My fingers were dripping with sauce. Rather than lick them off like I might at home or with the team, I reached for a napkin from the dispenser in the table’s center. Jacks’s hand shot out at the same moment, and our hands collided, his fingers brushing against mine. The touch was nothing—accidental and meaningless—but warmth shot up my arm and settled somewhere behind my ribs.
Jacks jerked his hand back, grabbing the napkin and handing it to me. “Sorry.”
“No worries.”
Was his face a little flushed? I chided myself. It was the hot sauce. That had to be it.
We ate and chatted. Another server made the bus-to-bus journey, this time carrying what looked like enough food for an entire family.
A kid at a nearby table was trying to convince hismom that he could eat a burrito bigger than his head.
Life buzzed around us, ordinary and chaotic and perfect.
I asked about Jacks’s time at FSU, and he told me stories I’d never heard in any interview—the hazing rituals, the brutal two-a-days, the teammate who’d once smuggled a live chicken into the locker room as a prank.
“A live chicken?”
“His name was Colonel Sanders. He lived in the equipment room for three days before anyone noticed.”
“How do you hide a chicken for three days? Don’t they, I don’t know, cluck and shit? I mean, literally shit? And cluck?”
“That, my friend, came down to the dedication of three players and a complete lack of regard for health codes.”
I laughed so hard I nearly choked on myhorchata.
“What about you?” he asked. “Any good team stories?”
“Oh God, where do I start.” I wiped my eyes and tried to compose myself. “Murph alone could fill a book. Last road trip, he convinced the entire hotel staff in Vancouver that Erik only spoke Swedish and needed a translator for everything.”
“Let me guess. Murph was the translator.”
“Of course, Murph was the translator. Erik had no idea until he tried to order room service and the guy on the phone kept asking Murph to relay messages.” I shook my head at the memory. “The best part was the stuff Murph was ‘translating.’ He told them Erik needed seventeen pillows because of a rare Swedish sleeping condition, that he required all his food to be served at precisely ninety-seven degrees, and that he was a minor member of the Swedish royal family traveling incognito and we all had to pretend not to know, though he expected all staff to bow or curtsy in his presence.”
“Did they believe it?”
“They upgraded him to a suite. With seventeen pillows. When we left for our next city, the entire staff lined up between the doors and the bus to send him off. Every last one bowed and muttered, ‘Your Majesty,’ as he passed.”
“No!”
“I have photos.” I took another bite of my taco.
Jacks laughed, and the sound made me want to keep being funny, keep earning that reaction. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worked this hard to make someone laugh.
We finished our food and ordered another round ofhorchatabecause Jacks insisted I needed to “fully appreciate the experience.” Theseating area had filled up around us with families and couples and groups of friends all crammed onto mismatched picnic tables, but I barely noticed. The world had narrowed tothistable,thisconversation, andthisperson sitting across from me.
“Can I ask you something?” Jacks said, his tone shifting.
“Sure.”
“What’s it like? Being captain of a major league team?”
I thought for a moment. I’d been asked that a hundred times in interviews, and I had the standard answers memorized, complete with themes of honor, responsibility, and leading by example, but I couldn’t give Jacks a canned answer, not when he stared at me with those deep brown eyes like my words might mean something.
“Honestly? It’s kind of lonely, sometimes,” I admitted. “Everyone looks to me for answers, but I can’t always show when I’m struggling. I mean, I’m not allowed to struggle. It’s part of wearing the C. I have to be steady even when I feel like I’m falling apart.”
Jacks cocked his head. “You? Feel like you’re falling apart sometimes?”
My chuckle was wry. “Yeah, more than you might think.”
