It was no surprise that I had a crap game the day Alex got hurt, because I spent all nine innings worried about her. I vacillated between begging Dr. Ramirez to break patient confidentiality and wanting to pummel my teammates for causing the injury in the first place. Let’s just say it was a good thing they were tucked away in the bullpen, or I might have done something reckless.
But now, three days later, the idea that I might be in real trouble keeps niggling me.
Because I’ve been here before.
I know what’s coming next.
Sure, I’m still concerned about Alex, and I’m probably too eager for her to bicker with me after our next interview, but thebuzzing under my skin is getting harder to ignore. I need to tap her knuckles before today’s game, or I know exactly how it will go.
My inability to keep my head in the game has me missing Rhett’s throws or lifting my foot off the base too early. Yesterday, I fielded a grounder and threw it to second instead of tagging my own base. I’ve basically been playing like a Little League dropout. And that’s without mentioning my abysmal at-bats.
Patrick, our manager, hasn’t said anything yet, but I can see it in the disappointed twitch of his salt-and-pepper mustache.
I need to fix this.
Now.
Which…is why I’ve done some things I’m not completely proud of this morning.
Like bribing the production assistant atDiamond Breakdownfor Alex’s hotel information before sweet-talking the front desk employee to give me her room number. That’s why I’m in an elevator with a bag of pan dulce from the best baker in town, a fruit smoothie, and half a dozenGet Wellballoons. You can never have too many goodies when you’re going to beg someone to end your streak of bad luck.
I grimace at my reflection in the chrome elevator doors.
Too muchpounds like a drumbeat in my mind but not louder than the anxiety over what will happen later if I don’t fix this.
I step out onto her floor at the exact second my phone rings.
“Hey, Brad,” I say, shuffling everything to one hand to pick up my agent’s call.
“Have you seen it yet?”
“Seen what?”
“Alex’s segment.”
I slow mid-step down the hallway. “No. I’m running a quick errand before heading to camp.”
There’s a beat on the other end—long enough to make my shoulders tense.
“She led with the errors,” Brad tells me with a measured voice. “Ran the replay twice. Then brought up the defensive metrics from the last mini-series.”
My jaw tightens. “It was a bad game.”
“There were three games,” he corrects. “Three.”
I rub my forehead with the back of my hand, and the balloons bob against the ceiling. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying she’s shaping a narrative.” The word lands heavier than it should. “What I need is for you to not make it bigger than it is. Later today, answer questions calmly, take accountability, give them that goofy charm you’re known for, and then fix it on the field."
My fist settles at the base of my neck, pushing against the pressure mounting there.
“Meanwhile, I’ll handle her.”
My stomach dips. “Brad—”
“I’m not threatening anyone,” he says, already anticipating my protest. “But she doesn’t get to turn a slump into a storyline about decline.”
Decline.
