“I agree,” he finally says.
“Excellent,” Molly interjects.
She pulls a new form out, and we spend the next few minutes filling each of our parts out with our lawyers. I balk a little that his lawyer is the one who will file the plan with the court, but that’s my paranoia feeding into my mind. There are witnesses in here. And by the time I tell the boys their father said okay to them playing tee ball, there’s no way he’ll be able to take that back. None of this is easy, and I hate feeling as though I’m fighting for territory rather than my children. It’s hard not to let my emotions get in the mix, but I swore when I walked away from my marriage that I would put the boys first. If what’s best for them is spending more time with their father, I will find the strength to support it.
So help me, God.
NINETEEN
BROOKS
It’s a big game for me. If I perform in the next two series, there’s a slim chance Texas will call me up for a game or two. They’ve blown their season, so now’s the time when everything is on the table. They’re going to evaluate everyone, top to bottom, and maybe make some moves. It’s my last big chance before the winter meetings to show I’m the right man to slide into short.
My glove is good, but it’s my bat that’s going to get me there. I need to keep hitting bombs. Driving in runs. And getting fans excited. I hate that the experience for them is as much on the table as my skills on the field, but this game is a business. Everything is for sale. Including personality.
“Hey, Callahan. PR has that interview set up and is waiting for you in the media room. Lots of fancy lights. Try not to sweat,” Adler says, laying a hand on my shoulder with a little extra weight and a chuckle.
Adler’s a toxic piece of shit, and the reason he got sent down from Texas was to work on his attitude. So far, all he’s worked is everyone’s nerves. I made the mistake a few months back of getting drunk with him, and told him things I wish I hadn’t—about Holly, about how she showed up on my doorstep, and that at first I was afraid to keep her. It was an honest moment, andI went through the same emotions most people would in my situation. It’s just that I went on to share my truth with the one guy who likes to hang things over people’s heads for sport.
I begged Daisy—Roddy’s . . .girl? I’m not sure what the fuck is up with them—to watch Holly for the night so I could get my head straight, then I barreled into the woods with the guys and got shitfaced. It was the only time I felt like my parents, and after I threw up most of my insides the next morning, I made a promise never to act like them again. And I made a commitment to giving Holly everything.
All Adler remembers, though, is the scared kid who suddenly had a baby and was thinking about running away from his problems. And now he’s jealous because I’m having the season he’s being paid to have, and the media is paying attention to me. My gut says after this season, Adler gets released. They won’t even bother to designate him for assignment—who the hell would pick him up? He’s hitting one seventeen.
“Hey, thanks for being such a great stage assistant and coming to get me,” I say, pushing buttons I know are a bit raw for him.
“Fuck off,” he says as I leave him alone in the clubhouse. I smirk as I make my way down the hall.
Adler got one thing right—the lights are a bit much in here. It’s not a very big room. We don’t hold a big media briefing after games in Sweetwater. The only reason this room exists is because of the year the team got the hall-of-famer Jose Contreras back from injury and he was doing his rehab pitching in Sweetwater. Every sports media outlet in existence wanted a piece of his story, so the team owner gave up his office. Now, it’s my stage.
“Brooks! Hey, man. Thanks for taking the time,” the reporter says. His name is Ted, but I forget the last name. He’s withTheAthletic, a monthly that’s still trying to exist in print. It gets a lotof readers, mostly online, and everything I say to him will shape his story. Since I’m trying to sell Texas on the whole package, I crank my smile up a notch.
“No problem, Ted. Thanks for coming out.” There’s a glimmer in his eyes when I say his name, and I lock that away as one chip in my favor.
“Take a seat,” he says, gesturing to the stool set up amid the bevy of lights
“Interrogation or interrogation?” I joke.
He chuckles, then hands me the mic to clip on the edge of my collar. I try to hide it as best I can, but I’m wearing a Mavericks undershirt and my uniform pants for the game tonight. I’m heading right out of this room to the field.
“It’s fine. People are sort of used to seeing the equipment on the video podcast.”
I nod and settle into the seat, doing my best to get comfortable on a stool half the size of my ass. I stretch out my legs and fold my hands in my lap.
“Let’s just talk for a bit, until you’re comfortable. Then we can get into it, yeah?”
I nod. “Sounds good.”
“Sweet, sweet.” Ted seems nervous, which oddly makes me feel less so. The only interviews I’ve really done were in college, for the campus paper, and a few for the local Sweetwater rag. This is a big step up for me.
“You cover a lot of baseball? I was checking out some of your stories, and I saw that piece you did on Jarvis when he retired from the Falcons. That was a great look into his mindset at the end of a great career. Really nice work.” I did my research.
“Wow, thanks.” He grabs at the back of his neck, his cheeks glowing red and not from the lights like mine probably are. “Uh . . . yeah. That piece was a one-off for me. I grew up in Atlanta, and Jarvis was the man, you know? But other than thatone, mostly it’s always been baseball. I love this game. Grew up pretending to be one of you guys one day. The wholebottom of the ninth, two outskind of thing.”
I chuckle and hum, “Yeah.” It’s a universal core memory we’re sharing.
“How about you, Brooks? Was it always baseball?” He sits back and glances at his camera lens, and I’m instantly aware that our conversation is now for real.
I glance up and mash my lips with my thought.
