Gage parkedhis truck in the coach’s lot, and then we headed into the clubhouse, making our way to my father’s office. He was at his desk, engrossed in something, but when I knocked, he looked up and beamed.
“Hey, Dad,” I greeted.
He came around the desk and pulled me in. He hugged Dylan next then stepped back and looked us over. “You two look like you’ve been partying more than practicing.”
“It’s summer break,” I deadpanned.
“You’re still playing summer ball,” he stated.
He was right, but it was more relaxed for us than during the season. Or at least that was how Dylan and I treated it.
“Yeah, but it’s not as intense as the regular season,” I argued.
“No, but it’s for showcasing your skills to scouts and for your development.”
Before more could be said, Parker walked up behind us. “Look who’s here.” He clapped us on the back. “Word on thestreet is that this year’s draft might have some familiar names called.”
Aron Parker was the Seawolves’ manager and an eight-time All-Star who had won a World Series while playing for the San Francisco Giants. I’d known him since I was seven, when he was traded to the Colorado Rockies and played with my dad.
“Hope so,” I replied.
“I’ve put in a good word for you two. Who knows? Maybe you’ll be Seawolves next season.” He winked.
“That would be amazing!” Dylan boomed.
I wouldn’t mind being coached again by my father, and having Aron Parker as a skipper would be epic.
“The draft is nerve-racking, but the dream is worth it,” Parker said.
Two nights later,we were at my dad and Gage’s place, watching the draft on the TV, rain sliding down the kitchen window, and Gage lining the island with trays of sliders, wings, and vegetables. Dad set plates beside the spread and opened a backup stream on his tablet so nothing stalled if the app on the TV glitched. Dylan was pacing while I sat on the couch, my leg bouncing with nerves.
Gage handed me a bottle of water and a napkin. “Keep your hands clean. If a call comes in, you don’t want to wait to wipe your fingers off.”
“Then why did you make wings?” I teased.
He glared playfully. “Your dad and I can still eat them.”
“Dylan, sit down. You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” Dad said to him.
“I can’t sit. I’m too nervous,” Dylan answered, then continued to pace.
My phone buzzed with a Loop from my sister, Cammie. In the video-style app, she was pointing at the TV with the caption:Pick Jase and Dylan already, followed by a siren sticker. I sent back hearts and left the phone face up so the screen could flash who was calling.
The commissioner started his script, and the broadcast cut from the desk to a prospect’s home watch party. They’d stacked lights in the guy’s living room and wired a mic under his collar. None of that was in our house. No camera vans on our street, no producer at the door, no clipboard with our names on it. We hadn’t asked for coverage, and no one had offered. I told myself I preferred it that way, but I was becoming less sure.
“Breathe,” Gage reminded us in a low voice.
Round one rolled by with a couple of surprises and no UCLA Bruins selected. Early in round two, a catcher who’d been hyped since February went off the board, and the Mariners grabbed a right-handed high school pitcher.
My dad folded his arms and watched the crawl without blinking, checking who still needed a shortstop, who needed an outfielder, and where our names might land.
I looked from the screen to the plate in my lap and back again, then slid the untouched slider onto the coffee table. I was too nervous to eat.
Gage leaned an arm on the back of the couch, resting a hand on my shoulder, then on Dylan’s. “You’re not numbers on a ticker.”
“I know,” I answered, keeping my eyes fixed on the names rolling past.
“Do we?” Dylan asked. “Or are we just pretending because we have to stay hopeful?”
