ONE
COLBY KESSLER
Colby Kessler
It’s wild to think that what I’m about to do is historic. I’ll be making history for the next hour. As soon as I sit on this plastic bucket to feed baseballs to a two-hundred-pound first baseman rehabbing his shoulder—history.
Well. Here goes nothing.
“Chet. Nice to meet you. I’m Coach Kessler.” I hold out a stiff hand, ready to meet his firm shake with my own. I catch the little flash in his eyes when he turns and confirms that I am a woman. His hitting coach. In charge of letting the money guys know when he’s ready to head back to Texas. He’s Chet D’Angelo, a four-time All-Star. A massive, beast of a human. And I’m . . . a woman.
Little ole me.
“Oh.”
I suppose there are worse words he could have uttered.
“Sorry,” he laughs out, shaking his head as his cheeks inch toward pink. “I was just surprised. I mean, it’s sort of a wiener fest around here.Shit! I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, it’s fine.” I break our now-awkward handshake. He’s trying. I can respect that. “And yeah, you’re right. It’s kind of a wiener fest for sure. Plus one vagina. There, now neither of us has a leg up on the other with HR.”
I wink at him, and he chuckles as he drags his bat over his shoulder, then rocks back a step.
“Fair enough, Coach. Now, what do I need to do to get back to Dallas for the New York series?” His gaze goes right to the bucket of balls, and my shoulders relax. Chet D’Angelo has just become my favorite player. And his wife would be damn proud of him. All business. Ready to learn.
Respect.
“Let’s see how you handle this workout and go from there.”
I adjust the hitting tee’s position, then drag the bucket of balls closer before taking my seat on the empty one. There’s zero fanfare when it happens, and were it not for Chet ripping the first ball to the back of the tunnel with his first swing, I doubt anyone would turn their head to notice we’re in here.
That’s not entirely true.
At leastoneperson would have been looking. Jayden Vargas has been watching me the entire time. I caught his stare the moment I checked in at the Sweetwater Inn two days ago, and again when I passed through the lobby as he was checking out to move into his apartment. Of course, he’s the only one watching now. I’m just not sure whether he’s waiting to jump in to defend me or pile on with jokes.
Either is a possibility. Jayden and I have history. Lots of it. It’s complicated. And now we’re on the same team . . . sort of. I’m the new Mavericks hitting coach, while he’s in his third year of rookie ball, on the verge of a big break. One I could probably help him crack open. If only I wanted to.
“That felt good,” Chet says, bringing my attention back to where it should be—my job.
“Cool, let’s get more inside, then.” I lean forward and nudge the tee closer to the batter’s box, leaving a ball for him to hit. Chet takes a swing, and manages to nail a line drive to the right. His power is about half of what it was, though.
“You felt that, didn’t you?” I don’t meet his eyes. When I played, I didn’t like eye contact when I was facing what I perceived as negative feedback. And when you’re a baller, anything that keeps you from starting the next game is negative.
“Fuck,” Chet grumbles.
“Yeah, I know.But. . . now we know where your limitations are. We have something to work toward. Specific muscles you need to target. And if you’re open to a few tricks I have up my sleeve . . .” I flit my gaze to him and he peers down at me, his lip twitching into a smirk.
“I’m down for tricks, Coach. If you can get me to Texas, I’ll be David fucking Copperfield.”
“Ha. Well, all right, then.” I get up from the bucket and hold out my widened palm, urging him not to move. I move the tee out of our way, then kick the insides of his feet, widening his stance a few more inches. I toe his front foot back a few inches too. “Feels weird, I’m sure. You’re a closed-stance kind of guy.” I back up, then move to the front of the plate to eyeball how far an outside pitch is for him if his approach is like this.
“You do your homework, Coach.”
I nod before moving the L-screen into position.
“Knowing the details is important. I know it was hard for me to adjust my swing after I tore my bicep tendon,” I share.
“Ooof!” Chet winces, giving a sympathetic rub to his own arm.
