Another reporter stands, and I blow out a breath, wanting this to be the fuck over. “Foster, there were cameras on the dugout all night. You looked… angry from the start. Not locked in.”
“I am angry. We were losing and ultimately lost. If that reads as ‘something going on,’ something’s going on. We’re not winning the games we should be winning.”
“But don’t confuse emotion with fracture. We all care, and sometimes that noise is loud,” Decker says.
“We’re not broken. We’re frustrated,” Hayes adds. “Next.”
“Hayes, you went to the mound in the ninth, and it looked like an argument. Foster didn’t even look at you when you walked away. You two are usually in sync.”
Hayes straightens to answer without a glance to me, but I quickly interject. “I’ll take this one. Hayes is doing his job. He’s trying to slow the moment down. I’m trying to speed it up. That’s the push-pull between a catcher and a closer. I’m sure it looked bad?—”
“But we’re best friends. And we’ve worked together a long time. He’s the one out there doing most of the work. We have each other’s backs.”
Fucking hell, Carlisle. Don’t say that shit right now.
The same reporter stands, and I wish he’d leave well enough alone. “Are you two okay?”
Hayes laughs. “Well, he’d rather chew glass than admit he needs a breather.”
The room laughs, and it breaks the tension, but I shake my head.
Hayes points at another reporter, who says, “This is for Foster. At the end of the game, you pushed Drew Triggs against the dugout wall. Was it just teammates messing around, or was it serious?”
A camera clicks as my jaw tics.
I take a cleansing breath before I answer. “What, no one wants to talk to Decker or Easton?” A few laughs trickle through the gaggle of reports, but I only buy myself a few seconds. “Drew and I had words. I put my hands on him. That’s not okay. Period. It doesn’t matter what was said, it doesn’t matter how heated it got—I was in the wrong.”
Another reporter stands. “That’s a first. You admitting you were wrong. Did you apologize to Triggs too?”
Who is this fool? Drew’s dad?
I flash a smile that likely makes me look like an asshole. “Not yet. I thought he’d be in this room with me. But I guess I’m the lucky one.”
Easton tugs the mic in front of him. “We all have egos, and sometimes we cross lines. It goes both ways. And I can assure you if Foster felt the need to put Drew in his place, there was a reason for it.”
I stare down the line, and my shoulders lose the tension that’s been locked there all day. Shit, I’ve never had a player besides Hayes stick up for me. Easton nods at me.
“We’ll handle that ourselves.” Hayes points at a reporter who hasn’t asked a question yet. “Next.”
“When something like that happens, people wonder if the clubhouse has a leadership problem. Who’s leading this team right now? You, Hayes?”
“It has nothing to do with leadership. We’re a new team, and we have some rookies. We’re working out kinks. And as to who is the leader, our manager, Ripley, is our leader.”
Decker leans into the mic. “We’re all adults. We know when to be accountable. How about we focus on the game instead of searching for issues that don’t exist?”
A reporter stands without Hayes calling on them. “There have been reports about a competition and cliques within the team.”
“I assure you we’re not in high school.” Decker shakes his head.
“Every clubhouse has groups. Guys who are closer than others. But we’re a very close-knit group,” Hayes says.
I’m not sure I agree, at least in Drew’s case.
Another reporter stands and stares at me before voicing a question.
“I guess I’m the man of the hour, huh?” I do my best to keep the irritation out of my voice.
Another quiet laugh rings through the room.
