The Sweetest Game (15 page)

After sucking in a deep breath, I aimed at the catcher waiting for my warm-up pitch, and threw. The ball flew right down the center, a perfect fast-ball right down the pipe. My hand felt good and I wanted to keep it that way, so I stretched my fingers and threw ten more pitches before the first batter stepped up to the plate.

Aiming for the glove and agreeing to the catcher’s call for a first pitch fast-ball on the outside corner, I pulled my arm back and threw. The batter swung and missed. I glanced at the scoreboard behind me to check my speed as I walked back to the mound. The numbers nine-zero showed on the screen under the strike one count.

Shit.

I could only imagine what the announcers were saying about me right now. A first-pitch fast-ball at only ninety miles an hour? Send this kid back to the minor leagues. Doing something I rarely fucking do, I stole a look toward where the players’ wives sit and locked eyes with mine. Then I tipped my hat twice, my sign for my girl, and I could see the outline of her smile spread across her face.

Looking at her gave me the extra strength I needed to get through this. Then I remembered the necklace, and gave it a squeeze through my jersey. Taking a deep breath, I squinted toward the catcher. He flashed two fingers before tapping the inside of his thigh. I prayed my curve ball was still dirty as I fumbled with the seams of the ball to find my fingering. I lifted my knee into the air and hurled the ball toward the waiting batter, who swung and hit it right past me. My body arced out of the way of the incoming ball, the memory of being hit in the hand still fresh in my mind.

I kicked the dirt, and cursed in my head. Six weeks ago, that guy couldn’t have hit my curve ball with a fucking Chevy. Now he hit it like I served it up on a platter for him. His timing was fucking perfect and mine was off.

The rest of the five innings I pitched were more of the same. I struck out four guys, and got most of the rest to ground out. But I was frustrated. I battled with myself, happy that I hit all my spots and threw a decent game, but angry that I couldn’t throw faster. I tried and pushed myself as hard as I could, but I never threw over ninety-one.

When Coach pulled me, he patted me on the back and told me not to worry about it. But I worried. In this sport, you always worry. Nothing was set in stone; you could always be replaced.

After the game, I walked through the familiar doors and into the hallway where Cassie waited for me. My girl calmed me. Her presence made everything okay. I could win any battle with her by my side. I’d go to fucking war if I knew I got to come home to her.

She leaned up on her toes and planted a wet kiss on my lips. “You did great. How do you feel?”

“Thanks, Kitten. I feel okay. I know I can do better.”

“It’s your first game back. You’ll get stronger every outing.”

“Every outing? Aw, you sound like a ball player already,” I teased, throwing my arm around her back.

“But really, I mean it. No one expects you to be perfect right off the bat.”

I knew she only tried to help, but I questioned her words. My coach, the team’s manager, they did all expect that. Whether they said it to my face or not, they expected it, and they talked about it behind closed doors.

“Feed me, woman. I’m starving,” I said to change the subject, and kissed the side of her head as we headed out of Shea.

The next month was more of the same as far as ball was concerned. I pitched every few games on rotation, but couldn’t gain any speed or velocity in my pitches. Everyone kept talking about all the time I needed to get my full strength back, but I could see the disappointment in their eyes. And even though my teammates never admitted it to my face, they were all happy this wasn’t happening to them. I couldn’t blame them, though. If the situation were reversed, I’d be feeling the same way. Thankful it wasn’t me.

From the outside, people probably thought of baseball as a simple sport. The general public thought that any athlete who made a living playing a sport should never have any cause for complaints. How lucky would we all be if we got paid a ton of money to play a game every day?

But life was rarely as simple as people imagined it was. Baseball was so much more than that. It was a business. And it was ugly sometimes. One of the most frustrating things to a player was when the business side of baseball came into play and messed with your desire to simply play the game.

All of us ball players just wanted to play the game. None of us wanted to be involved in the business side of it, that was why we had agents and managers. We were desperate for them to handle all of that so we could simply concentrate on playing our game.

But that wasn’t how baseball worked. You played on their terms. You were a fucking pinball that could be hit, bumped around, knocked into a holding pen, good for some extra points, or go down the gutter when the flippers couldn’t reach you. But you were still just a tiny ball on their playing field.

“Jimmy wants to see you,” Coach told me after I’d showered. Nerves shot through me; it wasn’t good if our team manager wanted to talk to me. I knew my game wasn’t the same as it used to be, but I’d just gotten back. I wasn’t a hundred percent yet and they knew that. I needed more time.

“Close the door, Jack,” Jimmy’s gruff voice demanded.

My stomach in knots, I closed the door and stood in front of it.

He waved me forward. “Come sit.”

I shook my head. “I’d rather stand. If you’re going to give me bad news, I’d rather not be sitting.” I reached for my pitching hand and stretched my fingers back.

Jimmy nodded and looked me straight in the eye, his voice all business, no emotion. “Fine. Jack, look, we’re going to be trading you. Two teams are asking for you and I wanted to ask your preference.” He sat back and watched me, obviously waiting for a response.

Did he just say they were trading me?

