***
I spin my sunglasses around to the back of my head when Logan and I walk into the stadium dining area. I’m jumping like we’re headed for an amusement park while he trudges like we’re going to a funeral.
“If you’re trying to make it easy for everyone to tell us apart, well done,” I say.
He takes the towel from over his shoulder, spins it, and snaps it at me.
I jump out of the way. Baseball pants are decent protection from getting whipped with wet terry cloth, but Logan could go pro in snapping towels at people.
“You’re such a baby,” I say.
The dining room smells like grilled chicken, sunscreen, and so much protein powder. Folding banquet tables stretch across the room, covered in black tablecloths with the Firebird’s logo stamped in repeating gold. Nutrition charts are taped to the walls next to framed photos of last year’s postseason run. Protein shakes hum in blenders near the back, and a couple rookies hover awkwardly near the veterans’ table like it’s a high school cafeteria with multimillion-dollar contracts. Up ahead, Logan nudges me, drawing my attention to Coop, who has two empty seats saved at his table for us. Of course Logan’s going to sit with him instead of sitting with anyone else we know. Coop is an extension of family now, and Logan prefers the known.
I give Coop a nod, but I see someone I’d much rather sit with, someone who’s been the fixed point in every room since the moment I met her.
Someone who’s pretending she didn’t notice me, if her sudden fixation on her sandwich is to be believed. One of the big leaguers grabs Logan, and I use it as an excuse to rush through the buffet line and join Scottie at her table, where Diego and Darius look like they’re already swapping stories.
“Well, good afternoon, Flaps,” I say as I approach. “How is everyone this fine day?”
Diego raises his fork. “Setup Man! Heard you lit up the gun.”
Darius grins. “Yeah, man, you trying to make the closer sweat?”
“It was a good morning,” I say, sliding into the seat across from Scottie.
Mel passes our table on his way to the coaches’ section. He slows just enough to drop a hand on my shoulder. “Good stuff out there today, Fischer.”
“Appreciate it, Mel.” I’m already reaching for my water when Mel moves on. I take a drink.
“You’re feeling pretty good about some pretty good pitches, huh?” Scottie asks.
“Well, yeah. Mel likes them.”
“Oh, Mel likes them,” Scottie says. “I guess that’s all that matters. Do you always strut around the stadium after throwing less than your best?”
Um.
“I’ve been told I should be careful with my arm.”
“Yeah, during late-night bullpen sessions, not when you’re trying to prove yourself to the team.”
Something about our conversation reminds me of the feeling I got when I was a kid and put an entire pack of Big League Chew in my mouth. I felt like I was going to choke on it the whole time. “It’s the first day. I have time still.”
“To impress them or to change your attitude?”
I spear a piece of chicken I’ve lost my appetite for. “You don’t unload everything on day one. That’s how you blow a gasket in July.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I glance at Diego and Darius, suddenly aware they’re listening.
“It’s camp,” I say. “You build. You don’t beg.”
“You’re not fighting for it.”
Her voice isn’t loud, but it cuts. Diego looks between us like he just wandered into a couples therapy session.
I lean back in my chair. “You think I don’t fight?”
