Page 3 of The Battery

Cody

I ran my hands along my thighs in a vain effort to wipe off the sweat.

Beside me, Freddie let out a lionlike yawn and regripped his hold on his truck’s steering wheel.

BPM pumped out of the car’s speakers from the satellite radio.

I lifted my thermos from the cupholder and took a careful sip of hot coffee as Freddie took a sharp corner.

“You gotta calm down, buddy,” Freddie said as he glanced sideways at me. “It’s not like the man is gonna beat you to a pulp the first time he formally meets you.” He waited a beat, then added, “Probably the second time.”

I let out a snicker. Genuine. It felt good.

“How fast can I learn MMA?” I asked.

Freddie wobbled his head. “For you? Hmm… probably ten years.”

“Oh, ha-ha.”

Only the sound of music filled the truck cab as we approached Riders stadium.

The time on the clock read 10am. Freddie knew I liked to arrive earlier.

He had been helping me find my own wheels so I didn’t have to constantly bug him about bringing me.

With the league minimum salary they paid me, I could afford a good baseline model.

But the paranoia of dropping back into the minors and losing that sweet paycheck weighed on me.

Room and board, however, did not. Freddie, the Riders shortstop, had been an old friend from our days in the minors together.

When it was announced that I would be thrown into the relief roster, Freddie had me on a call within minutes.

Insisted I stayed in his spare room in a nice townhouse he owned in Lincoln, one town over from Lexington.

He had the room all tricked out with a new television and a top-of-the-line king-sized bed. What a friend.

I had been browsing a streaming service on said television the night before.

The announcement of the Spartan’s trade deal had gone out a couple of days ago.

The news hit me like a fastball to the shoulder.

Or ass cheek. The sting wore off after a while, but then last night, he randomly popped up on my screen.

I had hovered over Hot Gates , a movie about the Spartans battle against the Persians in which the Spartan himself, Leo, made a guest appearance.

The snippet only lasted a minute, enough to show him charging into battle wearing only a loin cloth, a red cloak, and a helmet.

Who knows how much makeup they used to cover that near full-body tattoo of his…

“Just scream ‘help me’ if you think he’s gonna hit you,” Freddie suggested as he put the truck in Park and climbed down. I followed and stretched. Freddie was around my height with hair the color of rust and enough freckles on his face to map out entire constellations.

The stadium dominated the landscape. Only a few years old, the ballpark was a far cry from the humble park I had played in during the minors.

The two-lantern tower at the primary entrance jutted into the sky, a nod to the original midnight rider.

I thought walking up to the player’s entrance would lose its majesty after so many times, but it still gave me a thrill, a confirmation that I had made it .

“Good luck, bro,” Freddie said as we entered the stadium. We bumped fists as he headed left toward the locker room and I broke right toward the training room. I was already in my workout gear and wanted to get started on squats.

Inside, Riders blue and bronze splashed over every surface.

State-of-the-art electronics covered the walls, nooks in every hallway with trophies, jerseys, and every kind of baseball paraphernalia one would expect to see.

All of it steeped in a one-of-a-kind scent of leather, sweat, and whatever cleaning agent was used on the carpets.

I nodded to our first baseman as I entered the gym.

The clang of bumper plates and cable machines filled the area as well as hard rock pumping through speakers mounted on the ceiling.

An array of monitors lined the perimeter, each displaying a different highlight reel of our previous games.

I bumped fists with one of the trainers and made my way to the squat racks.

A cackle of laughter split the air. I looked over to see a few of my fellow relief pitchers crowded together.

The Assholes.

An apt name that came to me one night when I couldn’t sleep.

Aston, Shoji, Levine. The first two letters of their surnames spelled it out for me.

They lived up to the name from the moment I joined the forty-man.

I was no stranger to competition from my fellow pitchers, but these guys took it to another level.

I threw my mind at my exercises. All went hush as I slipped on my noise-canceling headphones.

Most people would put on something with a beat or a great bass line.

I, however, listened to white noise. The discordant, static sound blocked out everything.

Helped focus my mind and my attention. No distractions.

No external factors to elevate or lower my spirits like music could. Just me, the noise, and my body.

About twenty minutes into my routine, our pitching coach rounded up the pitchers in the gym.

The forlorn look on his face didn’t give me a good feeling.

The Assholes in the corner went quiet as we left the gym and headed into one of the two theaters in the clubhouse.

The giant screen was off, but the skipper was standing in front of it with his arms crossed.

