Part of me wants to sigh, but I know it’smy faultthat the chattiest MLB player is suddenly monosyllabic.
“Any new drills or routines to help with that?” I tilt my head into an attentive listening pose.
“Nothing flashy, just getting reps in. Making sure the timing is right.”
I know—Ifullyunderstand—that Tenny is talking about baseball timing, but something inside me whimpers at how the wrong timing can ruin everything. Unconsciously, my free hand shifts to the base of my spine, rubbing my surgical scar. When his eyes follow the movement, I clear my throat, smoothing out the fabric even though the lumpy line is hidden beneath my dress.
“Let’s reset,” I tell Daphne.
“From the top?”
“No, I’ll respond to his last statement.” Taking a settling breath, I focus back on Tenny. “Ready?”
He nods, his brows furrowed slightly.
I wait a few beats and then ask, “Speaking of timing, how are you feeling about the lineup change with the loss of Aaron Lawson and—”
Tenny snorts, and I struggle to keep my lips from twitching up. He’s not the first player to have this reaction. Trevor Chapman nearly did backflips when I asked how he felt about Lawson’s departure.
“And Jace Sawyer?”
His face softens at the mention of last season’s right fielder.
“I already miss Jace,” he says, honesty apparent in his words. “But I get why he jumped at the opportunity to play near home.”
“And where exactly is home for you?”
When his jaw twitches, a wash of nostalgia overtakes me. I’m suddenly back in San Diego at a time whenI thoughtI understood devastation. A desperation to shake my past self, to tell her to be more careful, floods through me. I press my eyes closed with an exhale, reminding myself that I’m fully recovered, that I’m stronger than I ever thought I’d be.
“Arizona,” Tenny says slowly, his gaze bouncing all over my face.
The corner of my eye catches how his fingers drift toward my free hand at my side. I straighten, setting a dazzling smile on my lips and pushing back a lock of hair to avoid contact.
“That’s the name of your youngest sister, right?”
I already know this—as does half of the nation. His youngest sister has quite a social media following with her handle @UnfortunatelyTennyIsMyBrother. She also lives with Tenny and posts hilarious, if not occasionally revealing, content about her major-league brother while attending college nearby.
Her most viral video is a compilation of all of his epic fails as a Little League kid before a clip of him crushing his first home run for the Waves. That video is closely followedin views by the one of him asleep halfway off his bed with clothes strewn all over the room. Discarded water bottles, half-filled mugs, and protein shake containers clutter his nightstand. Her voiceover talks about her “slob of a brother,” but Arizona clearly didn’t realize that everyone would focus on Tenny's bare chest. Most of the comments on that video are downright indecent.
“We were all named after our birth states. My oldest sister is Georgia. Tennessee”—he points to the chest Idefinitelyhaven’t seen on my phone screen—“and Arizona.”
“How is Arizona doing now that you’re at camp?”
“How is my twenty-year-old sister doing, having free rein of my oceanfront mansion?” His mouth tugs up, and I have to control my response when his dimple pops out. “I’d say she’s just peachy.”
A chuckle escapes my lips before I can stop myself.
Though, honestly, I shouldn’t be stopping myself. If anything, I should be laughing more to make this interaction seem more casual and friendly—like I’ve been with every other player. I’m coming across as rigid, which means this entire segment will probably get scrapped.
I don’t have the luxury of making mistakes. The fact that I’ve crawled up the ladder in this tight industry in three short years is nearly unheard of. Being a beat reporter for an MLB team doesn’t open up often, and when it does, there’s stiff competition. Add in that I’m a woman in one of the oldest boys’ clubsin America and it’s no wonder why I now go by Alex, instead of Alexis.
I’ve spent years covering the minors, building up credibility and connections, but I have something most reporters don’t. We all have strong writing skills and are comfortable working ridiculous hours, but I know how to come back from the brink.
I’ve already lost one career.
There’s no way I’m losing this one.
Especially after my producer threw me for a one-eighty on our call this morning. After giving me a speech about how he wants to “shake things up this season” and really “dig deep,” he told me to focus on the more personal aspects of certain players.
