Page 19 of Out of Left Field (The North Bay #1)

Mike

W hen I still haven’t heard from Danielle four days later, it is not looking good. At least we have a stretch of away games to serve as a distraction. Our hotel has a wall of windows overlooking the Pocono Mountains. There are trees and rolling green hills for miles. The ski slopes are covered in thick grass during their off-season, which is peak playing time for us. It must be incredible up here when it snows. Maybe I can come back with some of the guys over the winter, not that we are actually allowed to ski. Our contracts specifically forbid it, but this place has a cool vibe, and we could hit up the pool tables and hot tubs.

For now, I’m sitting with my teammates and drinking a seltzer water at the hotel bar while they nurse their beers after a tough loss to the Pocono Avalanche. They think I’m pouting because our team didn’t win. As much as I hate to lose, that’s not the reason for this funk I’m in. I wish I could call Danielle and talk to her about how much all of this sucks, but right now she is the biggest part of my problem. The other part, that small and unrelenting voice of constant regret, is all me. It’s eating at me that, other than Jordan, none of these guys even know why Danielle left. They think what I had with her was just a casual hook-up with a local that ran its course, and I’m sitting here acting like that’s the case when it couldn’t be further from the truth. I haven’t known her long, but somehow this woman has become an important part of my life. Which is exactly what I wanted to avoid.

“Hey, Rookie,” Lincoln calls from a few stools down. “You look like you could use something stronger.”

“Nah.” I shake my head. I might have a laundry list of problems, but there’s only one thing on it I can control, and I’m taking the reins back on this one. I slap the palm of my hand flat against the bar top then tap it down twice more to get everyone’s attention. I’m tired of the shame and drama attached to dragging my addiction along quietly everywhere I go. I don’t want to keep this secret from the team anymore.

“Hey, um.” I clear my throat and a couple of heads turn my way. “Just so you guys know, I’m sober.” I make my impromptu announcement.

“Well, that can be rectified pretty fast. Somebody get the rookie over there a drink.”

“No, I mean on purpose. Been that way for three years. Just thought I should tell you.”

It feels awkward to say the words out loud, but it was easier to get that out than I thought it would be. Jordan steps up behind me and rests a hand on my shoulder while a few of the other guys offer small gestures of support. A nod from Davis. A thumbs-up from Lincoln.

“Oh. Okay.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, I noticed you never drink. Is it a health or a religious thing, or something else?” Smithy asks, no filter as always.

“I had a problem with pills a few years back. Now I just try to stay off of everything.”

“Gotcha.”

There are a few more murmurs and nods, and I feel Jordan’s grip tighten to squeeze my shoulder, but overall, my reveal is not nearly as big of a deal as I made it out to be in my head. Most of the guys jump right back into their previous conversations.

“We cool?” I turn to ask Jordan.

“Yeah, man. No hard feelings. Way to own it.” He pats my back.

“Can you pass those pretzels over here?” Rodriguez calls from down the bar. “And for the record, you’re not the only one not drinking.”

“That’s just because you’re still too young to order alcohol, kid. We had to bring our own beer to your apartment. Should I get you an apple juice? Or maybe a Shirley Temple?” Smithy stands to put Rodriguez in a headlock and gives him a noogie like a big brother would, and Jordan goes over to join in. Over the past few months, these guys really have started to feel more like family. North Bay is starting to seem like a place I could actually make a home. Now if only Danielle would call me back.

Davis slides onto the stool next to mine and helps himself to a handful of the pretzels from the basket on the bar. He takes a sip of his drink and nods at me.

“Hey, Rookie. You looked good out there today.”

Coach has been playing me more since the charity scrimmage. It’s obvious that he is phasing Davis out, but the guy doesn’t seem to have any hard feelings about it. I think he’s ready to hang up his glove and move on to the next step, whatever that is for him.

“Thanks, but we still lost.”

“Yeah, it happens.” He shrugs and takes another sip.

“What are your plans for next year? Do you know what you’ll be doing yet?” I realize how awkward the question is after I ask it. Either he has to find a way to sound humble about an offer the rest of us would kill for, or he has to admit no one wants him. As far as I know, he hasn’t received any offers and his contract is ending.

“I dunno, man. I can’t believe I’m almost done playing ball. I’m ready, but I’m not sure what to do without it. That diamond’s been there for every part of my life, you know?”

“I do.”

It’s the same for me. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t on the field.

“Been thinking of sticking around North Bay, maybe picking up some odd jobs. I took an old mattress to the dump for Edna Plum last week, and ever since she has been telling all of her friends that I can haul their junk. I have twelve more appointments lined up next month. It’s actually turning into kind of a lucrative side gig. These older folks need someone to help them downsize all their stuff when they retire or move into assisted living.”

“Huh.” I don’t know what else to say, because what do you say to the man you’re replacing on a pro team when he tells you he will be leaving your dream job in order to drag trash to the dump for elderly widows?

“Let me know if you ever need a hand with something. I have the truck.” Let’s go with that. Probably better than thanks for giving up on your dream so I can take over your spot .

“Thanks, Miller.”

“Yep.”

After that, we sit quietly and nurse our drinks before everyone starts to peel off and head up to the rooms to get some sleep.

Before I go to bed, I check my phone one more time, but just like every day since our fight, there aren’t any notifications from Danielle. The turmoil from the past few days is making me exhausted, so I set my alarm to sleep in as much as I can before I need to get down to the bus.

