Lucas
It doesn’t make someone selfish to think about what they want from time to time.
Scottie
I’ll let her know.
Lucas
Am I being too subtle? I’m talking about you.
Scottie
Thanks, but I don’t need the pep talk.
Lucas
You need the pep talk.
Scottie
No, I need to get this email sent off before breakfast. See you down there?
Lucas
I’ll be the one in neon.
I put my phone down and go back to work, hoping he doesn’t push the wholelet people inthing. And also maybe hoping he does.
I may not be craving Lucas, but something tells me he’s habit-forming.
***
True to his word, Lucas is wearing yet another branded neon hoodie when he shows up to breakfast promptly at seven, tray in hand, loading it with scrambled eggs, turkey sausage, a mountain of roasted sweet potatoes, and a bowl of berries like he’s fueling a small army instead of one six-foot-two reliever. He drinks plain water, showing a kind of discipline I don’t understand and don’t want to. He nods at the strength coach on his way past, claps another player on the shoulder, and somehow still finds me without looking like he’s looking for me.
He and Logan both join me at my table, and soon, so do the other few Mudflaps on the 40-man I’ve been assigned to work with.
But only one of them has his foot casually pressed against mine.
If anyone were to look under the table, they’d think the table was just cramped.
They’d be wrong.
Never have I been so aware of my own foot. I didn’t realize it could be so sensitive, even through a pair of sneakers. It’s not like Lucas is rubbing my foot with his, either. They’re both just there. Together.
So why am I sweating?
I try to turn my focus to the table, but it’s hard when no one here is as interesting as Lucas’s foot. But I force myself to look at them. Think about them.
Diego, twenty-three, electric arm and nerves that make Logan’s look nonexistent; Darius, quiet, observant, built like a freight train; and Arturo, who looks like he’s still surprised anyone pays him to throw a baseball.
All of the non-roster invitees and most of the 40-man guys are staying here at the resort—close to the complex with easy shuttle access.
The vibe is half summer camp, half corporate retreat, and the air is thick with what I can only callbrozone.
I’ve breathed that air my whole life.
My group has a lot of questions, and once my attention is mostly off the fact that my foot is pressed against Lucas’s under the table, I get my bearings. I go over the day twice, remind them that they literally can’t get lost, assure them there’ll be staff and coaches everywhere, and promise to physically walk them to every meeting. If they end up stranded, it’s because they actively chose chaos.
