Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 92095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
He clears his throat, starts over. “Is everyone treating you right?”
I exhale. Fasten on a smile. “Yeah. It’s all good, sir.”
He swipes one palm against the other. That’s done. “Excellent. I like the way you’re working out.”
Some of the tension unwinds. This is just a politically correct conversation. A moment to be diplomatic. I can live with that. He probably wants to be a better ally. He’s in his late fifties, so I bet this is still all new to him. New generation, new effort. I get it.
This, too, is why I’m out, openly out. For chances like these—to speak freely with others, to allow them to speak freely with me.
“Glad to hear,” I say with a smile, because that’s how I choose to be. No snark, no pushback—just be me, and be authentic.
I bend to pick up my bag, figuring we’re done, but he keeps talking. “But could you take some extra time with the hitting coach right now?”
I freeze, midway to the ground. “Extra batting practice?”
“Yeah. It’d be good for you. Especially as we figure out our roster.”
I rise, leaving the bag there, unsure what to do, what to think, except this is part of the test for the starting slot. But this is batting practice, not catching practice.
He claps me on the shoulder. “Thanks, Blackwood.” He walks off and I turn to the hitting coach, who strides over from the edge of the field.
Coach Tanaka is gruff and no nonsense. He nods at me and says, “I’ll be back. Give me ten.”
And I freak the fuck out.
Why the hell does the hitting coach want to work with me? I pace around the field, fishing my phone from my bag as Tanaka heads inside.
With the speed of a falcon on speed, I call my agent in New York.
Haven answers right away. “What’s going on, Grant?” Her calm voice does nothing to soothe me.
“Dude, what is going on? Why does Fisher want to have the hitting coach work with me?”
“I don’t know. Your batting average is terrific. You’re batting over three hundred,” she says, heading straight for stats, since stats are everything.
“So, what the hell?”
“I don’t think it’s anything to worry about,” she says. “But I’ll do some digging. And don’t you go googling yourself.”
That’s the advice she’s been giving me since she signed me. “I won’t, but here’s the thing.” I shake my head. She’s wrong. “My gut is telling me something else is going on, Haven. Why the hell would he want to work with me? There’s something he’s not happy with. Is Rodriguez moving up from backup? I thought this was my spot to win. Can you find out? Are they going to send me down?”
Panic kicks in. I can’t be sent down. I have plans. Big plans. A future. I only want to go up.
“Grant, the team has you in its sights as its new starter. I don’t think there is a thing to worry about, but I’ll make some calls. See what’s going on.”
“Thanks, Haven,” I grit out.
I hang up, tossing my phone in my bag as Tanaka strides over to me at home plate. “You ready?”
“I’m ready.”
For the next hour he takes me through my paces, works with me on my hitting, on my stance, on my swing.
Over and over.
When we’re done, he’s as stoic as Fisher.
“That’ll do,” he says, in a monotone that gives nothing away.
That’ll do?
That’s what the farmer said to the pig in Babe.
But at least then, it was a compliment.
This is a non-compliment.
I stand there, trying to make sense of what just went down.
I thought I was having a great spring training, especially for a rookie.
But now I have no clue.
And no idea what this means for the starting slot.
Especially when Tanaka walks off the field, gives me a curt nod, and says, “Thanks, rookie.”
I don’t like the way he says rookie. I don’t like the way he says it at all.
I definitely don’t like being left in the dark. This moment feels all too familiar—other people knowing secrets about you, whispering them privately, leaving you to guess.
I head to the locker room, stalk into the shower, and let the hot water rain down over me, letting it wash off my annoyance and my frustration.
It doesn’t do the trick.
Instead, my gut twists. My jaw clenches.
My brain races three laps ahead, trying to figure it out but coming up empty.
When I walk into the locker room, it echoes.
I’m all alone.
And something about that feels like an omen.
I get dressed quickly, grab my phone and my wallet, then head out of the locker room, calling my agent once more, “Did you find out anything?”
Haven is warm and reassuring as she says, “I talked to the GM. He says all is well.”
I wince, stopping, sinking against the wall, closing my eyes. “But isn’t that the kiss of death before you’re sent down?”