“Nothing serious. You know how Winters doesn’t do well peopling. Think the nerves are getting to him.” He bounces his thick, dark eyebrows. “First time with the big boys, ya know? Something you’re clearly not fazed by.”
I dust off each shoulder and shrug. “Not sure why I’d be fazed when I’m clearly where I belong.”
Nebs throws his head back and laughs. “You’re such a cocky shit. I hate that you have reason to be.” We share a grin and turn down a hall that leads to the locker room.
Nebs was at big league camp last year too. He started for the Triple-A team—the Providence Clippers—last season. Winters and I were on Double-A. The three of us have kind of been in this together since the beginning. We’ve moved up through High A and Double-A together, with Nebs getting the jump on us last year.
Not that being a non-roster invitee means I’m getting a spot on Triple-A this year. Being invited is a big deal, but they also need extra bodies for the Grapefruit Leaguegames—that’s the Florida Spring Training league. I have to prove myself while I’m here.
We pass the caf, and I glance inside. Players are milling about; most are done eating at this point since we have our team meeting soon and then practice will start.
I have to say, one of the biggest differences between the big league and minor league camps? The fucking spread. Which of the seven deadly sins is about food? Gluttony? Like, just picture me in a bathtub surrounded by pastries and fruits and every breakfast food imaginable. I purse my lips. Actually, maybe nix that image. Now all I can see is me in a bathtub of scrambled eggs. But seriously, the food is unreal. I had a mean stack of pancakes this morning.
We slip into the locker room, and there’s Winters’s broad back. He’s sitting in front of his locker, staring blindly into it. His knee bounces in a jerky rhythm. Easton and I are sharing an apartment, so we arrived together, but I wanted to check out the field quickly while he was trying to hit out some anxiety with extra BP. I don’t think it worked.
I grab a free wheely chair and launch myself toward Winters. He doesn’t look my way, but his hand shoots out to catch the arm of my chair before I crash into him. The guy has ridiculous reflexes. Or eyes on the back of his head.
“Howdy, Cowboy.” I ruffle his toffee curls.
Paulie pushes a chair over and sits in it like a mature adult. Boringggg.
Easton’s knee slows, and he sends me a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his light blue eyes. East is what I call a gentle giant. He’s got a couple inches on me, but he’s hella built to the point hispresenceis giant. But underneath all those muscles is a socially awkward, anxious sweetheart. He’s an introvert to my extrovert. Yin to my yang.
He hates the initial meet and greet, and pretty mucheveryone is new this year since we’ve been bumped up. Not to mention, we’re surrounded by stars. I have baseball cards of some of these guys. But he’ll be fine. He’s got me and Pauls.
And actually…I know what will make Winters feel better and get a laugh out of him. “So, guess what I did earlier.”
Paulie and Easton immediately push away from me and lift their hands. “We were in no way involved,” they say at the same time.
I sigh dramatically and roll my eyes. “I didn’t do anythingbad. Jeesh.” It’s like they think I get myself into trouble or something.
They both blink at me. I draw a halo over my head. Easton scoffs.
“The candle incident,” Pauls says pointedly.
“What was wrong with the candles! Scents are powerful, bro. They evoke emotion and can alter your body chemistry. We were dragging. Peppermint helps with focus and clears the mind. Citrus energizes.”
I point to Winters. “Have you been sleeping with the lavender satchel under your pillow that I gave you? Hmm? Lavender calms the nerves.” I turn back to Nebs and shoot him a glare. “It’s all about balance, about mojo, about setting the tone. You can’t win games with stale air and bad vibes.”
He crosses his arms. “Tell me, Michaels. How were the vibes when you had us light all those candles and the fucking sprinklers went off? We had to play in soaking wet uniforms!”
I wince. Okay, I’ll give him that. That hadn’t gone according to plan.
“And the locker room smelled like a Yankee Candlewarehouse. It was scent overload,” Paulie continues. “And some scents were not meant to go together. Like jock sweat and citrus.”
I humph. I still don’t see the problem. My intentions were solid.
“That one doesn’t beat the golden thong incident, though,” Easton says, a goofy grin spreading across his face. “That was my favorite.”
I straighten and do a spin in my chair. “Right? Hey, it worked for Jason Giambi. That’s good enough for me.”
A high-pitched noise comes from Paulie. His shoulders shake as hyena-like sounds burst from him. “Oh God. Babs’s f-face.” Paulie squeaks. “W-when he walked into the locker room.” He wipes a tear from the corner of his eye and shakes his head. “All of us in the middle of putting on thongs.”
I bite my lip as my grin threatens to stretch off my face. That was fucking fantastic. Our Double-A coach, Babs, walked into the locker room, half the team already thonged up—because, obviously, I sold the team on the idea that if we wore these golden thongs, we’d finally break our losing streak. Giambi swore by it, and he’s not the only Yankee who’s said they’ve worn the infamous thong at one point. Babs took one look around the room, turned on his heel, and called out over his shoulder, “You know what? I don’t even care. Just fucking win the game.”
We fucking won.
Golden thongs for the win, baby!
