“I think,” she says carefully, “you’re holding back.”
“I’m not.”
“Your one-oh-two would suggest otherwise.”
Diego’s eyes go huge. “You hit one-oh-two?”
I take a bite of the chicken on my fork, chew, and swallow, giving him a wry look. “Yeah, when no one’s watching. Maybe I’m nervous.”
“You don’t get nervous,” Darius says with a chuckle.
I shrug and take another bite. “Then maybe I’m trying to get a feel for how serious they are about me.”
“How can they know how serious they should get about you until you’ve shown them what you’re capable of?” Scottie asks.
“I’ve shown themplenty.”
Scottie’s holding my gaze through her glasses, clearly frustrated. “You show up for everyone else. Why not for yourself?”
The air gets sucked from my lungs. I’m not sure what we’re talking about anymore.
“You don’t have to be the setup man forever,” she adds.
“I’m not even the setup mannow,” I remind her, keeping back irritation of my own. “I’m getting groomed for a bullpen role that’s not mine yet, and I have a catchy social media handle. I’m playing the long game here, okay?”
I can feel her blue eyes burning into me, but I turn back to my meal, eating slowly, casually, like this whole conversation is between me and my player coordinator. Like she isn’t making me second-guess a lot more than my fastball.
The long game.
I’ve been telling myself that for a year.
Around us, the dining room is alive with the sounds of players laughing and one-upping each other, and I’m willing to bet Diego and Darius wish they could be at any of those tables right now.
The Firebirds’ manager, Joe Scarpetta, walks by us on his way to another table, and for a second, I think Scottie’s goingto rat me out (which might be her job, come to think of it), but when I peek out of the corner of my eye, I see her on her phone, looking annoyed. Then frustrated. Then she puts her phone face down and looks at me.
“We still meeting for twenty after this?” I ask.
“It was fifteen,” she says, “and no. I’m getting pulled into a meeting. You have defensive reps until three after lunch,” Scottie says. “And then sponsor activation in the courtyard at three thirty. Meet and greet, photos, the whole thing. Your agent already signed off. Don’t make me chase you.”
Wouldn’t dream of it.
She gets up, her sandwich only half eaten, and dumps her tray.
I don’t watch her walk out.
Logan sets his tray down across from me a moment later. He just sits there, eating, not looking at me.
That’s worse than anything he could say.
After a minute, I glance at him. “Go ahead.”
He takes a drink of water. Sets it down.
“I didn’t say anything,” he says.
“You don’t have to.”
He looks at me then—one long, level look—and goes back to his food.
