What…is happening right now? “Fifteen,” I say slowly. Shot at shortstop position?
“Well…catch you on the field.”
I don’t respond, and his smile falters slightly, but I blink, and it’s back in full-blinding force. He salutes with the tip of his cap and heads for the field.
He looks like he just rode a wave straight into Spring Training camp. He’s a non-roster invitee, which means the coaches see something in him. The question is, how good isthis kid? And considering how awful my few games went last season, is my spot at shortstop actually at risk?
Fuck.
This is my year.
Apparently, there might be something standing in my way after all.
Shane Michaels.
TWO
SHANE
I’m buzzing.My skin is alive. It’s like my blood is set on vibrate.
I’m inbig league camp.
As in Spring Training with the literal Jetties. Major League ballplayers. I’m going to be doing drills side by side with them. Is this real life?
I lift my wrist to my lips and kiss my collection of bracelets. It’s meant for one in particular, though. The blue beaded bracelet—the blue is so faded at this point it’s a muted gray. I’ve worn those beads since I was seven years old. That bracelet has been restrung countless times. It was the first bracelet Mom and I made together.
I start with some side-shuffles. I want to loosen up. I already hit the batting cages. I just need some fresh air to get into the right mindset before our first ever practice at the big kid playground.
I don’t remember it too well, but Mom told me I’d chosen the blue beads because they reminded me of her eye color. We have the same absurdly blue eyes. Blond, wilyhair too. We’re pretty much the same person. My mom is a badass fucking woman. I’d be honored to grow up to be half the person she is.
It was hard for us to find time to spend together growing up, what with Mom working two jobs trying to keep us afloat. Which meant we didn’t have much money to go around for activities or material things. But we had our bracelets and beads. It gave us a way to carry each other around when we couldn’t be with each other. Our promise to each other we’d never leave, that we’d always be there for each other.
Unlike him.
I change to some lateral shuffling with hip openers. I’ve asked that man to come to my games, mychampionships, and he didn’t once show up. Do I still write to him and ask him to come? Obviously. I’m persistent like that. Never give up. It’s what they drill into you. Though I’m not sure that phrase was supposed to apply to getting the attention of fathers who abandoned you for their secret second family.
This will probably be my last year trying. Most likely. Depends on how masochistic I’m feeling. I’m a professional baseball player, hopefully playing Triple-A this year, and he still has no interest in me. That’s a sign, right? Nothing will make me good enough for him. Which is fine. It’s not like I care. At all.
Nope.
Shhh. Let me live in my delusional world.
“Michaels!”
I turn, stretching open my hip as I do, and my attention falls on the stocky build of the one and only Paulie Nebiolo. His light-brown skin glows in the soft morning light, glinting off his neatly cropped dark hair.
“Nebssss!”
He waves me over, and I head in his direction toward the doors of the complex.
“Hurry inside. A certain cowboy needs saving, I think.”
I frown and pick up my pace. Cowboy is Easton Winters and…I guess he’s my best friend. Never had one of those before. East and I got drafted together, and that year, he’d gone through some seriously fucked-up shit with his long-time best friend. It was like they’d broken up—and turns out, that’s exactly what it was. They were full-on heart-eyes in love.
East and I got really close while he was going through that. So now his best friend has taken boyfriend position, and I’ve slid into the best friend slot. I think we’re soul-bros. You know, like soul mates, but the best friend version.
“What do you mean?” I ask when I reach Nebs’s side.
