Page 34

CHAPTER 34

LOGAN

“I never thought the time would come when I’d have to ask, but… are you okay, Kim?”

I tear my eyes away from Rose while she records both Starr and Machado on the topic of the day: if you could play any other position, what would you pick? She’s basically asked every guy in the clubhouse but me, clearly still icing me out.

Expelling a big breath, I ask, “What do you mean, Rivera?”

He folds his arms, turning to face me as he sits next to me. “At first I thought you were extra cranky because we’re about to start the series against your brother. But then I noticed how you and Rose aren’t talking and all you do is stare at her from afar. What’s up with that, bro?”

My jaw tightens. I would understand if someone noticed that Rose and I are strained—it’s clear as day—but the thing about my brother? And shit, why does it have to be this goof who noticed?

“How did you catch on?” I wince a bit. “About my brother, I mean.”

“Easy, you look like you got a big turd stuck in your colon sideways every time you look at him.” He nods as if he had just imparted some sage words and not used a pretty graphic allegory.

“You know what? I prefer the version of you that pulls childish pranks on people than the observant one.”

Rivera smirks a little. “And I really enjoy when you underestimate me.” The amusement eases off his face and for once, the seriousness he adopts makes him look his actual age. “I know there’s no power in this world that can force you to talk but just answer me this: is whatever you got going on at risk of affecting this game?”

“No.” His eyes narrow as he studies me, and I add, “I’m damn good at compartmentalizing.”

“I know that. It scares me sometimes.” Sighing, he loosens his arms and runs a hand down his face. “And if it does start to affect the game?”

I swallow hard and he notices. “If so, I’ll ask Beau to sub me out.”

It’s obvious that he wants to say something more, but at the last minute he changes his mind and gets up. Right when I think he’s finally out of my hair, he retraces back a few steps and pats my shoulder. Hard.

“Also, just apologize to Rose.”

Apologize? What the hell for?

For having the hots for her even though I’m a jumbo sized red flag?

I twist my face and bat his paw away. “It’s not that simple.”

“I bet it’s actually not as complicated as that clever brain of yours is making it out to be.” He points at my face. “Stop overthinking and apologize, that’s all.”

“Go away before I find the electric mosquito swatter.”

He looks ready to chew me off some more, but then crew members of the New York Eagles stadium instruct us to get going. I feel a million years old as I get back up to my feet, and not like a professional athlete that is already warmed up and ready to go.

I follow along with my teammates trickling into the tunnel out to the away team dugout, trying my best not to be aware of Rose standing by watching. She says good luck over and over as the guys pass her by, and I pretend like I’m wiping the sweat off my face with my long sleeved undershirt so she doesn’t feel obligated to acknowledge me. The going excuse is the mandate from HR for the couples on the team to act professional at all times, and no one had suspected anything was amiss until now. I keep forgetting that Lucky Rivera is a smarter jackass than he lets on.

I’m already decked in my catcher gear so I step out onto the green for the national anthem. The second I do, the booing is deafening enough that I have no doubt it can be heard throughout all The Bronx.

It snaps me awake. Finally my brain grabs every complicated thought about my fake girlfriend and locks it in a wooden chest.

Now I’m fully present in the moment, and I look on at the stadium where I started my professional career, packed to the brim with fans who still can’t get over my betrayal years later.

I remove my mask and raise it in a mocking salute that gets me even more booing. It doesn’t stop even when their Eagles take to the field, like it’s much more important to shit on me than to cape for their actual team. Normal bird mentality.

I can spot my brother jogging over easier than anyone else. We look uncannily similar for brothers that aren’t twins, the exact same frame and near identical faces. His nose has a tiny bump on the bridge that I don’t have, his eyes are naturally wider, and mouth thinner. But that’s my square jaw on his face and the same set to our eyebrows. He keeps his face fully shaved and his hair short in a similar style to our dad’s.

But the biggest difference is that his eyes are dead. Looking at Lewis is the same as staring into a Victorian doll’s glass eyes. I sigh, annoyed that he, of course, has to take the spot on the Eagles line that faces me.

“Look who we have here, my beloved little brother.” He shows that empty smile of his.

I put my mask again and don’t respond.

Unfortunately, Lewis turns his attention to the guy next to me, who happens to be our starting pitcher. “Cade Starr? I’m Lewis Kim, it’s so great to meet the pitcher who is making waves in the league right now.”

Starr ignores him too. Instead, he covers his mouth with his glove and asks me, “Doesn’t he know we’ve already met?”

I also cover my mouth with my glove. “That’s his way of saying you’ve been insignificant to him so far.”

“Should I be flattered or pissed?” But the cowboy sounds neither—he’s amused.

“Whatever makes you pitch some cannons tonight,” I respond.

We quiet down for the national anthem, sang by the woman who opens for every Eagles game since before I was a rookie, and in the blink of an eye the game is starting.

I can feel Lewis’s laser beams trained on me as I crouch for the opening pitch. “Play ball!” the umpire calls.

I signal for Starr to throw whatever he wants—fastball, curve, cutter or even the slider he’s been practicing when he thinks I’m not watching, I don’t care. But it has to come in right here, I tell him with my glove positioned in the middle of my chest.

Bold? Maybe.

Foolish? Certainly.

But if it works, the Eagles are going to get raging angry at missing a pitch down the middle, and that’s what I’m betting on.

Besides, if it goes awry we now have Miguel Machado in centerfield, where most of the Eagles bat toward. And the guy is as much of a homerun machine as he is at catching hits or would-be-homers.

Starr winds up, his throwing arm pretty compact behind him and— “Strike!”

My mouth twitches. I’m tempted to buy him a pizza for this alone.

The second pitch goes in a similar fashion and by the third, the Eagles’s leadoff is so annoyed that he swings as wide as a pee wee playing for the first time. More booing ensues and I am healed. Whatever funk I was in, it’s in the past.

The best part is that I don’t have to deal with my brother directly during the game since he’s not a two-way player. His designated hitter comes in next, a guy who often competes against Machado for the All-Star homerun derbies. Convention would dictate that I make more cautious plays against him, but that’s not what makes me the catcher I am.

I, Logan Kim, am a little shit.

I call for an inside pitch, the least fave position for sluggers who like to swing big. Starr throws a nice cutter that stumps most batters, but this Eagle guy connects.

The ball hits the bat wrong. Instead of going forward, it shoots back at me like a bullet.

I can see it in slow motion, like watching a movie on TV. Rather than dodging it and risking it hitting somewhere worse, I stay put and brace. The ball hits on the inside of my left thigh. The speed makes the ball change course like I’m a human pinball machine, but my thigh changes the angle. The ball spins back and I catch it with my bare hand behind my right thigh.

“Strike!”

The stadium roars—or is that booing? I don’t give a shit.

Wincing, I stand up and toss the ball back at a gaping Starr. I can’t tell what our basemen are screaming over the noise. But I do hear the batter’s voice clearly.

“What the hell just happened?”

“A strike, is what,” I respond, taking my stance again.

Great, I’m gonna have a bruise the size of a boulder but at least I can keep playing. I’ll just have to ice the shit out of it between innings so I can run bases.

We hold them off to no runs during the first inning, but their cleanup would’ve put them on the board if it hadn’t been for a spectacular catch from Machado that no doubt will make the highlight reels.

“Take off your pants, Logan,” Hope says the second I walk into the dugout.

Starr gasps. “Darlin’, you should only be saying that to me.”

“Let’s go.” I jerk my head toward the clubhouse, conscious of a million cameras probably pointed my way.

She also ignores her boyfriend and follows me into the tunnel. As I walk, I work my belt buckle under my chest pad because I really will have to remove my pants. I’m unzipping them as Hope and I emerge into the clubhouse and I’m faced with an astonishing scene.

My brother, inside our team’s clubhouse, and Rosalina Mena in front of him.

They both turn to us as we walk in. And both of them zero in on my hands lowering the zipper of my pants.