Page 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

SILAS

“Can I come in?”

I looked up from my desk and exhaled a sigh of relief when I spotted my friend Lee standing in the doorway to my office.

“I have a few minutes before the circus starts,” I said as I set down my pencil.

Lee was the team chiropractor and had been one of the physical therapists for almost as long as I’d played for Washington. In the last couple of years, I’d seen a lot of him, thanks to the aches and pains that plagued me toward the end. So much so that he’d become one of my closest friends, and he was the only one who knew my concerns about how long I’d be able to play.

He’d been encouraging but honest, although not as encouraging as the beautiful writer I still couldn’t get out of my head after almost a month.

When I’d taken the job with the Bats, Lee had asked if they were looking for any staff, so he could be closer to his daughter in New York or at least have more chances to see her if he were based in Brooklyn. I was happy to put in a good word and have a familiar face around.

“Strategizing?” he asked, running a hand through his dark hair as he nodded to the scribbles on my notepad.

“Still tinkering with the lineup. What’s up?”

“Everyone looked good this morning, but Becker has a tweaked shoulder.” He nodded to the desk. “He insists he’s fine, but I’m watching him. I’d keep that in mind.” He jutted his chin to the piece of paper on my desk.

“Of course he says that,” I murmured, circling his name. I had him batting fourth behind our other three strongest hitters. Nate Becker loved to chase home runs, and the former manager had had him locked in as cleanup for the past season.

He had the best stats on the team, along with the most arrogance, as sometimes happened with someone young and talented. But he’d had as many strikeouts as hits last season because all he’d wanted to do was swing for the fences to tally up another home run. I’d watched videos of all the players to get a feel for how they played, and I shook my head every time Becker came up to the plate and sliced his bat through nothing but air, chasing pitches nowhere near the plate.

I was still getting to know my team, and they were a good group of guys from what I could tell. Becker was the one who’d roll his eyes at a drill or any suggestion I’d make. I could only imagine what he’d say if Lee told me I had to bench him for opening day.

But I was here to manage, not be my players’ best buddy. I’d begged to play through injuries in my younger days, and it had always set me back or, worse, would cost my team a win. I had soon learned it wasn’t worth it, but it had taken time to sink in. This team was talented, for sure, but new to a lot of what this life was, and I’d have to be on top of my own game every single day to lead them the right way.

Big egos had never intimidated me, but I’d hoped not to start the season with an argument.

“Thanks for the heads-up. He’ll lose his shit if I have to pull him, but…” I shrugged. “I don’t think he’ll tell me the truth if he’s in pain before opening day.”

“I have that feeling too,” Lee said with a chuckle. “Better to sit on the bench than get booed for a strikeout or making a bad throw, right?”

“You know that. I know that,” I said with a chuckle. “I’ll keep an eye on him as they practice today.”

“You’re dreading today, aren’t you?” Lee asked, crossing his arms as he arched a brow.

“Picked up on that?” I said, a laugh slipping out of me as I tossed the pencil into the cup on my desk.

Management had hired a new PR agency to promote us so “we would be everywhere.” I’d lost my anonymity at the press conference announcement, already getting stopped in the street as I traveled back and forth to the field, but I cringed thinking of our faces on the side of a bus. I had no clue as to what their plans were, but I had a good feeling I wouldn’t enjoy any of them.

The agency was coming to the field this afternoon for a “campaign kickoff,” as Kent called it. He thought it would be a treat for them to see the team practice and a way to “get familiar with us and our brand.”

Our brand was a professional baseball team that was here to win ball games, but, as I suspected, Kent’s priority was filling the seats. I didn’t blame him for thinking of the team’s bottom line, and I was fully aware that hating this part of it was a me thing. I’d happily argue with players over the best way we could win rather than pose for pictures like the mascot I still felt like.

“Might not be so bad, Si,” Lee said. “And I get why Kent wants to do it. The established New York teams have owned this town for decades. Being new is the main thing the Bats have going for them as far as publicity. They’re a young enough organization to be anything they want. Or at least try to be.” He shrugged. “Can’t fault them for that.”

“No, you’re right.” I nodded, rubbing my eyes.

“Plus, you have experience going viral.” Lee’s lips twitched. “This should be nothing for you.”

I glared back when he snickered.

“You grew up here too. You know how unforgiving this city can be. No one is going to give a shit how I look in my uniform pants if my team doesn’t win.”

“You haven’t been on Instagram recently, then.”

I squinted at Lee. “You’re telling me you follow this shit?”

“I follow the team I work for, yes. There’s a good highlight reel of you circulating, taken mostly from the back. I’m sure that scowl you’ll have in the dugout will be all over the damn place soon, especially if you turn around.”

