Page 4

Chapter 4

Opening Day

Damien

T he alarm goes off at seven thirty. Pointless. I’ve been up since five, unable to fall asleep after the … whatever the fuck it was that went on outside last night. Growling, hissing, snuffling, snorting, thumping, and scratching.

I grew up in the center of Dusty Hollow. Small town, but not the kind where time seems to stand still. Mornings meant a semi roaring past the house or the neighbor’s dog losing its mind over a squirrel. If all else failed, Dad’s snoring was steady—thick, throaty, and comforting. After that, the minors shared apartments in small cities with paper walls, pipes that clanked, street traffic that never stopped, and roommates with “company,” or my own companion . Never quiet.

Am I afraid to be alone? Hell no. But you wake up thinking shit’s going down outside your window, and it is jarring to say the least.

After the initial shock, I knew it was animals. Wild animals gotta do what wild animals gotta do. But then I lie here in the quiet … peace. It’s unnerving because all I can think about is this fake dating bullshit and the fact she’s a musician, a singer … feelings.

I told Ty I didn’t want to know more about her until after we finished our series against the Comets. I can’t have another person on the roster—too many to keep track of as it is.

It’s our catcher, Tripp’s, birthday tonight, and I’m hoping to get everyone on board to head to Rooftop Rebound, our usual spot, after a win, and we will win. It’s also Evan Parker’s first game in the majors. They’ll no doubt try to initiate him by making him pick up the bar tab and drain his bank account. Can’t let that happen.

They can all bust on me about my brand deals, but it doesn’t just pay the bills; it’s a safety net. One that I cast out wider when needs come up. Fucking with a rookie’s bank balance is one of those needs.

I curl up and stretch. “Rise and grind.”

All players have somewhat of a routine on game day, even if they say they don’t. There’s peace in routine. Control in repetition. Mine is the same most days. The only time I break it is on holidays and during the off-season.

My game changed when I started bulking up during the off-season. Built muscle out of the extra weight, and my swing was forever changed. Not gonna lie; I always looked good naked, but now, well, let’s just say I spend a couple of minutes a day flexing in the mirror. For motivation, of course.

My smoothie is always first. I look out the window over the empty field, listening to my blender do its thing, all loaded with banana, spinach, protein powder, almond butter, and ice. Same thing every day.

The previous owner had horses. I’ve ridden, but I’m not sure I’ll ever own any.

I down the shake, rinse it out, and then head outside.

Steeping off my porch, I’m pleased at the progress made from when I last was here. Two of the four barns have been remodeled. The one that used to be a horse barn and will be my office when I retire, the one closest to the house, is now my home gym.

The barns still look like barns from the outside—weathered red siding, big double doors, and the old wind vanes have been refurbished, spinning on the roof. I inhale the smell of fresh-cut grass and head out.

I open the doors, step in, and shake my head, loving what I see just as much as I did yesterday. The floors are polished concrete now, cool and clean beneath your feet. Overhead, the original beams stretch wide across the vaulted ceiling—massive, worn dark wood that keeps the soul of the place intact.

One side of the space is lined with state-of-the-art equipment—the rowing machine sparkles, so do the sleds, racks, free weights, turf. The wall of smart mirrors flashes personalized data—my personal fitness instructor set up.

A leather couch sits tucked against the far wall under an old barn window, cracked open just enough to let the morning air in. A mini fridge hums beside it, stocked with protein shakes, jerky, and electrolyte drinks. An old transistor radio—more decoration than functional—sits unplugged.

In the back corner, there’s a heavy bag suspended from a beam. It’s older than my dad and was here when I bought the place. A scuffed-up pair of gloves hangs beside it, the first pair I ever bought.

The walls are lined with framed jerseys—not just my own, but teammates’, mentors’, even a local kid’s high school jersey from Dusty Hollow. He gave it to me and said, “No disrespect, but one day this will be worth more than yours and Dawsons combined.” The kid has balls and talent. Once that cockiness gets knocked out of him, he may do just that.

Next to the door is a small corkboard with yellowed paper tacked to it. Old affirmations, handwritten quotes, a few ticket stubs, and one frayed snapshot of a kid holding a bat way too big for him, smile crooked, dirt on his face—me. Besides that, with the same vibe, is Dawson. Another of my folks, another of Ty and I, and the one tucked behind it, not visible, is me, Ty, and Sally.

Between deadlifts and shoulders, it’s plyos.

Inside, I take a cold shower then get dressed and make my bed.

