“The blogs ran a photo of me leaving Ink District,” I say. “I’ve been there a few times.”
“For a tattoo.”
“Yes.”
“Multiple late-night visits for a tattoo.”
“The work is detailed. Multiple sessions.”
He holds my gaze. Bishop has the eyes of someone who has heard every version of every story and filed them all for future reference. “How much of it is done?”
“Most of it.”
“So, you’re nearly finished with your reasons for being there.”
The question is surgical. He’s not asking about ink.
“The work’s good,” I say. “I’ll probably go back.”
A silence develops between us that has a structural quality to it, like load-bearing quiet. He’s waiting for me to fill it. I don’t.
“The owner,” he says finally. Choosing the word with care, the way you choose a pitch for a particular batter. NotAva. Notmy daughter. The professional distance ofthe owner.
“Ava Bishop,” I say, because I’m not going to pretend I don’t know who she is when we both know I know. “Yes.”
“You’ve met her.”
“The first time I went in, she turned me away. Studio policy, no athletes.”
“She’s smart,” he says, and the two words carry the weight of a man who raised the person he’s describing.
“She is.”
“What changed?”
“She made an exception.”
“For the tattoo.”
“For the tattoo,” I confirm.
Another silence. Not conversational this time, the kind that precedes something.
Bishop stands. He moves to the whiteboard, studies the rotation schedule for a moment as though something on it requires attention, then turns back around. It’s the movement of a man who needs a second before he says the thing he’s decided to say, which for Bishop is unusual enough to be notable. He doesn’t often need seconds.
“Reece…” He uses my first name about three times a season. Twice during contract conversations and once when Martinez blew his knee in September, and we all thought it was worse than it was. “You’re the best pitcher on this staff. Possibly the best I’ve coached.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not complimenting you. I’m framing a conversation.”
“Understood.”
“You’re twenty-seven. Your ERA is in the top five across both leagues. Contract extension is imminent. You have a five-year window ahead of you, minimum, where you can be the best in the game if you make the right choices.” He pauses. “Do you understand what I mean by right choices?”
“I understand what you mean.”
“Then you understand that distractions at this point in your career aren’t inconveniences. They’re risks.” His voice doesn’t change but stays at the same level, the same register. Controlled, which is somehow worse than anger. “I’ve watched this before. Not once. Dozens of times. A player with everything ahead of him gets tangled up in something personal, something that seems manageable, and the management of it takes energy his game needed. The numbers dip. The confidence wobbles. The deal he was offered six months ago isn’t the deal on the table now.”
