Mags waves a hand, her bobbles—as she likes to call them—glinting in the bright sunshine. “You’ve got work to do. I can manage just fine.”
“We’ll take good care of her,” Mallory Sato, wife of third baseman Kai Sato, says with an award-winning smile. “Don’t worry.”
“Take my extra water. The heat really sneaks up on you,” Kenzie Chapman, Trevor Chapman’s new bride, tells Mags while handing over a bottle slick with condensation.
“See.” Mags beams up at me from her seat. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
I hesitate another beat before kissing her cropped gray hair.
The bubble of unease doesn’t wane as Daphne and I move through our routine. I feel off, and I’m sure it’s translating on camera. When she tells me she’s going to roam and get more footage, I position myself on the concourse behind home plate. The press box in this stadium is tiny, and I’m not in the mood to make idle chit-chat with others.
All I can think about is the look in Tenny’s eyes after my snappy comment. How my words extinguished his ever-present light.
It’s more annoying than a twisted bra strap how easily he makes me care about him. I don’t have the bandwidth to worry about Tenny’s feelings while also trying to navigate the beginnings of my career with this team, especially not with my wily grandmother showing up out of the blue.
Besides, being with a player—baseball or otherwise—is not what I need right now.
I need to focus on the goal that helped me get out of bed on those hard days when my back ached so much all I wanted was to curl into a ball and cry.
Except, the rods in my spine make that kind of flexion impossible.
Oh, the irony.
Leaning against the concourse divider, I draw in a long, slow breath and close my eyes. The scents of kettle corn and perfectly roasted hot dogs make my stomach growl. The crack of the bat is followed by cheers and the announcer informing us of Colton Ashford’s line drive to left field, securing him a spot at first. A smile flirts with my lips as my shoulders finally settle.
I’d meant what I’d told Amelia on the phone the other day. I might have misplaced reasons for why I chose baseball in the first place, but after all these years, I’ve fallen head over heels for the sport.
How can you not?
It’s hypnotically rhythmic while still being unpredictable. Tiny strategies can change the whole game. One swing can make the difference. Though it looks almost simplistic from the outside, the game is surprisingly cerebral, with more stats than any other sport.
Most importantly, it’s a happy game. There’s rarely aggression or fighting. Everyone is glad to be here and friendly with the opposing team. For someone who had too many dark, worrisome days, it’s nice to be surrounded by that joyful energy.
My eyes snap open as Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” skips right into the upbeat section. Tenny jogs out to the plate, waving to my grandmother with a huge smile. He adjusts his gloves, laughing and joking with the umpire, before stepping into the batter’s box.
Unconsciously, I hold my breath. As much as it was my journalistic responsibility to report Tenny’s errors and struggles at the plate the last few days, a burst of hope ignites that he crushes the heck out of the ball.
The first pitch curves, and Tenny fowls it into the net. Unfazed, he quickly resets. I try not to notice the controlled bunch of his shoulders, the determined focus in the hard lines of his body.
From the deafening pop off the second pitch, everyone in the stands already knows it’s a home run. Tenny pauses, watching the ball clear the stadium with a huge grin.
“Yes!” I throw my fist into the air and then wince.
My back is still a little sore from my injury the other day, and I really should be taking it easy. I should probably take this opportunity to get off my feet, but I find myself lifting onto my toes to watch Tenny casually jog the bases. Colton waits for him at home plate, hugging him with an enthusiastic back pat.
Getting a home run during spring training isn’t usually a big deal for an established player. Like Tenny said earlier, these games are just a way to get live reps to help the transition from the off season. But after being off his game the last three days, I’m sure Tenny is beaming with renewed energy.
My shoes bring me four steps toward the dugout before I even realize what I’m doing. I wouldn’t race to congratulate Kai Sato or DJ Rivera after a hit, so why does the need to see Tenny’s smiling face feel more necessary than my next breath?
I press a fist to my chest, forcing myself to turn around. After climbing the stairs toward the open-air press box, I find a seat and open my Moleskine to write notes. I keep track of all the players, but Tenny is having the best game by far. He finishes two-for-three with his home run and four RBIs, including a bases-clearing double in the sixth. Not only that, but Tenny anchored the infield with solid defensive plays at first.
Most of the other media staff members file out of the box after the Waves win, but I linger, dragging my feet. It’d be foolish of me not to interview Tenny after his obvious comeback, but I’m too mixed up about everything to move.
With my spine aching and being in a smaller stadium, it brings back the memory from my senior year at UCSD. I’d known when I’d walked into the school’s baseball stadium that Tenny wouldn’t be there. I’d finally found the courage to look him up a few weeks into the fall semester, knowing I was a year late, but too curious not to. Genuine happiness surged through me finding that he’d been drafted to the Waves’ triple-A team, the Guppies, while I’d been white-knuckling it through physical therapy sessions.
Afterward, I followed his career. Loosely. Not in a stalker way or anything. Part of my job was keeping track of various players’ trajectories. I just put Tenny on that list.
What went beyond professional boundaries was my interest in his love life. Though my crush was snuffed out after learning about Tenny’s habit of going through women like a sick persongoes through tissues. To him, that college kiss had likely been as unmemorable as all the others he’d had since.