I walked up the steps to sink into one of the giant leather recliners two rows back.

We had a total roster of fifteen pitchers. Five starters and eight relievers. Yet I saw two of our starters were missing and three of our relievers. And that look on our coach’s face, paired with how the field manager fidgeted…

“I’ll make this short and sweet,” the skipper said, a big man who had once been jacked as hell but now enjoyed too many nights of pasta. His moustache made him look like an old walrus. “Ericson and Peters have been designated for assignment.”

Our two starters. That meant no one wanted them for a trade and they were removed from our forty-man roster until management could find something better. Damn.

“Johnson, Williams, and Daley have all been traded to the Brawlers.” The other three relievers. Daaamn. “As well as six promising players from the farm. Who you see here is who you get for the year. This will be our pitching staff for the foreseeable future.”

Two of the Assholes made an obvious show of turning to stare me down. Shoji raised his hand. Before being called on, he asked, “Is this ’cause of the Spartan? The payload coming in for him?”

“You want to hear what you want to hear, go talk to PR. That’s all I gotta say. Get back out there and do your thing.” The skipper started for the door, then stopped and turned. “Leo ain’t Hiroshi, but he’s one damn good catcher. Show him respect or I show you the door.”

*

My eyes had been wide in disbelief as I absently ate a small sliver of steak. Juicy, salted to perfection, the greatest medium rare imaginable. I barely tasted a thing.

“Come on, man,” Freddie said. “You gotta snap out of it.”

I finished chewing. Swallowed. Blinked.

“Yeah, but it could have been me,” I said. I had been looking around the clubhouse cafeteria, mostly filled for lunchtime. I saw, yet didn’t see. All that I could picture was the dark fantasy of being punted back into the minors to save money.

“But it wasn’t ,” Freddie insisted. “Despite hitting our new catcher twice , management still sees something in you. So cut the shit. Eat the greatest steak made by the world’s greatest chef and have a pity party when you’re alone in my guest room watching porn or something.”

At that I laughed. My eyes found clarity. “Yeah. You’re right. I’m still here and…”

The din of a crowded cafeteria cratered. Freddie kept eating, but his gaze went over my shoulder toward the entrance. I turned in my seat.

Romo had walked in, the absurdly tall Sicilian god who probably should have been a basketball player.

He had an easy smile on his face, dark hair stuffed under a blue cap.

Then, he walked in beside Romo. Leo Papadopoulos.

Only a few inches shy of Romo’s impressive height, he wore a Riders training tee, matching joggers, and no ball cap.

My eyes went immediately to the confusing design of tattoos covering his bare arms. Then that beard of his—almost fantastical in its shape.

Not too long so as to be repulsive, but not too short that he couldn’t shape it into an iconic look.

Furrowed brow looking like he wanted to tell everyone to go away. His eyes swept the room.

Our gazes locked. I didn’t flinch, but I felt my stomach flip. His head continued rotating, but his eyes stayed on mine.

I felt flushed. The spinning in my belly tumbled up into my throat like an unspoken scream. My vision narrowed. Only a few days ago I thought this man would beat me to a living pulp out on the field. Now, he was something of a boss as the team’s new primary catcher.

Our stare disconnected at the same time.

I took in a breath and spun around to put my back to him.

Conversations returned slowly. Romo was bringing him around to each table as an informal introduction.

We had a big meet-and-greet scheduled later.

It was an off day, and we didn’t have a game, but management wanted us all to have dinner together tonight on the field.

“Now, when he comes over here,” Freddie said, “don’t immediately throw up your hands and say ‘don’t shoot,’ because I think that might send the wrong message. Or… actually that’s kind of funny. Maybe you should?”

“Not a chance in hell,” I said and stood from the table. My chair screeched along the tiled floor. “I’m throwing balls.” I emptied my uneaten food in the bin, placed my plate on the conveyer belt into the kitchen, and headed for the exit opposite of where Leo and Romo had entered.

Our eyes met again as I left. For a moment, he flashed the barest hint of concern, or confusion. I wasn’t sure which. It was gone as soon as it appeared. He shook the hand of our left fielder, then crossed his arms, the action bumping out his biceps. I tried not to stare.

Halfway down the Riders themed hallway lined with pictures of a bygone era, I came to a sudden halt and checked myself. What the hell was getting into me?

Focus on the game , I told myself. Freddie’s words echoed in my mind. He was right, of course. Management saw something in me. They cut loose others and not me. That meant something.

Right.

Time to throw some balls.