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Jillian
You can stop looking for your keys now, Linda.
Hud
Looking good, player.
Mom
You, Roman Anthony Hart as such an inspiration. We love you.
It is pretty damn cool, walking to the players’ entrance, swiping the card, and entering the stadium. Most of the owners and the coaching staff stand, line up, and clap as I enter. Okay, so it is cool, but also embarrassing.
But not as embarrassing as Zandor Steel saying, “All right, let’s get pictures; you know your mom is gonna want more than that parking-lot selfie.”
“Jesus, Dad, for real?” Tris, who I learned during my year in the minors is the mouthy one, scolds her father.
“Am I ever not for real?” he asks.
“Maybe someday you should try to reel it in, old man.” She arches her brow and holds back what would no doubt be a devilish grin. “Fuck your kind of real.”
“Ladies don’t say fuck.”
She rolls her eyes like she’s heard that a lot.
He continues, “When your boys are walking into their first day, playing for the majors, tell me you’re not gonna wanna picture. And tell me Momma Jo wouldn’t kick my ass if I didn’t do this.” Momma Joe’s the matriarch of the whole Steel family.
She buckles. “Fine, but hurry up. We have meetings, and then I want to get home to my boys and husband.”
So, we take pictures.
* * *
Stepping through the doorway into the locker room, I look around, taking every bit of it in. Matte black lockers line the walls, each opened with a jersey emblazoned with the team’s logo hanging inside. This is a huge step up from the minor’s locker room, or the one at college, or high school—hell, it’s better than any I’ve ever stepped into. It’s a true sanctuary for the players and coaching staff.
In one corner, there’s a massive whiteboard that I visualize the team huddling around before the game, studying the plan. The opposite side of the room is the coaching staff offices. All around me, the sound of chatter fills the air, voices exchanging banter, greetings and, yeah, the occasional playful jab. Amid the controlled chaos, the team’s support staff bustles around, placing team merch on the benches across from the lockers.
It already feels sacred to me. A place where dreams are forged, victories are celebrated, losses are dissected, and bonds are cemented.
I set my bag inside and take out the jersey, turning it around to see my name on it. Shit just got considerably more real. But Tris’s words remind me that maybe I should reel it in a bit.
After placing the jersey back inside my locker, I look around, not sure what it is I’m supposed to be doing, but I’ll figure it out.
“Hey, man.” Amias nods to the door. “You’re needed upstairs in the conference room.”
“Yeah.” I shut my locker. “Yeah, of course.”
I turn and head to the door I walked in and hear him chuckle. I glance back, and he nods his head in the opposite direction.
“I’m going up, too.”
“Perfect.” I follow him out.
“You excited to get out on the field?” he asks as we head down a hallway.
“Yeah, can’t wait.”
“You puke in the parking lot this morning?”
