can’t tell if she’s scared, angry, or retreating behind the walls she spent six weeks carefully dismantling. The message sits flat on a screen and gives me nothing.
Me:Enough to imply without confirming. She’s a professional at this.
Ava:What does she want?
Me:Same thing she’s always wanted. Attention and leverage.
Ava:Over you or over me?
Me:Both, probably. But mostly over me.
I consider whether to add the next part and decide that honesty is the only policy worth having with her.
Me:My agent called. Management wants the contract extension to go smoothly. They’re nervous about the coverage.
There’s a pause long enough that I wonder if she’s put the phone down.
Ava:How nervous?
Me:Manageable.
Ava:That’s not a number.
Me:They want three months of clean headlines.
The dots appear and disappear twice. I wait, turning my cap forward and then backward again because I need to keep my hands busy.