I tape the inside of my wrist—blank for now. That part comes later. I lay my high school jersey out on the bed and run my hand across the stitched letters like it’ll ground me.

Donovan. Number 7.

Next, I make a quick breakfast—oats and black coffee.

After that, I lace my sneakers and head to the batting cage I had built behind the mechanics shop on the west side, where I swing until my hands sting.

At twelve thirty, I eat again—chicken, rice, avocado. Then I stretch while watching tape from last season against the Comets. I study the pitcher, count his tells. He blinks before a curveball and scratches his temple before a change-up.

I write it all down like Mom and I used to on the back of one of her receipt books from her part-time job at the diner. She’s finally retired, but Millie gives me a booklet every time I go back. Dad’s no longer driving a truck, but he refuses to retire. He’s working for old Archie at the garage, working on trucks. Not sure they’ll ever sell their house, but I’m still going to build them a place here.

Next, I grab The Times and sit to do my daily crossword puzzle.

At two, I grab my bag and head out.

It feels different driving into the city on game day. It’s louder and even more wired. Fans in jerseys spill out of bars, vendors cart their coolers toward the stadium, and kids with their faces painted in our colors trail behind tired parents with hot dog wrappers stuck to their shoes.

I take it all in—the love for the game, for the team—and make a silent promise that they have the same coming back. Nothing less than a hundred and one perfect.

I pull up to the gate where George is stationed and see the Rolex shining on his wrist when he waves the black super crew F-150 through. The driver? Tripp, our catcher. Behind him is a black Escalade. The driver? Our pitcher, Max. When he waves me through, I roll to a stop and hand him an envelope.

“What’s this?” he asks, taking it.

“A thank-you card.”

“Son, you gave me a watch that cost ten grand; I should be giving you a thank-you card.”

“You’ve given this team twenty years of service, and from what I understand, I owe you a thank you for having my back, once again.”

He chuckles. “Kid, you need to give these clowns a reason to stop coming at you.”

“Working on it.” I wink and move forward.

I pull into my spot between Max and Tripp.

Stepping out, I ask, “You ready to do this damn thing?”

I get the hell yeahs that I need.

Walking in, our team photographer, Cheyenne Meyer, is perched on the ground, waiting to take our arrival shots. She’s a hot blonde with a ballerina bun and a smile. I swear I hear one of the two groan beside me.

“No fraternization policy.” I chuckle.

Max huffs. “You keep your shit up, and they’ll be putting locks on our dicks for the season.”

At the same time, Tripp whispers, “Welcome to Temptation Island.”

Cheyenne smiles. “Let’s get the three of you together and then individually.”

“Anything for you, Ms. Meyer.”

After pictures, we check in with my trainer and do some stretches. I tape both wrists tight enough to ensure it stays on the entire game. On the inside of the left, I scribble today’s words: Earn It.

It seems fitting for my first game after signing a four-year, fifty-seven-million-dollar contract. I’m not going to just breeze by; I’m going to give them four years doing just that— earn it .

I hit the dining room and graze at the table setup. Whole grains, lean proteins, and healthy fats. So, basically, the same thing I eat.

We hit the field for warm-ups. I take grounders at first, catch, pivot, toss, over and over. I talk just enough not to seem cold. The coaches and vets know this about me. The rookies will learn.

Next, I grab a bat and take my swings in silence, absorbing the energy from the crack on contact. No wasted motion. No wasted thoughts. I know who I am in the box, on the field.

By five, we’re snacking again. Then it’s time to change. Helmet. Gloves. Cleats.

I slide my fingers over the ink on my wrist, ready to … earn it.

Lined up in the tunnel, we wait for our introduction. The stadium lights drop low, the hum of the crowd begins to increase, and the energy … electric.

Spotlights fire up along the baselines. “Can’t Stop” by The Red Hot Chili Peppers begins. I tune it out and focus on the bass. Big screens flash “ Terrors ” in our team colors—black and silver—and then the announcer’s voice booms.

“ Ladies and gentlemen … welcome to Music City Park, home of your Tennessee Terrors !”

The bass drops, and the crowd roars.

“ Now taking the field for your Tennessee Terrors”—more applause—“leading the charge, our manager … Declan Wylde !”

I watch on the screen as the camera catches Wylde in his signature black jacket, a slow nod to the crowd as he heads out.

“—hitting coach, Chris Wayne; pitching coach, Randy Lee; first base coach, Bucky Smith; and third base coach, Andy Stokes !”

