Jayden is taking hacks in the hitting tunnel when we break from our meeting, and while I’m a little eager to brag about the nice pat on the back I received from Coach, I’m also a little nervous about working with him alone today.
I hang back and watch him swing instead of rushing over, which doesn’t feel suspicious, so when Coach stops to study Jayden’s swing with me, I don’t even flinch.
“You’ve really opened up his power. He should be thanking you,” he says.
“I know,” I brag.
The two of us stand just outside the clubhouse exit as Jayden moves through the same warmups he’s been doing since he started workouts with my dad as a kid. Nobody here knows about Jayden’s and my connection, about our past. Chet’s already on his way, joining the squad in Texas before their next road trip. And I don’t think bragging about Adriel Vargas’s baby brother’s childhood friend being a hitting coach is high on his list. He’s looking to perform well before free agency. That’s his focus.
“I’d like you to sit with him today. Go through his video and really get into the nitty-gritty. I’m thinking of moving him into the three-hole for the Arkansas series, but we’re going to face some tough arms. He’s going to need to be ready for anything. If he performs there, he might just get some time in Texas this year. You can use the conference room.”
Coach is already walking away by the time he leaves me with those words. Meanwhile, my body is back to buzzing with nervesat the thought of spending the next hour in a room alone with Jayden.
Maybe if I stand still, he’ll never see me, and he’ll just pack up and leave after his workout. My eyes flutter shut at my own dumb idea. I take a deep breath and open my eyes just as Jayden makes solid contact with a ball off the tee.
“Back at it already,” I holler as I step toward him.
He smirks as he fishes another ball from the bucket and places it on the tee.
“I’m trying to impress the teacher,” he grunts out mid-swing, slamming the ball to the back of the tunnel before turning his perfect damn grin on me.
“She’s not impressed,” I deadpan.
It’s a lie, and he knows it.
“Look what I got,” I say, holding my certificate in front of me like a grade-schooler showing off their best piece of art.
Jayden rests the bat, dragging it at his side as he walks to the mesh wall between us.
“Coach of the Week. Well, damn, Colby. Good for you!” His grin, dimples and all, is genuine, and I swell with pride.
“Thanks,” I say, once more reading the bold font on the award.
“Your dad is going to love that,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say through a soft smile. I can’t wait to send him a picture, then call him with the news. But until then . . .“Coach wants me to review video with you. He may have mentioned moving you up in the order, too. So . . .”
“Up in the order?” As confident as Jayden can be, he still craves acceptance and praise. Looking into his eyes, it’s hard not to see flashes of a younger him, the cute kid wanting to hit it over the fence just once.
“Yeah. So what do you say? Get to work?” I squint my eyes as I tilt my head toward the clubhouse. Jayden peels apart theVelcro straps on his batting gloves and tosses his bat in the general direction of his gear bag.
“Yes.”
I chuckle at his eagerness then nod toward the spray of balls throughout the hitting tunnel.
“Right, I guess I’m too old to get away with not picking up after myself.”
I kick one of the balls toward the bucket, then wander toward the back of the cage to collect more.
“Remember how my dad used to number the balls for your practice?” I recant.
“Ha, yeah. And if we were missing one, whatever number it was equaled the number of laps we ran. I got so pissed when we were missing twenty-four. I’m pretty sure I threw up my entire pizza lunch after that practice.” Jayden flattens his palm on his stomach at the memory, and I do the same. I was at the practice helping out, and I threw up in sympathy. Or rather, from the disgusting odor of Jayden’s second-hand pizza.
Jayden gathers his gear after we’ve collected the balls, and the two of us head into the clubhouse to review the videos from this past weekend. I’m mindful about how everything looks, my body seeming to remember every phase it went through when I got here this morning, and thought I was about to endure a lecture for fraternizing with a player. Or worse, get fired. I slide the stopper into the door, ensuring it stays open just enough for anyone to get a glimpse of the room as they pass by. Somehow, though, that little sliver to the outside world makes me more nervous. And the longer Jayden and I go without speaking about the flight home, the more my pores sweat.
“Hey, by the way. Last night . . . I just wanted to make sure you weren’t nervous. That’s all,” I say.
Jayden’s brow draws in as a slight smile pulls at the edges of his mouth.