My first instinct was to fight, but this wasn’t the kind of thing you fight. It didn’t work like that. Being traded wasn’t a negotiation with your agent or your family or anyone. It was purely a team-to-team deal and you were usually left out of it. There was no contract to write up, since whatever team got you, also got your current contract. Usually players had no say in the matter. It was the rare case that they asked your opinion at all.

Like this one.

I wanted to fight, but I was too shocked to respond at first. The word “traded” kept banging around inside my head.

“But I love New York. And this team,” I said, sounding so much like a child I immediately wanted to kick myself as soon as the words were out.

“We know you do, kid. But your pitches have lost something and it’s in the team’s best interest to make a trade.”

The team’s best interest.

Baseball is a business.

Baseball is a business.

Baseball is a business
.

No matter how many times I reminded myself of that fact, it didn’t lessen the sting.

Pressure built up in my chest as I looked away, struggling with what to say. Finally, I pulled myself together and stared steadily back at him. “I’m not healed a hundred percent yet. I just need more time. I’ll get back to where I was, you know I will.”

He shook his head. “It’s already a done deal.”

“Why do I get to choose where I go?” I felt a little dizzy as the room spun, or maybe it was my head, still reeling from the news.

“Because it’s an even trade. Both teams are offering the same things, so I figured I’d do you the courtesy of asking if you had a preference where you went.”

“Thank you,” I said with a nod.

“Both Toronto and Anaheim are asking for you. You let me know which team you’d prefer, and I’ll do my best to make it happen for you.”

I sucked in a breath. It was a no-brainer. “Anaheim. Definitely Anaheim.” If I had to get traded and move, the least I could do was take Cassie back home.

Shit
.

Cassie was going to kill me.

My mind whirled with all the ramifications of this move. Cassie had a job she loved. We’d made a home here in New York. We were Matteo’s only clients. We had friends, and responsibilities, and suddenly I felt like the weight of the world rested on my shoulders.

Jimmy cleared his throat. “Great. I’ll let them know.” He gave me a nod of dismissal and waved me toward the door.

I moved to leave but paused for a second, then turned around and asked, “When will it go through?”

“The deadline’s in a few days, so not before then.”

A few days?

“Will I throw any more for the team?” I asked. It was probably a weird question, but I liked knowing when something this momentous was going to be my last time. I wanted to be able to say good-bye, knowing I was kicking the mound for the last time, putting on the uniform for the last time, walking onto the field for the last time. I’m a baseball player; we’re fucking mental, okay?

“Probably not. You’re a good pitcher, Jack.”

A few months ago I was a great pitcher.

“You still have some years left in you, so don’t let this get you down. This is all part of the game.”

I saw red for a second as emotions welled up within me at the injustice of it all.
Fucking easy for
you
to say.

Lucky for me I didn’t voice that thought out loud, but settled for muttering, “Not really.”

“Excuse me?” Jimmy slammed his pen down on the desk and eyed me, his face slowly turning red.

“This,” I said tersely, then paused. “This isn’t part of the game at all. It might be part of the
business
, but it’s not part of the game.” Then I opened the door and walked out.

Still had a few years left in me? I’d show them. My hand wasn’t fully healed yet, and I could still come back just as strong as I was before. The Mets organization might have just quit on me, but I refused to. I’d play my best years for the Anaheim Angels. At least I would still be playing.

Matteo drove me home in silence. It had been like that since I’d gotten hurt. He let me take the lead when it came to my wanting to talk or not, and most days lately, I’d been silent. I felt like a shitty person because we were friends; I just didn’t always act like one lately.

“See you later. Thanks for the ride,” I said as I hopped out of the car before he could, and headed into my building.

Upstairs, I walked through our front door, desperate for my girl. “Cassie?” I yelled into the silence and waited. No response. She didn’t go to the game this afternoon because she had to work and I wasn’t pitching.

Glancing at my cell phone, I realized she was probably still at her office. I couldn’t wait; I’d go fucking insane if I didn’t talk to her. She needed to know what was happening and I needed to tell her sooner rather than later.

There was no later. We’d have to leave New York in just a few short days.

I dialed her phone and paced the floor as I waited for her to pick up.

“Hey, babe,” she said, her voice a soothing balm on my shattered nerves.

“Kitten, what time will you be home tonight?” I tried to hide the urgency in my tone, but failed.

“Why?” she asked sharply, immediately on high alert. “Are you okay? I can leave right now if you need me to.”

“Yes. I need you to,” I admitted.

“Is everything okay? Are you okay?” she asked, the worry in her tone heartbreaking.

I tugged at my hair as I paced. “I’m fine, I promise. I just need you to come home.”

“Okay. I’ll be right there.”

I paced a fucking hole in the floor the fifteen minutes it took Cassie to walk through our door. The second she did, I practically sprinted to her and pulled her into my arms. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“What’s going on? Jack, you’re scaring me,” she confessed, her face draining of color.

“I’m getting traded,” I blurted out.

Any of the remaining pink in her cheeks instantly vanished. “W-where?”

“They asked me if I had a preference and I said yes, but I won’t know until the trade goes through.”

“Where?” she asked again, her tone more demanding this time.