Page 103 of Elevator Pitch

“Sounds like a date, Ross Davis.”

“See you soon, Verona Huxley.”

I click off the phone and glance up to see Romero Valdez and Bolan Adler a few feet away from me. Each of them are chatting up women. Romero is unfortunately speaking with Ford Sylver’s ex-wife. Bolan chats with his wife. He was married quickly before the season began and his wife Ruth seems sweet but standoffish.

“Gentlemen, locker room,” I call out to them, knowing I’ve taken my own time to get to where I need to be.

Both men say their goodbyes and the echoing clomp of their cleats trails behind me in the tunnel leading to the locker room.

“Got a girlfriend, Coach?” Valdez calls out behind me.

If I did, I wouldn’t trust him around her. Vee and I still haven’t officially declared who we are to each other. Haven’t confirmed the whole boyfriend-girlfriend terminology. And I wouldn’t be sharing anything with anyone before talking to Vee. We’re public but I don’t need us sensationalized. I don’t want that circus for Vee.

I don’t respond to Valdez, not particularly liking to speak with him outside what’s necessary for the team. It’s a difficult position to be in. I want to like everyone. I want to treat them all equally, but Valdez is just one of those players I’m struggling to like as a human being.

“Ah, give Coach a break,” Adler says. “We can’t all be the Romeo you are,” he teases our short stop.

“You were once a Romeo, too,” Valdez reminds Adler of his former reputation. The one that sent him overseas for a while to play in Japan. His lawyer got him a new agent and brought Bolan back to the U.S., and the Anchors acquired the thirty-something catcher shortly before this season began.

“Now you’ve got that ring weighing down your finger,” Valdez continues. “I don’t know how you handle such a mouse in your bed.”

The sudden scuffle of cleats and the definitive sound of a body slamming against a cement wall has me turning and rushing toward my players. Of whom, one is plastered to the tunnel wall by the forearm the other is holding against his throat.

“Don’t speak about Ruthie like that. In fact, don’t even look in her direction.”

“Hey,” I snap, slipping my arm between them. “Adler, step back.” Not that Valdez’s comments were warranted, but Bolan is the bigger of the two men, and he’s the one holding the other against a wall.

“You’re a shit stirrer,” Adler states, not letting up on his teammate despite my attempts to whittle between them. “And no one likes you.”

“Ohh, you hurt my feelings.” Valdez’s whimper is delivered in a taunting falsetto.

“Okay. That’s enough.” If Bolan hadn’t pressed Romero to the wall, I might have done it myself. But even if I have a negative opinion of Romero, I can’t let the team become divided again. With Ford’s injury, and his absence because of it, the team has finally settled down a bit about the animosity between the two men.

And Valdez just came off his suspension for his role in that injury.

“Adler, back up,” I warn, still trying to force them apart. Bolan is roughly my size but ten years younger than me, which gives him strength.

With a final shove against Valdez’s throat, he presses off his teammate and takes a large step back. I’m left shielding Valdez, who is thinner and shorter, but no less scrappy than his larger teammate.

“Maybe what your little wife needs is a real man in her bed.”

Goddammit.

Bolan rushes forward and I spin to face Valdez, attempting once again to body block Adler from getting to him.

“You’re fucking toast,” Adler hollers around me, his breath heated at the side of my head.

“Hey!” The call comes from my left before feet thunder down the tunnel and someone pulls Adler off my back. My hands have been against the wall, using the strength in my arms to cage in Valdez and keep Adler off his teammate, but I press off the cement and step back.

“You make another comment like that about someone’s wife, girlfriend, daughter or female friend or otherwise, and I’ll have you off this team.”

Valdez’s dark eyes narrow. His jaw clenches. He’s only on this team because of a midseason trade last year, and I’ll do the same to him this year.

“In fact, I’ll go one further. I’ll make certain you never play for anyone.”

“You can’t do that,” he grits.

“Watch me.” I’ve been in professional baseball for over twenty years. I know managers and front offices, and while my word might not be gold, it still would hold weight. There’s a new alignment in sports with what’s appropriate and not appropriate behavior, and trash talking someone’s person is never acceptable. Not in my house. Not on my field.