Everything I worked for, my whole life. And somehow, it doesn’t feel like winning.
He pulls up and lets me out at The Hilton. Well, at least I’ll have fresh sheets tonight.
The clubhouse the next day is louder than I expected.
It’s a different kind of loud. Not the loose, joking-around energy from Riverbend.
This is sharper and a little faster.
Everyone’s got something to prove. You can feel the egos oozing out from all the different characters on the team.
“Hey!”
I look up, and a couple guys are already clocking me, seeing how I measure up.
One of them grins.
“Well if it isn’t Babe Ruth himself,” he says. “Field of Dreamscalled—they want their storyline back.”
Another guy snorts. “Kevin Costner’s gonna be pissed you stole his thunder, Cornboy.”
I give a small nod.
“Yeah. Something like that.”
They laugh, not in a mean way necessarily. They’re just testing me. But I’m not in the mood.
I head to my locker and see my brand new nameplate with orange and blue colors.
LOGAN WADE
It still feels surreal to be here. It’s so funny that when you achieve a dream, it’s never what you thought it’d be like.
I barely have time to sit down before I hear my name.
“Logan.”
I look up and see my new manager standing there.
“Got a minute?” He doesn’t exactly grin.
“Of course.”
“Our third baseman’s out,” he says. “Tore his ACL yesterday.”
“So I heard.”
A beat passes, like he’s waiting for me to say something else. I don’t.
“So you’re in tonight. Starting at third. Batting seventh.”
I nod. “Sounds good.”
He studies me for a second, like he’s waiting for something else.
“Damn, buddy,” he says finally. “You excited or what?”
“For sure.”
