Yes, yes I am.
I just wish I had that caffeine already pumping through me, because I see Sam up ahead right now.
He’s a big, beefy man who looks like he could erect a stadium with his bare hands, and he’s already in motion. He snaps directions at two guys wrestling with a stack of cones and barks to another about keeping Gate C clear when his radio buzzes. I can’t hear what’s said on the other end, but Sam lets out a harried breath and presses a thumb to his radio.
“No, I don’t care if the vendor’s early—tell them they can’t unload until the dock’s cleared,” he says, lowering the radio and cursing under his breath.
My stomach knots.
Last season, Sam took the stadium from something resembling an abandoned bomb shelter to a state-of-the-art professional facility. But mid-season, the league wanted some PR opportunities with Kayla’s snooty ex, and I arranged a few last-minute cosmetic updates before he arrived.
It turned into a logistical nightmare—signage rushed, contractors stacked, timelines that only made sense in my head.
When it all fell apart, Sam tore me a new one. I never told Kayla because—bless her heart—she would’ve blown up and fired him on the spot, not realizing Sam was the best facilities manager in a hundred-mile radius.
Sam didn’t quit. But he came close.
I really need him not to quit now. Whether or not he yells is less of a concern.
I smooth my expression before he sees me. He has a way of looking at me like he thinks I’m one cup of coffee away from a mental breakdown. If this is about to go sideways, it won’t be because I let a single emotion show on my face.
“Morning,” I say, matching his pace.
He grunts, squats down, and adjusts a sprinkler head by a fraction of an inch.
“Did you see my message last night?” I ask.
“Uh-huh,” he says, walking six feet and then squatting to adjust another sprinkler.
“Okay, great. I just wanted to talk through the timing for this afternoon, because I know you’ve got pitchers in early and?—”
“It’s already done,” he says.
I stop short.
“What was that?” I ask, catching up. “What’s done?”
He finally glances at me, his thick eyebrows lifting like he’s talking to a child. “The camp rotation. You want the kids in the practice facility after lunch but ‘promise they won’t mess up the turf.’ I already told the Fischers I don’t have the manpower to get it set up till tomorrow, so they said they’d take care of it. Said I’d thank them when I didn’t have to deal with kids cutting through live bullpens all day.”
“The Fischers … said they’d take care of it?”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “The loud one’s been here since five, but the other one showed up a half hour ago.”
I open my mouth. Close it.
He gestures ahead with a cone. “The quiet one’s dragging the L-screens out to the Annex. Should be pretty obvious in a minute.”
I follow his line of sight—and there it is. A new path taking shape along the edge of the stadium, cones marking a clean, intentional route toward the service gate. Purposeful. Planned. Already happening.
Sam studies my face. “For what it’s worth,” he adds gruffly, “it’s a pain. But it’s safer. Cleaner than yesterday.”
“Right,” I say. “Thank you.”
He grunts and peels off, already back on his radio.
I stay where I am, stainless steel tumbler cold against my palm, watching the path take shape without me. The work I came in early to do is already done. The stress eating a hole in my stomach has vanished.
I’m not a reliever cleaning up someone else’s mess.
