He waves me off when I walk through the door, turning towards the rest of our teammates, still in various stages of postgame undress.
I was full of myself, once upon a time. But my footsteps echo in the shadows of Coach’s all the way down the hall to the elevator, towards the general manager’s office, and they’re not full of anything, I don’t think.
I’m not in this elevator a lot. I don’t go up to Olson’s office if I can avoid it.
And I don’t think I can avoid it anymore.
Matt came up here a lot, though. They were close. Talked strategy. Talked about Olson’s kids and his grandkids. Matty could rhyme off their names and ages without so much as a thought. He donated signed balls and jerseys and his time to their birthday parties.
I could probably remember some of their names, if I was pressed, but it’d take me a lot longer.
Especially lately. I’ve had a hard time caring about much.
The last time I was in here—this office with the sweeping, unparalleled view of the field, hidden away beside some of the executive suites—I had my head in my hands, thumbs digging into my eyes to try and stop the tears, while Olson told me all about their plans to replace Matt.
It was a courtesy. He didn’t owe me advance warning of a necessary business decision.
I’ve got a funny way of paying him back—walking in here to ask something that’s the exact opposite of a good business decision.
I knock on the propped-open door, still in my grass-stained jersey, and mechanically put one foot in front of the other when he calls me to come in.
“Great game,” Olson says, hand with his World Series ring lifting off his polished oak desk in greeting. “Great series so far.”
“Thanks.” I smile tightly, tugging on the brim on my hat when I sit in the matching leather chair across from him. Pascale’s already in here, propped up against a bookshelf, arms crossed and features blank.
Olson folds his hands, head angling in assessment. “How are you doing?”
“Uh, good. I mean, the fourth inning—”
“I didn’t mean on the field,” he corrects gently, like he knows he needs to be patient with his stupid, grieving star shortstop. “How areyou?”
“Oh. Uh.”Pretty fucking terrible, actually,I think. But I don’t say that. I give a shrug, like it’s hard but not really a big deal—like I don’t feel like I’m being choked every single second of every single day. I nod, saying, “I’m, uh, alright. It’s not ... easy. Playing without Matty. Being without Matty. And the press—”
“Have been particularly cruel,” he finishes for me.
“Yeah. It’s been ... it hasn’t been fun,” I say lamely, but I think I’d suffocate on any of the real words.
He frowns, knocking a hand against his desk again. “We can speak to Media Relations and see if we can come up with some unique workarounds that limit your availability outside of contractual obligations. Is that what you’re looking for?”
“No. I’m not here for ... it’s not about the press. It’s about ... me. I probably shouldn’t, uh—” I bow my head, scrubbing my face. “This was ... stupid.”
I shouldn’t have come in here without my agent. But I can’t really breathe, and I don’t think I can do this for much longer. “I don’t think I can—I can’t do this anymore. The press, all the things they’re saying in the media ... being here ... without him. I know I’ve got years left on my contract, and I know I have a no-trade clause. But, uh, I’d ... waive my NTC. I just need to—”
“You want to leave?” Pascale finally speaks, arms folded tightly across his chest. “One of the top teams in the league, coming off a World Series, and you’re asking for a trade?”
“I just want it to stop,” I mumble, hands clenched together as I blink determinedly at the floor, trying to beg the tears not to come.
Olson makes a noise of consideration that has me lifting my head. He studies me, fingers drumming across the polished wood. “You understand that solely from a business perspective, my immediate answer would be no. I’m hesitant to trade a star player on a good day, let alone a generational, best-in-the-league talent. One we need, quite badly, if we’d like to win again. Especially after losing my generational, best-in-the-league talent of a pitcher.”
“I know.”
He angles his head, and his fingers stop playing his invisible piano against the wood. “But from a ... personal perspective ... out of respect for Matthew, who was ... more than just a player to me. He was a friend. And out of respect for you—I’m willing to consider it over the next few weeks. Let’s see how things play out with the press and media, whether they settle down or not. Because as talented as you are, you’re expensive, and not everyone wants a mess dumped on their doorstep, regardless of how good he is on both sides of the ball. We can talk closer to the trade deadline.”
“Okay,” I say, voice cracking and hoarse. My gaze lifts, all blurred and burning around the edges, and I’d swear he looks concerned.
Olson gives me a sharp nod and knocks on the desk again in dismissal. “You are, unfortunately, contractually obligated to be downstairs with the press right now for a post-game.”
“Yeah. I’ll get down there. Uh, thanks—thank you,” I mutter, but I clear my throat, using the arms of the chair to push so I canstand. I’m not sure my legs are working properly. I’m not sure any of me is working properly, really. “We’ll talk ... in a few weeks.”
