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As I head down the hall, Brisa sends Nour and Bennett Jr. in first. I look at my watch. It’s ten o’clock, and as the minutes tick down, so do my hopes of pissing Gwendolyn York off enough that we end up angry fucking against a wall somewhere—anywhere.
“Son of a bitch,” I mumble, feeling my dick stir, and real fucking quickly decide it’s best not to lean into it this time and focus on the boys.
I glance at Brisa. “Bennett’s eyes are fucking dead.”
“I see that,” she sighs.
“Kid’s off tonight. Something has been eating at him for a couple of days.”
Ranger, Brisa’s husband, looks at me.
“You notice anything?”
“Kid’s an odd one. Nothing like his old man. In fact, I’m pretty sure he ha?—”
“Yeah,” Brisa cuts me off, “something’s off with them, which is why I hope he bonds with some of you. He’s truly talented.” She stops and covers her mouth.
“Shit,” Ranger says, hurrying her toward the ladies’ room.
Well fuck, I think and turn my focus back to Bennett and Nour.
“Tonight was tough.” Bennett’s voice is tinged with a raw edge of emotion. “We gave it everything we had out there, but sometimes, it just doesn’t go your way.”
Nour comes in for the save, his words measured, voice even. “We’ll regroup, refocus, come back stronger tomorrow, and finish up ahead.”
“Fucking snooze-fest, man.” Xavier Steel clamps his hand on my shoulder. “Get in there and give it some flavor.”
“Where’s Coach?” I ask.
“Players running this shit tonight.” He winks then then nods.
Come to Daddy, I think as I walk in.
As soon as my name is said by one, they’re all over me. Gone are the days when I recognized at least a handful of the reporters in the room. ESPN, Fox Sports, MLB, NBC, CBS, SportsNet, and TBS, I could keep straight. Add all the new sports reporters who submit to social media channels, and I can’t keep shit straight anymore.
Nour and Bennet look relieved when I sit down at the table.
I lean into the mic and smile. “Sorry I’m late.”
“How do you feel about playing with rookie starters?” is the first question I receive from somewhere in the packed press room.
“I started this game as a pitcher. I would argue all day with any sports fan or player that the relationship between the pitcher and the catcher is the most critical in any sport there is. Teamwork, constant communication, and one hundred percent trust in each other, or it doesn’t work. That shit doesn’t happen overnight. It takes years to build a relationship like that. These two have never played together before showing up at Revolutionary Stadium. Rookies or not, they’re right up there with the best of the best in the league.” I laugh. “They’re going to be the very best in a short time.
“Hart plays like he’s been on a team his whole life. Learning that’s an extension of who he is on and off the field. Tereira’s got center on lockdown. Hell, he’d cover right and left if he needed to.”
“How about?—”
“Hold up. There’s no better way to mess up a family than leaving the rest out. As a whole, we’re a team on fire. Vander, Rudy G., and Pope are untouchable on the field. Chuck Turner is killing it as DH, and I’m still at the top of my game.”
“How’s your ankle?” the woman from Fox yells.
“Left one as strong as the right,” I answer with a smile then nod to whoever the hell it is from SportsNet who wants to ask the next question.
“Can you tell us about the viral video of you and Mavericks’ Centerfielder Frankie Frangula?”
“I post on social media for Jags fans and people who have followed my career for years. So, when I tell you no, it’s because I haven’t seen a video. I also had no idea Frangula has a virus, because that’s none of my business. I can assure you that he and I haven’t appeared in any videos together.”
She shakes her head and tries to correct me like I’m an idiot and not fucking with them. “No, a viral?—”
