“I know it’s hard, but you’ll make a team,” Dad stated.
An hour later, neither Dylan nor I had been selected.
My phone screen lit up, and for half a second, my heart felt as though it had stopped. I held my breath, glanced at the screen, and saw that it was my mom video-calling me.
“It’s Mom,” I said, grabbing the phone and swiping my finger across the screen to answer. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, honey. We’re watching and just wanted to check in on how you’re doing.”
I lifted a shoulder. “You know, I’m about to drink my worries away.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think that would be smart. Do you think a team will love it when they call and their prospect is slurring their words?”
“No.” I lowered my head.
I tilted the phone slightly to show Dylan the screen. “Hey, Jamie.”
“Hey, sweetie. Cammie and I are rooting for you both.”
“Thanks,” he replied.
Gage leaned over the back of the couch to come into view of the camera. “We’ve got them, James. You just keep Cammie from starting a riot on social media.”
Mom laughed. “I’ll try. Love you, boys.”
“Love you,” Dylan and I said, and I hung up, then flipped the phone face up on the coffee table again.
Round two bled into three. I tracked every pick, watching teams select players I’d never thought would be drafted. Why hadn’t either of us been selected?
“Eat,” Dad ordered, not looking away from the TV. “Low blood sugar makes everything worse.”
I took a bite of a slider, but I couldn’t taste it.
The next shortstop went at the top of the third round to a team I’d thought might pick me. Two outfielders later, Dylan swore under his breath and scrubbed both hands over his face.
“This is stupid. We worked our asses off, and we’re just … waiting to be named.”
“You’re not just names,” Gage said. “You’re ballplayers. That hasn’t changed.”
We kept watching until finally I said, “If we don’t go tonight?—”
“If.” Dad cut me a don’t-borrow-trouble look, but his thumb kept rubbing over his wedding band and didn’t stop.
“A lot of guys don’t,” Gage stated. “A lot of great players. Then they go back and make teams regret it.”
“Or sign as undrafted free agents and still make it,” Dad added. “There are several ways in. This is just one.”
Dylan tapped his heel against the coffee table leg. “Feels like this is the only one.”
Dad leaned forward. “It’s not. There’s always the next draft. If you don’t make it this year, we’ll get you in front of the right people. I promise.”
I wasn’t sure how he could promise that, except that he was obviously well-known in the MLB world. Maybe he’d pull some strings and get us onto a team in Japan or Korea. But was that what I really wanted?
However, as the first day of the draft ended, we had gotten no phone call.
Dylan didn’t move. My own breath pressed hard against my ribs, as if I’d run and never stopped.
“That’s it?” he asked, even though the answer sat in a neat graphic:
