Page 22

“Sorry we couldn’t win one for you,” Davis says, freshly showered, his mop of brown hair still wet and falling into his eyes when he, Greene and Esposito meet us outside the clubhouse post-game.

I don’t blow it off, though. I like that he cares. “You kept fighting,” I say, offering him a hand to shake. “That rally was almost enough in the 9 th .”

“Almost,” he says, shaking his head in real disappointment. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr Avery.”

“Skip’ll do,” I correct him, and nod to the other boys. “Good game, gentlemen. Very good.” They beam at me, a little less likely to take the loss as hard as their teammate. That’s good, it’ll keep him grounded. “You all know Francesca Sullivan, I imagine?”

“It’s good to see you all again,” she says, at my side. “Can we buy you boys dinner?”

Despite what I’m sure was a decent spread in the clubhouse after the game, their nods are emphatic and immediate.

“Fantastic,” I say, “I know just the place.”

It’s one of my favorite spots in Glendale, La Bonita Cantina, which sounds kind of cheesy and looks worse, being stuck in the middle of a nondescript shopping center, but the food is always fresh and tastes incredible and they’re not stingy with the drinks.

The sheer amount of food three twenty-one-year-old boys can pack away at a good Mexican restaurant is honestly impressive. I was cooked after nursing one beer for a couple of hours and my third enchilada, but they’re still going strong.

Archie Esposito, dark haired and dark eyed, almost shy compared to the other two, can’t quite take his eyes off Frankie while she praises their efforts on the field today. I know a crush when I see one and, honestly, I can only hope that I don’t look like that when I stare at her.

Is that what I have? A crush? Maybe. It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything for a woman beyond a physical pull that I don’t really recognize that a feeling beyond that exists.

“We’ll work on an analysis for you on how often that knuckler should be brought out, though your catcher does a pretty good job at mixing it in,” Frankie says to Archie, and then lets her eyes twinkle across the table at his teammate.

“Yeah, Cole and I have been working on that,” Archie says, his heart eyes not going anywhere.

“It’s important for him to throw it,” Cole says, “or he’ll lose the feel, but not so much that it gets predictable and they expect it.

Not that they can handle it when he does throw it, but we want it to always be in the back of their head.

It gets us some cheap strikes on fastballs when they think there’s a chance for the junk. ”

“That was some impressive hitting today,” I say to Cole.

“Xander got on and then got over to second. He was worried about him moving over to third and left one where I could get it.”

I tip my beer bottle toward Xander and nod. “Can’t drive in runners that aren’t on base causing havoc.”

The centerfielder actually blushes, a red flush climbing up into his light blond hair, neatly swooped to the side, a clear effort made versus the other two, who seem happy enough with the just-out-of-the-shower look.

“Exactly,” Cole agrees, and whacks his teammate roughly on the shoulder, almost hard enough to knock the drink out of his hand. “Just doing my job.”

These are good answers. Answers that will play well with the New York media. Factually correct, deflective of praise and, yeah, mostly boring, but that’s the point. He’s not just good on the field, he’ll be good off it.

You need to have that thing in that city, that thing that Jeter and Judge and Brunson and Manning all have in common.

I’m ahead of myself, so far ahead that I honestly can’t even believe it, but I can see it clear as day, this kid, captain of the Brooklyn Eagles, his best friends on the field with him, a decade of success and a ring or two or maybe three, four if I’m being greedy.

These are my guys.

I glance over at Frankie, a satisfied smile playing across her mouth while she lifts her drink for a slow sip. She’s right there with me. Hell, she was there before me. Of course she was.

“What are your off-season plans?” she asks them, finishing off her second margarita.

“Back home for a little bit, but then we’re all gonna grab a place in Clearwater together, get down there early.”

“I think that’s a very good idea,” I say.

“It’s actually saves us from having to suggest it. We want all of you to have a good holiday season, focus on spending time with your families and then prioritize getting ready for Spring Training. You’ll all be at big league camp and obviously it’ll be up to you to show us that you’re ready.”

“Fuck,” Archie blurts out.

“Dude,” Xander shoots at him.

Cole is silent, his mouth open, blinking in clear stupefaction before he gives himself a little shake and says, “I’m sorry, could you . . . could you repeat that?”

“You’ll be in the big-league camp this spring and, if we see what we think we’ll see, I’d say you three have a shot at coming north with us.”

He takes one final swig from his beer and then nods. “Excuse me for a second,” he says, pushing away from the table, standing and weaving his way through the restaurant back toward the bathroom.

Xander stands to follow him, while Archie just looks confused, but I shake my head. “I’ll go.”

I find him in the bathroom, splashing water on his face, getting a little down the front of his shirt in the process, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“You okay, kid?”

“Were you okay, when they told you?”

“Nearly shit myself.”

“Yeah, that’s . . . I might do that later.”

“Fair enough.”

“You mean it, though? That I . . . we . . .”

“Yeah, we mean it. Well, she does. She’s the one calling the shots when it comes to this stuff, at least until we get out on the field.”

He nods and then takes a deep steadying breath. “Fuck, I must seem like such a dickhead right now. It’s just . . . I gave up a lot to sign out of high school. We all did. Scholarships and shit. My parents are still pissed about it.”

“Well, give it a couple of months, work your ass off, stay healthy and you’ll be having one hell of a I told you so conversation with them.”

“Claudia’s gonna freak out when I tell her.”

Ah, there’s a girl. Of course there is.

“How long have you been with her?”

“Oh, I’m not, we’re not, she’s my best friend, other than the boys. She’s Archie’s sister.”

I don’t quite believe him about the not part of it, but don’t push it. “Good, that’s good. She’s from before . . . what’s about to happen.”

He nods and then a question appears in his eyes and I wonder if he’s ballsy enough to ask it. I know I would have been when I was twenty-one.

“What about you and . . .” he trails off for a beat, and then gathers his courage, “you and her.” He motions with his chin back behind me through the door where we left Frankie with his buddies.

“What about us?”

“We were watching you the whole game, wondering what the fuck you guys were doing here, but I have eyes, Skip, and you two seemed . . . cozy.”

“Kid, I’m gonna teach you your first big league lesson right now.”

“Mind my own fucking business?” His smile is wide and entirely shit eating.

I snort. “Yeah, you’re gonna be fine. C’mon, let’s go back there before Esposito faints if she smiles at him too big.”

He’s clearly holding back another comment and I add it to the list of captain-like qualities: knowing when to shut the hell up in front of the grown-ups.

I slid the waiter my card when we got here and Frankie rolls her eyes when he brings it back, check already paid, muttering about being able to expense it to the club, and we walk the boys back to the parking lot.

“You coming to the game tomorrow?”

My eyes flick to Frankie for an answer. It’s her call.

“No, we have to get back to New York. Winter meetings are coming up in a few weeks and we still have some moves we want to make.”

“Thanks for this, Ms Sullivan, Skip. We really appreciate it.” Davis says, clearly speaking for all of them.

“Yeah, our meal money doesn’t really cover this,” Esposito pipes up.

“We’ll see you in Florida?” Greene asks, like he’s still unsure any of this was real.

“We’ll see you in Florida,” Frankie confirms, and we wave them off as our Uber pulls up.

“Wait, did you make a hotel reservation?” she asks, brow furrowed as I hold open the door to the backseat for her.

“I have a condo here.”

“You do? Wait, of course you do.”

It’s only about a ten-minute drive from the restaurant to my place.

It’s been a minute since I’ve been there, though a cleaning crew comes in every couple of weeks to keep the dust from piling up.

I should probably sell it now that I’m with a team that hosts spring training in Florida.

No sense in holding on to a property I’m never going to use.

Ugh, Florida. Humidity and rain instead of Arizona’s brutal but dry heat.

That I’m not looking forward to at all.

But it’ll be better than January through March in New York, with slush in the streets and bitter cold air biting at your skin every time you go outside.

“This is . . .” she trails off, “very clean.”

“You don’t have to be polite. It was basically a crash pad for spring training every year. I didn’t need much.”

She’s trying to be nice, but her face gives it away, a nose wrinkle.

I bought it a couple of years into my career, a simple one-bedroom condo within five minutes of the Camelback Ranch complex.

All the walls are painted white with a ceramic white-tile floor.

A large gray area rug with a black leather sectional defines the living room space, with the kitchen on the other side, also white, the only thing breaking that up is the dark countertops.

Gemma always hated it. Called it my bachelor pad and that we should upgrade it to something nicer.

Huh.

That’s interesting.

I haven’t thought about Gemma for days. Weeks even. Not since . . .

Not since I landed in New York.

And the reason why laughs at me. “You have a couch, a TV mounted on the wall and two bar stools in your kitchen. Did you have some kind of spartan philosophy about depriving yourself during training or something?”

“There’s a bed at least.”

“Well, I’m thrilled to know that you weren’t crashing on a couch all those years. It does look pretty comfortable, though.”

“No way, you’re taking the bed,” I insist.

She shakes her head. “You didn’t fit on the couch in Bozeman and there’s no way you’re not still sore. I saw the way you stood up at the airport this morning. Your knee is acting up.”

“Knee’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. The couch is massive. I’ll be good out here.”

“My mother would actually kill me if I let you sleep on the couch. She’d come back from the dead and murder me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“What?”

“Using chivalry isn’t dead and your mom’s beyond-the-grave disappointment in combination.”

“Who ever said I play fair?”

“Didn’t you win an award for it at some point?”

“The Roberto Clemente Award for the player who best exemplifies the game of baseball, sportsmanship, community involvement and the individual’s contribution to his team.”

“That’s the one.”

“I’ve got news for you about that guy.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“He retired.”