The bassline increases, and the place starts shaking—fans stomping, hands clapping.

“ And now … your Tennessee Terrors starting lineup! In center field, wearing number 17 … Jake Reynolds! Short Stop, number 23 … GUNNER McNeer! In left field, number 19 … Evan Parker! At first base, number 7 … Damien ‘Deisel’ Donovan !”

The roar is different. Not loud, but heavy, as I jog out with my head down and glove tucked under my arm.

“Designated hitter, number 24 … Lucas Hamilton! On third base, number 6 … Chase Thorn! In right field, number 34 … R.K. ‘Kelton’ James! Behind the plate, catching tonight, number 25 … Cassidy ‘Tripp’ Nash! On second base, number 21 … Eric Wiseman! And on the mound tonight, your starting pitcher … Max Murphey! And the rest of your Tennessee Terrors!”

Fireworks launch over center field as the team lines up along the first base line, hats off. The music fades, and the anthem begins.

The lights in this damn room are always too bright. Too hot , I think as I sit down at the table for the post-game press conference. Feels like sitting in a fishbowl, one filled with lousy cologne instead of water and microphones shoved in your face.

We beat the Comets by three. Solid win. Clean win. The pitching was sharp. Defense handled business. We strung together enough hits to make it count.

I’m not in the mood to talk about it. I want to get to the get-together at Rooftop Replay, a little R you put this all together, say somethin’. Birthday speech.”

I shake my head. “No speech. I’m paying the bar tab so you fools don’t break the rookie day one.”

But when half the table starts chanting, “Deisel! Deisel!” as my pocket bounces around like one of those silver bullets I love to surprise ladies with every now and again, I figure, Hell, might as well . Then I can return whoever called me.

I push off the rail and step toward Tripp, who leans back in his chair like I just told him I’m proposing marriage.

“If this man cries”—Tripp grins—“I want video evidence.”

I point my beer at him. “No fucking video, man.”

They all start laughing, knowing damn well I’m talking about the Florida fiasco.

I continue, “Might lie about how good you are, though.”

Laughter sparks.

But then it settles.

I lift my beer. “To Tripp Nash, loudest man in the league, toughest catcher behind the plate, smartest mouth in five states, and dumbest driver in all of ’em.”

That gets ’em.

Tripp’s laughing, shaking his head. “Appreciate you, Deisel,” he says, clinking his beer to mine. “Even if you hit like you’re even older than me.”

“I’ll never be older than you,” I shoot back.

Gunner whistles low. “He got you, Tripp!”

“To our Catcher, #25, Tripp motherfucking Nash.”

Bottles clink, someone yells for shots, and I … duck out.

I cut through the crowd, nod to Carter—one of the Replay security guys—and slip past the rope line toward the quieter side of the rooftop.

Rooftop Replay sits on top of the Regency Hotel and showcases the Nashville skyline. You can see the stadium from here, and the team name is all lit up. Stunning view.

I fish in my pocket for my phone. I am not close enough to have a conversation but close enough that I can hear Gunner taking bets on how many shots Tripp can down before forgetting his own name.

I have four missed calls from Dawson and a string of texts. He takes precedence, so I hit him back.

“Yo.”

“Bro—”

I cut him off, “No spoilers. I wanna watch?—”

“I got one. A home run. Dead center. Four twenty-seven. I knew it when I felt it hit.”

Pride swells in my chest, and yeah, I’m a little upset I missed it, but we don’t do sentimental.

I chuckle under my breath. “Finally figured out what that bat’s for, huh?”

He’s breaking it down like it’s game seven, crazy excited, as he should be, pitch by pitch, count by count.

Movement catches my eye near the rope.

Rick’s standing like a wall, arms folded, telling somebody no with his whole damn chest. Happens all the time up here—cleat chasers thinking they’ve got what it takes be become a WAG. But she’s not trying to win him over. Her voice is sharp. Not drunk-loud. Not messy. Pissed. And it makes my dick twitch at the most inopportune time.

I lock back into Dawson’s play-by-play as she walks away and heads to the elevator.

“Bro, we’re going to take the Terrors down.”

To that, I throw my head back and laugh.

We end the call, and I hit the last message I received.

Ty:

Made an executive call. Don’t be mad. Sponsors are asking questions. She’ll be in Trenton for the Jags series, singing the anthem, anyway. Figured this was easier. Keep an eye out. I sent Delilah to meet you at RR.

I stare at the screen, my jaw tightens, and then it hits me … Fuck!