Page 13 of Fly

Fixing things ain’t all that. My mom’s voice cut through the instinct to want to help Jari, and she was right, but sometimes all I could do was stand there, see it, and not look away.

Stay focused. Today is game day. Head in the game.

I slowed my jog and focused on the best view of the HP&L Field. The city had poured millions into the complex—modern steel wrapped around a century of baseball history—and it showed. Harrisburg had been in love with the game since the 1880s, and I felt it every time I passed through the gates. Beyond the diamond, the hockey arena squatted low and loud, and next to that, the skeleton of the new football stadium climbed toward the sky, all girders and ambition.

“Morning, Cam,” Mike called from the outside gate, coffee balanced on the hood of the security cart. Mike had three kids, and his eldest, Sam, lived and breathed hockey, which I teased him endlessly about.

“Morning,” I said, easing to a walk. “How are things?”

“Good. Megs says to say thank you for the signed bat and merch you handed me.”

“It's all good, although using my stuff to raise money for your son's hockey team…” I clutched my chest as if I was wounded, and Mike snorted a laugh.

Mike scoffed. “Might be cheaper if Sam liked baseball, but jeez, Cam…” He puffed his chest out in pride. “He might be only fourteen, but he's already skating circles around kids twice his size. Scouts at every weekend tournament. Even the Railers are watching him.”

“That’s so cool,” I said, and I wasn’t lying—I’d followed Mike’s son's progress in the last several years I’d been talking to his dad, and I was proud of the kid. Still, I had to up the banter to our usual snarky levels. “All that talent, wasted on hockey.”

“Whatever, Slugger,” he said, grinning as he waved me through.

People around here knew me. I’d learned a lot about all of them—made it my business to know their kids’ names, which nights they worked late, who liked what sport. Knowledge and routine mattered. Superstition mattered more. Hence, today’s visit to the hydrotherapy center on game day.

I stopped for a moment, stretching out old muscles as Yanni hustled to catch me up, and staring over at the half-finished football stadium. In two years, the city would add pro football to the mix—the Express, an expansion team built to match Harrisburg’s rail-town soul. Every franchise here carried that legacy. The Railers’ steam engine. The Iron Horses’ steel stallion. Soon, a high-speed train stitched across football helmets.

The new stadium would seat seventy thousand—nearly double HP&L Field’s capacity and worlds bigger than the hockey arena’s eighteen. Times had changed. Football ruled now. Baseball followed. Hockey trailed both. Soccer? Still knocking at the door.

“Hey, sorry, man,” I heard Yanni call as he caught up to me, and we did the complicated bro-hug thing the fans loved. Yanni Kallias, my catcher and second-best buddy, was a striking man. Swarthy, blessed with that Greek male beauty and flair. Tall, handsome, outgoing. Straight as a bamboo cane. Black wavy hair, deep brown eyes, he could have given ER-era George Clooney a run for his money if he’d chosen acting. Thankfully for me, he had baseball in his blood. We’d been battery-mates since my first year on the Iron Horses. When he was out with an injury, my pitching always suffered, and that is no reflection on our second roster catcher. Nolan Deshane was a fine catcher. He just wasn’t Yanni. “I thought I'd set my alarm for nine, but I guess I had other things on my mind.”

“What’s her name?” I asked after we thumped shoulders in a quick bro hug. I could smell the lingering scent of Yves Saint Laurent Black Opium perfume. Joy wore the same scent.

“Athena Gataki,” he replied dreamily.

“A Greek girl?” He nodded. “Your mother will be ecstatic.”

“I’m not telling her about this one just yet,” he said, then wrapped his arms around himself. “Fuck, it's cold,” he muttered as we headed to the facility.

“Oh, my sweet summer child,” I teased. I loved all the seasons, but Yanni was a warm-weather guy, which was why he decamped for at least a month to train in Greece, visiting family as soon as the season ended, which was coming up way too quickly. I went with him, or I had for the last nine years, so it was given I’d go again, although I barely lasted a week in the heat before finding a reason to head somewhere cooler.

“That's a monstrosity,” he muttered, and I guessed he meant the new stadium. “Traffic's already a mess,” he added. “Stack game days on top of each other and it'll be biblical. Jeez, Fridays are bad enough once the amusement park crowd rolls in. I hope someone smarter than me is building the schedules.”

“Everyone is smarter than you,” I deadpanned, and he socked me in the arm before we headed to the internal security point.

“Hey, guys, you here for the hot tub?” Mitch, the next security guard I was friendly with, although he didn’t have kids in hockey or baseball.

“Sure.”

“You gotta know that I liked you striking out Issacson. I got no time for that POS after he charged you on the mound in that last game up in Toronto.”

“Meh. He thought I got a little too close on that low and inside with my sinker,” I said as I handed over my phone and ear buds to step through the metal detectors. “If I were going to hit him, I would have aimed for that giant melon head of his.”

“Much bigger target than his tiny little cup,” Yanni added.

“Amen.” Mitch chortled, then handed me my cell and Bluetooth buds back, and did the same for Yanni.

We meandered down the hall past various offices and rooms filled with all manner of sports-related therapy equipment. Hydrotherapy was at the end of this hall, past some trophy cases with pucks, balls, and a ton of photos. Yanni's phone sounded, and he answered the call with a raised finger—I could tell it was his mom—and I took a moment to examine yet another display of imagery of years past. Iron Horses winning pennants, Railers hoisting the cup. Men who trained hard to bring glory to their hometowns. If not for the medical staff and trainers on our teams, a few of us would not be enjoying the sport we love. Sports medicine kept us on the mound, on the ice, or on the gridiron when injuries took us down.

The Iron Horses had been good to me, and I loved my career. They paid me well to throw a ball into a mitt. Not Ohtani money, but enough that when I finally left my rosin bag on the mound, I’d be fine. Comfortable. Free. That security came with work. I stayed in shape because I wanted to—and because the alternative involved getting dumped unceremoniously into the Susquehanna. I stuck to my routines: sleep tracking, shoulder checks, grip work, a jog to the park, hot tub, stretch, bands. Then fly balls, long toss with Yanni, quiet talk about pitch sequences and strike zones. Not glamorous. Just how I stayed standing.

Yanni finished his call.