Nebs draws in a deep breath, scrubs a hand down his face, then releases it on awhoosh. “All right. We should head to the field for the team meeting. It’s starting in five.”
We grab our gloves and make our way out of the locker room.
“Wait,” Winters says. “Whatdidyou do? We totally went off the rails there.”
“I may have asked Jed Stone Junior for an autograph earlier.”
Nebs stumbles and bursts out laughing. “God, Michaels. Isn’t that like an unwritten rule? You don’t ask your own teammates for autographs? You’re worse than the Graphers.”
Ah, those dudes. There are people who hang around Spring Training—mostly the minor league camps—and collect players’ autographs. Basically, they’re hoping to get an up-and-comer’s graph early and make the big bucks on it when the guy makes it in the majors. They’re hoping they get a future Mike Piazza. Piazza was a 62ndround pick and became a Hall of Famer. Imagine getting his autograph? He was the biggest steal in MLB history.
I got a little starstruck, if I’m being honest. Jed Stone and Jed Stone Jr. wereeverywherewhen I was growing up. The kid was on the cover ofSports Illustratedin high school, standing beside his old man. It’s intimidating. He’s my competition: the guy who was the number one overall pick straight out of high school—andturned it down.Everyone knows he’s next in line to take over shortstop for the Jetties.
So, where does that leave me? It’s no secret that talent gets stuck in the farm systems, blocked by the starters who are going to be there for fuck knows how long. Like, what if this guy is the next Derek Jeter? He played for the Yankees for twenty seasons. That’s why the Rule 5 draft exists, so other teams can pick up the talent being hoarded in the minor leagues.
Speaking of…I’ve hit eligibility this year, which means, come December, I could be claimed by another team. You would think that’s good. Get picked up by a team that actually wants me as their starting shortstop in the big leagues.
I glance over at Easton and Paulie. But…I like it here. I think I’ve finally found my people. I’ve never had that before. Best friends. People who seem to actually like me—all of me, without condition. I don’t want to lose that.
The only way I can ensure that doesn’t happen is by securing a spot on that 40-man roster before the season ends. If I’m put on the 40-man, I’m safe from the Rule 5 draft.
Which means, somehow, I need to prove to the Jetties organization that I’m better than Jed Stone Junior.
I spin the faded blue-beaded bracelet on my wrist. Wish me luck.
THREE
JED
The whirof the treadmill mixes with the rhythmic slap of my trainers as I get my cardio in and clear my mind. I have to find a way to clear my mind because it’s fucking chaos right now. My harsh breaths drown out the soft sounds of my teammates, muting the clanking weights, the grunts and chatter.
Just me and my thoughts.
They’re not a fun companion at the moment.
My hands ball into fists and something hot and sharp zips through me. I knew I had a lot to prove coming back from an injury. The pressure was already like an anvil stacked on my shoulders, but this past week has only piled on more. More. Crushing. Weight.
I’m at the top of my game. I’m locked in, all focus. My reaction time and intuition have never been better. I’m giving one-hundred-and-ten percent to my conditioning drills. I’m in sync with our Jetties and Triple A second basemen. My glove and footwork? Flawless.
But my throws? The ones that require precision and speed and split-second thinking? Fuck me, they’re off.
There’s pressure on my elbow, and I glance down to find my hand wrapped around it, squeezing. I drop it like I’ve been burned. I keep doing that. My hand gravitates toward it without me even realizing it, the fear I’ve been shoving down surfacing even without my permission. Is my elbow one hundred percent? Do I just need more time to work out the kinks? Did I re-injure it somehow?
I swear I have phantom aches and tightness. I think. Maybe they’re real. But the trainer hasn’t found anything concerning. Besides the fact that my fucking arm isn’t working the way it’s supposed to. Dominguez, our Triple-A coach, says I need to be patient. The more worked up I get over it, the worse it’s going to get. He thinks I’m in my head. Yes, Coach. Yes, I fucking am.
It's not just me, though.
There’s also an infuriating blond-haired, blue-eyed beach boy in there.
I knew I had challenges ahead of me this Spring Training with my arm. It was going to be rusty, in need of a healthy dose of WD-40. But the shortstop position was mine once I was back to good. That’s the unofficial gossip around here and has been for the past year. Until Shane Michaels showed up.
He’s…he’s fucking incredible. My chest tightens, my sternum threatening to crack. There’s that fucking pressure again. Shane Michaels is a legitimate threat. If he’d been ready last year, if he had just a year or two more under his belt, I think I would have missed my chance with the Jetties.
He’s still young, though. Green.Yes, so young Jed. Twenty-three to your twenty-five. But those two years make a world of difference in baseball. Not to mention, he’s still got thatcocksure rookie vibe. The real world hasn’t had its chance to step in and give him a healthy dose of “life is fucked.”
If my arm were back to pre-injury performance, I wouldn’t even think twice about him. I’ve got strength, mindset, and blood on him. Baseball is what runs through my veins. It’s what I breathe. What I live for. No one can compete with that. I’ll shut them down.
But I can’t get my goddamn arm under control.
