Page 14 of Hiding in the Outfield

“I’m keeping the weights light. Speaking of, I need to do my burpees.”

“You just do squats with overheads?”

“Yup.”

“Put me on the floor. I’ll wait the ninety seconds.” No surprise, he has my routines memorized. He could list out my entire workout by heart, but ask him my favorite food? What I like to do outside of baseball? Guarantee he’d come up blank.

I switch over to my timer and then place my phone on the ground. My lungs are straining and my quads are burning when the timer dings. I grab my phone and slowly pace as I catch my breath.

“Mom, Jacob, and I are planning a visit,” Dad says before I can say a word. “After your next round of away games. We’ll make sure we’re there for a Monday so we can grab lunch on your off day too.”

“Sounds good.” Sounds a little bit like torture, but I’ll get through it. At least Jake will be there. Keeps a little of the attention off me.

“Will you be…bringing anyone?”

I heave a sigh. “You think I have time to date? Where do you think I’d pull all this extra time out of to find a girlfriend, Dad?”

He chuckles. “You’re a Triple-A player on his way to The Show; you don’t find a girlfriend, Jackson, they find you. Trust me, I understand the allure of taking home anyone you want. I’m sure the cleat chasers are all over you. But there’s something to be said for having a woman to come home to. I don’t want you distracted by things like cooking and laundry. She can handle the housekeeping so you can let all your focus be on baseball. Plus, the regular relief any time you need it would be beneficial to your game.”

I somehow hold back my groan. “I need to do more burpees.”

I don’t wait for a response, place my phone on the mat, and reset the timer. I would literally do burpees for ten minutes straight if that meant I could end this phone call. My dad is old school. Marriage means stability, a man of “good standing”, and of course a model of heterosexual masculinity. Nothing makes a man more than proof of virility.

I push hard, frustration burning through my veins and fueling every explosion upward. I don’t know if it’s paranoia or if my dad has always suspected something, but it’s always a fucking interrogation with him. It’s why I like dragging Dev along when they visit. Dev always regales Dad with our nights out and the girls “we” hook up with. I’m not good at making it up and bragging when Dev’s not around.

The timer dings, and I snatch up the phone. “Still. There?” I manage to struggle out between pants.

“Yeah. I won’t bother you much longer, though. Great game last night. That catch was fantastic and a product of what you’re doing right now. I knew this training program would be exactly what you needed. Pops always knows best.”

Bile coats my tongue.

“Keep it up. I watched your at bats back and there are some things I think you should tweak, so I sent you over my notes. Take a look at them before tonight’s game.”

“Will do, Dad.”

“Keep your eye on the prize, Jackson. You’re the real deal. I couldn’t be more proud of you.”

I swallow hard. Hearing that used to be everything to me growing up. But I learned pretty early on that the praise was conditional.

“Thanks, Dad.”

So is the love.

SIX

FRANKIE

May.

I barrel down the stairs and into the kitchen. “What a fucking day.” I think I’ve decided I don’t like people. “I need a glass of red. Like yesterday. I hate traveling.” Especially when it’s to fucking San Francisco.

I snap my fingers at Shane, who is already pulling out a bottle and grabbing a glass for me. Because he gets me. God, I could kiss him. “And does anyone have industrial powered ear plugs? I really do not need to hear my brother’s sex noises.”

I take a sip of the wine Shane just handed me and close my eyes with a hum. Divine. I’ve at least showered the airport filth off me and am now in my favorite casual wear. But between the rude woman who was dead set on the seat I was in being hers—spoiler, it was my fucking seat because I can read. I do not understand how being in the wrong seat is a thing. Like 2A, 3B. These are elementary level letters and numbers, honey—and the luggage in the overhead bin that fell on my boot that was most likely full of fucking bricks. I am just done. Done, I tell you.

I also had to spend the entire trip working with Nick. Lucky me just got assigned a second client—which I will be co-heading with him. So that was obviously very fun.

My eyes snap open and clash with a set of dark irises beneath a scowling brow. Oh, hello now.