But he’s not in the wrong here. As the manager of the New York Monarchs, my team should call me Skipper or Weston. But when I was initially hired—after I spent five years keeping my distance from the sport—I was supposed to be the pitching coach. But our new general manager and now majority teamowner, Luisa Álvarez, gave me a promotion before the ink on myfirstcontract was barely dry.
I’d already become partial to the relationship I developed with the team as one of many coaches and didn’t like the idea of having too much attention on me… once again. Something I should have thought through before I signed on the dotted line, because no matter what I tell them to call me, there’s always going to be the murmured chatter behind my back.
I may try to convince myself that the attention is because I’m Luke Weston, the youngest manager in MLB history and not the former World Series champion who ran away from the sport after the unthinkable happened.
The headlines wouldn’t stop, and people only cared about my personal life from that point on, no matter how many home runs I’d achieved during our pivotal game seven.
So I did what I do best. I ran.
I thought I’d never set foot on a field again. Yet here I am, like I never left, even though I look like a completely different person. Instead of the lean build that helped me steal bases faster than any player on my team, I’ve bulked up thanks to all the time I spent doing manual labor up north.
Alone.
I traded in the cleanly shaved face that regularly got invited to movie premieres for the overgrown beard that could probably use a trim and the ever-present scowl that apparently does nothing to keep people from invading my space.
“Damn, poor Tom is never going to get that shot of you smiling before he retires, is he?”
Here we go again. “I’m here to help you guys win, Martinez. Not pose and smile for the cameras. That’s what they pay you the big bucks for.”
He grins easily. “Yeah, they do. Although the strikeouts and shutout games don’t hurt either.” He winks as his eyes scan thecrowd, his expression growing warmer when they settle on his daughter and fiancée.
I ignore the pang of jealousy that takes root in my chest. Mateo is a good guy and deserves all the happiness in the world. I sometimes need to remind myself that men like me are not meant to have someone waiting in the stands for them. Things are exactly as they should be.
Or so I tell myself.
I make a noncommittal sound. “Just make sure not to punch anyone on the field this season. Then maybe we’ll snag that World Series win.”
The jab doesn’t land as my starting pitcher smirks. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you told Luisa that you’d have done worse had you been in my situation.” I stare blandly at him as he raises his hands, backing away from me. “All right, all right, don’t you worry. I’m back on my best behavior, promise.” He chuckles. “Besides, have you seen the jersey Isabella is wearing today?”
I force myself to hold in another sigh. “Can’t say I have.”
“It says ‘Future Mrs. Martinez.’” He fucking beams at me as if we’re supposed to hold hands and jump around in a circle in excitement.
“Great. This game should be a sure win then. If I see you slipping, I’ll have Luisa swap out Isa’s jersey for Middlebrooks’s and see if that keeps you in line.”
He stops his retreat abruptly as his eyes narrow at me. “You wouldn’t dare. And here I was about to ask you to be a groomsman.”
I pinch the top of my nose while tilting my head down. “You’re going to give me a headache today, aren’t you?”
I can hear the smile in his voice. “So is that a yes?”
I mutter a curse under my breath. “If you want me there, then I’m there. You know that.” I keep my eyes closed as I try torub away the pressure building behind them at the mention of another wedding. Seems like they’ve taken over my life lately.
Nick Stonehaven, our team owner, and Luisa got hitched again last month in the Dominican Republic. Mateo and Isabella are planning something small in the summer since we’ll be in the middle of the season. Then they’ll have a big celebration during the winter holidays while we’re in the offseason.
And then there’s…Three days, two hours, and thirty-five minutes.
I shake my head as Mateo carries on. “Yeah, I kind of figured you’d be on board, but if Isabella asks, I’ll say that you teared up a bit and I left you speechless.”
I open my eyes and give him a bored look. He smiles as he continues to make his way toward the gate that will take him closer to Isabella’s seat behind us. “Wow. Speechless, just like I said. Who knew coaches took directions so well?”
“Martinez.”
“Yeah?”
“Fuck off.”
“Love you too, Weston.” He runs off.