“Jesus Christ,” I breathed out, rubbing my eyes as Lee cracked up.

“Hey, if you’ve got it, use it.” He threw his hands up as he stood. “Revenue is revenue, right? Take one for the team, Jones.”

“Easy for you to say. It’s not your ass all over social media. Literally.”

Lee’s shoulders shook as he headed for the door.

“I’m supposed to be behind the scenes, but if I weren’t,” he said, shifting to look behind him, “my ass is Instagram-worthy and would give you a nice run for your money.” He tapped the door and jerked his chin toward the hallway. “Now, stop hiding and get out there.”

I nodded, pushing away from my desk, trudging behind him without a reply.

I hadn’t been able to sleep last night, and, as I had for the past few weeks, I’d gotten lost in one of Rachel’s books. I’d downloaded almost all of them after she’d left my hotel room and was already on my fifth one.

It had been weird at first to read a book by someone I knew—or someone I’d spent a glorious afternoon and night with. I’d been right. She was a damn good storyteller, and even though I couldn’t know her past that night, it was nice to be able to know her a different way. An anonymous way. Although I was so tempted to look her up and learn all the things she hadn’t told me about herself because they were too personal.

At only thirty-three, she’d written over twenty books, all while taking care of herself and her sister. I’d laid low since I’d moved in to the apartment the team had set me up with in Greenwich Village in Manhattan, an industrial-type of building, not unlike the ones we’d passed in Williamsburg that day.

A restaurant and a bar were on every corner, but I chose to go home after I was done here and get lost in a book written by a woman who still captivated me with her words.

It was the only tether I could allow myself to have to her or anyone, and while I knew it was a little pathetic and absolutely not healthy, I had zero inclination to stop and look for something real.

Real still didn’t fit into my life, although I’d spent the last few weeks wishing like hell that it did.

“Silas, just the man we wanted to see.”

I paused, sucking in a slow breath before I turned to Kent’s voice. Lee was right. I had to support the team however they would ask me to and learn how to crack a believable fake smile when it was something out of my comfort zone.

Still, I had to fight a cringe as I turned around.

Kent approached me with a wide and eager grin as he motioned for the woman next to him to follow.

“Gayle, this is our brand-new manager, Silas Jones. Four-time Gold Glove winner and still holds the record for RBIs in a single season with his old team in Washington.”

“I’m familiar with his stats. Welcome to New York,” Gayle said, extending a hand. She had short blond, almost-white hair and cat-eye glasses, her gray eyes magnified by the lenses as she studied me.

“Well, he’s from here, so you can say ‘Welcome back,’” Kent said, slapping me on the shoulder.

“Is that right? We could use that,” Gayle said, tapping her chin.

“Use that?” I repeated.

“Gayle is the head of the agency that’s going to be working with us. They’re going to write articles on the team—and one on you. We’re going to be everywhere this season.”

“My staff is just here to take it all in,” Gayle said. “We only told them about this outing last night, so they aren’t prepared with questions or plans or anything.”

“Just enjoy the day, and we can strategize later.” Kent motioned to the field outside the hallway window.

Wayne Field was a state-of-the-art baseball field built by the billionaire who owned the team. Every inch of the place was cutting-edge, from the offices to the field itself to the concession stands and the high-end suites. Large windows throughout the office space had amazing views of the field, where I still itched to be instead of working the back end, even though I wore the same uniform as the rest of the team. Kent had even arranged to give me number twenty-three, my old number before I’d retired.

Getting used to the word retired and having a clean uniform at the end of each game would be an adjustment, and this place still seemed too cold to feel like home.

I missed that worn-in, old-time feeling Washington’s stadium had or the classic setup of some of the parks I’d played at during my career. There was no sense of tradition yet at Wayne Field. Everything was so new and pristine, almost like a model of a stadium instead of the real thing.

As the Brooklyn Bats’ new manager, I was part of that new model and on display for the world to see and judge. Something that had never bothered me when I stepped onto the field before. I’d owned it as a player, but I had to earn my place on it as a manager.

Despite all my reservations, I wanted to do this job. I wanted to win and the chance to teach young players. I remembered the good managers I’d had and how they’d guided us in creating a legacy in our short careers.

I’d learn to deal with the interviews, the videos, and the posters I was already seeing of me and the team plastered all over the city. If I wanted to stay and have a career in baseball at all, I had to suck it up and smile.

Letting people in had always been a challenge for me, and exposing myself like I’d have to do here almost made me break into a cold sweat. There was only one time I’d happily let someone in, but I had to let go of that and all I used to be so I could figure out how to be what I was.