In the morning, before the alarm goes off, my phone wakes me up anyway. For a millisecond, I allow myself to hope it’s her, but of course it’s not. It’s my mother.

“Hi, Mom.” I answer on the third ring, my voice still rough with sleep.

“Mikey,” she greets me with her patented mom energy and the same nickname she has used since I was a kid. “You’ll never guess what’s happening soon.” She stretches out the words with a sing-song lilt in her voice.

“Can I have a hint?” I play along, groggily.

She doesn’t bother giving one, but launches straight to her reason for calling. “The Coffin Conference is in Virginia Beach this year, so we’re going to be on your side of the country. Maddy and Mandy are going to visit Aunt Jeanie in Quebec, so they can’t make it this time. But Shelley is tagging along with us. She wants to scope out those east coast law schools. We figured we could stay a few extra days and make it a beach getaway. Maybe we can even swing by one of your games while we are close by.”

The event is not actually called the Coffin Conference. That is just the nickname Maddy gave the business convention my dad attends every year, and my parents thought it was so hilarious they have called it that ever since. Conveniently, this year it’s being held in the same state where I am living, and my mom sounds way more thrilled about this news than I am.

Virginia Beach is two hours south of North Bay, but it’s an easy day trip. Definitely closer than Idaho. East Coast beaches are still pretty cold in May, but I’m sure the Miller women will find a way to make it fun. My mom and sisters always do.

“Oh yeah? That sounds nice. It would be great to see you at a game, Mom.” It doesn’t go unnoticed that the conference will give my dad a perfectly reasonable excuse not to see me. I consider mentioning Family Night, but I’ve learned by now that having expectations only leads to disappointment. If they’re going to come to a game, I want it to be because they want to be there. I’m not going to guilt them into attending a specific event.

“Oh, I would love that. You’re welcome to join us for a beach day, too, if you can get away. Although, I’m sure you will have a packed schedule of games and practices while we’re there. I can’t believe my son is a professional athlete now.” She whispers the second half of her sentence with a reverence that somehow adds even more emphasis than if she had screamed the words. Then she lets out a little squeal of excitement she must have been holding inside. That’s my mom. Beverly Miller was Miss Corncob 1996 and is still an avid cheerleader for each of her kids. Even the screwup of the bunch.

“Your father is so proud.”

Her words land in my gut, and I grunt into the phone. I know she is just trying to make me feel good. She hates the rift between my dad and me probably as much as I do. But if it were true, if he were actually proud, then he would come to the phone and tell me himself. He wouldn’t hide behind the Coffin Conference and his business trip. He would come out for my games or send me emails about the latest trades. We could compare Wordle scores in the morning or Facetime while I’m shaving, like that one commercial with the father and son. We would talk about old times the same way Honey and Danielle reminisce about their games of Pick My Poison. Those things are not happening, so it’s a waste of time to even think about them.

I swallow a lump of emotion and clear my throat. I don’t acknowledge what she said about Dad any further. Instead, I redirect the conversation so my mom can do what she does best: talk about my sisters.

“How’s Shelley doing? I heard she broke it off with that guy, right?” I say, even though I’ve heard nothing at all. I’m not in the habit of keeping up with my sisters’ dating lives, but Shelley never stays with anyone for long, and I know this will get my mom to talk about something else.

“Ugh. Yes. George. Nice enough boy, but he was never right for her. Too myopic. Shelley is going to have a big life. She needs someone who won’t be threatened by her ambition, who can handle her big dreams.”

“Well, good luck to whatever poor fool thinks he can handle Michelle Miller.” I laugh because there is no one who can handle Shelley. She practically has a PhD in ballbusting.

“He’ll come along,” Mom says as if it’s a fact, just as Jordan knocks on my door.

“Got anything to eat?” When he sees I’m on the phone, he apologizes. “Sorry. Didn’t realize you were talking to someone. Wait. Is that Danielle?”

I shake my head. “It’s my mom.”

“Hi, Jordan,” my mom yells into the phone so my roommate will be able to hear her. I wince and rub my ear, then turn it on speaker for the last part of our conversation. She greets him again.

“How are you doing, Mrs. Miller?” Jordan asks.

“Certainly can’t complain. I’m headed your way to visit the beach, and now I find myself talking to two handsome baseball players at once. You’ve made my day.”

“Mom.” I roll my eyes, but Jordan chuckles at the compliment.

I scrounge up two granola bars from my bag, hand one to him, and tear into the other one.

“Well, good luck with your next game against the Dolphins, gentlemen,” she tells us in that way moms have of slipping little details into the conversation to prove they are paying attention to your life. I would not be surprised to learn that she still has my schedule up on the refrigerator, under the purple turtle magnet, just like she did from the time I was in Little League, all the way through college.

“Thanks, Mom. Love you.”

“I love you too, Mikey. Always,” she says. “And buh-bye, Jordan.”

“Bye,” we both say at once.

Jordan houses the granola bar and steals a sports drink and an apple from my minifridge.

“Did you tell her about Family Night?” My annoying friend asks the same question he did the other day.

“What do you think?”

Jordan narrows his eyes and shakes his head, letting me feel his disapproval, but thankfully, he lets it drop. I don’t know why he cares so much.