Her jaw slackened. “What? Come on. No you are not.” She stood and spun around, truly looking for cameras.
“What can I say,” Zeke said. “Your dad is awesome.” For a very brief moment, Julian fell in love with Zeke and forgot why he generally found him solipsistic and annoying. “Wait, I have the best idea,” Zeke continued. “You must come to Thanksgiving. I’m putting together a big feast, and Simone, your dad has told me all about what a superstar player you are, and so I insist that you come.”
“You told Zeke Rodriguez about my college career?” Simone reminded Julian now of who she was as a teenager. The edges of her mouth tilted up, as if she didn’t want to smile in her father’s presence, but also, she couldn’t help it. Also, she had perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth, a smile that Julian had paid through the roof for, and his heart levitated every time he saw it. His headache was nearly forgotten just at the sight of her happiness.
“Did he tell me about your college career?” Zeke bellowed. “I can’t get your old man to shut up about it.”
Now Zeke was exaggerating, but Julian wasn’t about to stop him. They’d had three conversations about Simone, and certainly, yes, of course, Julian was proud as hell about her spiking record and her senior year undefeated streak. But mostly Julian always preferred to listen, found that you learned much more about things that way.
“Can you rewind?” Simone said to the both of them. “And explain to me how my father, candy store proprietor of Queens, suddenly gets FaceTime calls from the best pitcher in the MLB?”
“I have to say,” Zeke said, “I’m a little offended that your dad didn’t tell you that he’s friends with the best pitcher in the MLB. Though I have to be honest and say that my career might be over.”
“Oh, your career isn’t over,” Simone said. “And my dad has a lot of secrets. So maybe I shouldn’t be surprised actually.”
“Well, you can’t just say that and not tell me,” Zeke replied. “You have to share at least one of his secrets.”
“Zeke, can I call you Zeke?”
Zeke cackled on the other end of the FaceTime. This man got high off attention, Julian thought.
“Well, Zeke, if I knew what his secrets were, then they wouldn’t be secrets, right?”
Right then, thank god, Julian’s buzzer rang.
“Food is here, Zeke,” Julian said. “We gotta go.”
“Wait!”
“What?”
“Simone,” Zeke said. “Promise me you’ll come to Thanksgiving. I’ll tell you all the ways your dad is cooler than you give him credit for, and you can tell me all of his secrets.”
Simone raised her eyebrows and beamed.
“Okay,” she said. “That’s a deal.”
Julian disconnected the call, an uncertain pit planting seeds in his stomach. On the one hand, he was flush with gratitude that Zeke had managed to find a way to get Simone to stick around for the week.
On the other hand, he did indeed have plenty of secrets.
23
Night Eight
Zeke
Zeke hung upwith Julian and was thinking about it again, the moment that ruined everything. His team told him that he was a champion, that he was going to make his way back, but he suspected they were just panicking at the thought of their moneymaker hanging up his glove, and trying to keep him calm so he devoted himself to his physical therapy. But for the first time in a long time, Zeke was starting to think he was just a specimen, there for everyone else to examine, to put in a bottle and stare at. He used to love the game, the adrenaline of a perfect pitch, the high of a strikeout, the rush of a pennant series. But now he’d allowed himself to care about something other than the zip of electricity at the stadium when he took the mound, about the thirst for winning, the thirst for being the best. Now he cared about Sybil. And Julian. And Betty.
Timothy wanted him to start seeing the sports psychologist again. He’d proposed it earlier that morning under the guise of being altruistic. They were sitting in Zeke’s kitchen drinking smoothies prescribed by his nutritionist, and Zeke was thinkingabout Sybil, who occupied the better part of his brain these days, and also if he could tame this motherfucking eyelid spasm before Timothy noticed and insisted on another medical appointment. He had pressed the top of his eye with his good hand, and Timothy had not said a word.
“Please cut the shit, Timothy,” Zeke had said. “It doesn’t matter if my head is on straight. My arm isn’t.”
“Buddy—”
Zeke suddenly realized how much he hated being calledbuddy. He and Timothy weren’t buddies. Timothy worked for him. Timothy profited from him. This didn’t mean that Timothy wasn’t on his side. Most of the time he was. But they weren’tfriends. Timothy’s retirement was fully paid for thanks to Zeke’s last contract deal. There were strings attached; there were conflicting interests.
“I don’t want to meet with a psychologist,” Zeke said. “I don’t think anything’s wrong with me.”
