Losing talent like that leaves a gaping hole.
So you steal the star pitcher from another team out from under them because you’ve got a ton of money now that it’s not being used to pay Matthew Burke.
Fuck what his cousin and your star shortstop thinks.
Disbelief colours Joel’s eyes, but he swallows it while his jaw works, considering. “We weren’t exactly ... on the same page this week.”
“That what you’d call it?” I snort.
I’ve been watching Matty pitch since we were kids. I knew how to clean up after him if I had to. I knew how to talk him down when he came unglued. Rare, but it happened. Most people might think that’s because I’m supposed to be the best. But maybe it was Matty who was the best. Apparently, I can’t clean up shit when the other pitchers struggle now that he’s gone. It was like watching a foreign film with a language I couldn’t fucking speak at all.
Joel gives a dry laugh, groaning into the hand that scrubs across his face. “Would you want to ... just ... toss a ball around out on the field this week? Grab a couple drinks and—”
I cut him a sideways grin. “Are you asking me to play catch with you?”
“Guess I am.” A brow lifts behind his glass when he takes a long sip of his whisky, an ice cube knocking against the crystal.
I’m about to say yes—that it sounds like fun. But I remember the last time I played catch for fun, and that activity slides firmly into the category of things I don’t do anymore.
Poking a tongue into my cheek, I nod like I’m considering. “Uh—I’ll get back to you.”
“Sure.” Joel raises his glass, moving on in conversation like it isn’t the second time in ten minutes I displayed worse social skills than one of the very dead, non-conversational dinosaurs spread around the atrium.
We stand together, side by side, small talk occasionally escaping the corners of our mouths, interspersed by stretching silence where we both take longer and longer sips of our whisky until he points his glass across the room, through the sea of black-tie-clad baseball players, paleontologists, and philanthropists.
“Isn’t that the girl from the game?” Joel smiles, glancing at me. “The one everyone on social media seems to think you should marry?”
My eyes snap up, ready to scour the crowd to find her.
I don’t have to look very far. She’s right there, illuminated and made brighter by rays of sunshine that definitely aren’t real but feel like they’re inching across the floor from her to me.
Hair unbound, framing her face and curling inwards at the ends. A pale blue silk dress that might as well be the colour of her eyes wrapping around her neck in a bow that falls down her back, leaving the lines of her shoulders on display. It swirls across the floor as she shifts back and forth, a small slit at the back revealing the points of silver heels. Lips parted with a polite smile while she nods along at whatever our general manager says.
Olson’s an animated guy when his star shortstop isn’t asking for an unexpected trade—arms swinging wider and wider, so exuberant he doesn’t notice that Ren straightens her shoulders, practically arching her back, to avoid the droplets of champagne that fly from his flute each time he does.
One of those arms flies out again, his finger, the one weighed down with his World Series ring, extends with a point towards me.
Ren’s eyes travel along the stretch of his arm, across the floor between us, and they land on whatever dinosaur stands tall behind me before they find mine.
A flush burns across her cheeks.
“We’ll chat later.” Joel salutes me with his glass before dropping it on the tray of a passing waiter and disappearing into the crowd.
Lifting my hand, I mouth,Hi, and the flush turns scarlet.
It’s not helped by the way she’s practically shoved towards me by all the executive and front-office staff holding court around her.
She takes a stumbling step, hand gathering the skirt of her dress before it catches under her heels. A tentative glance backwards reveals they’ve all moved on to the next thing, content to leave us to whatever story they think might be unfolding.
Her lips take shape to form the greeting “Hi,” too, and her fingers raise.
I start towards her when she tightens her hold on the silk of her dress and takes a step across the atrium floor in my direction.
We meet in the middle.
“Felt like the adult thing to do, to meet you halfway.” I offer her a grin.
Ren smiles, dropping her dress before she raises her hands awkwardly, another blush creeping across her cheeks. “Sorry, uh, hello,” she laughs, holding her arms open. “Do we ... hug?”
