Page 4

CHAPTER 4

LOGAN

A lot of people think I sit by myself during team travel because I’m antisocial—and yes, that’s true, but it’s not the main reason.

It’s because I’m claustrophobic as shit.

It’s one of the reasons why I took to playing baseball as a kid. From the home plate, all a catcher can see is an expanse of green opening up to the sky. With the ad boards and stands behind me, I can pretend like the world is fully open to me.

Can’t do that when I’m caged in a metal death trap along with a bunch of people.

Squirming, I lower myself on my seat to put my face at level with the open window. It’s so tiny that I can’t even pretend like all I’m looking at is the blue sky, lit by the relentless morning sun, tufts of white clouds floating along.

This is why my preferred transportation method is my Ducati bike. Yeah, I know it’s also a metal death trap, smaller than this airplane too, but at least I can feel the wind. It gives more of an illusion of control.

Which is the absolute last thing I have here.

“It’s not like that,” Miller says from the front, opening his hands until someone tosses a football back at him. He grabs it, placing his fingers in specific places along the seams. “Like this. This is how you put the proper spin into it.”

Behind me, the worst stooges of the whole bunch are in the middle of what sounds like a marital fight.

“I told you the rook moves like this.” Rivera grunts, followed by dull thuds. Probably him moving the piece.

“Well that’s not what the manual says,” Starr argues back. Some pages flip and he speaks again. “Look, you’re confusing it for the horse.”

Rivera huffs. “This game is way too complicated. Can’t we go back to playing Uno?”

“We need one more person and”—Starr interrupts himself to raise his voice—“Captain McGrumpy Pants in front of us is trying extra hard to ignore us today.”

I start box breathing. Usually I’d also pass the time with some games or reading a book, or making notes on my pocket notepad—but I’m not in the mood today. Today I want to punish myself.

The thing is, when you’re in the middle of a professional baseball season, there isn’t much opportunity to slow down and take things easy. This is why Kaplan and I called Rob Beau, the Orlando Wild manager, for a meeting as soon as we land in Mexico City. My agent will join remotely, but I’ll be there in person to deliver the news to Beau that we want to work on a trade. And it’s not like I’m scared of Beau or of having to put on my big boy pants for this chat—I’m a grown ass man who faced much worse in his childhood alone—but it is making me feel some type of way.

Like… guilty.

I know that Beau is counting on me to build up this team to something worth writing home about, especially the pitching staff. That’s the reason why he deserves to know my intentions before everyone else. But it’s almost like his expectations are what gives me some minuscule pause. None of my previous teams trusted me this much.

Yet, I want to go.

For all the trust Beau has put on me, I haven’t done much to show for it. Nothing ties me to the team, or Orlando, or literally anywhere. I don’t know what I’m even searching for, but I can viscerally feel that it’s not here and that’s disappointing. I’m tired of that feeling, and I need something different until I find it.

The plane lurches, almost as if to say oh yeah? Here, have some nausea, you little shit .

I press my lips tighter and try to swallow. My throat feels like it’s clogged because the saliva isn’t going down. Maybe it’s too late to take the handy dandy pill I was prescribed to keep anxiety attacks at bay. But the literal last damn thing I need is to have an attack on this plane and?—

“Kim?”

The familiar voice cuts through my mounting panic. I crack an eye open and it takes some processing to understand what’s happening. First, my eyes fall on Rosalina Mena standing on the hallway, looking down at me with a pinch between her eyebrows. Concern? Annoyance? Who the hell knows what the expression really means.

Her arm is linked to Hope Garcia who stands closer to me, and she does show some clear worry on her face. “Here you go, big guy. This will set you to rights.” She offers me a can of ginger ale that is so cold, the tiny condensation beads dull the brand colors.

Oh, yes. This might actually help. If anything so the gas helps me open my throat back up.

But relief after drinking this will show that I have a problem.

I clear my throat. “I’m all?—”

The seat beside me shakes as an insufferable pitcher uses it to prop himself up.

“Who are you calling a big guy?” Starr interrupts in mock outrage before I’m able to finish my sentence. “Oh. This thing? He’s not a guy—he’s Sasquatch.”

On the other hand, trading to another more professional team might be just the remedy I need.

“Not my fault that you can barely grow a mustache,” I mumble in return while working the tab to open the can with a fizzy hiss.

“Burn,” Rivera teases his buddy.

“As if you too could grow a mustache,” I grumble and take a swig. A sigh escapes my mouth as the bubbles hit.

Rivera blows a raspberry that turns into full cackling.

Fortunately, Garcia is a bit more mature. She rolls her eyes at them and says to her friend, “Sometimes it’s hard to remember that these are grown men and not middle schoolers.”

“They make great content, though.” Mena grins. As I drink, I notice over the rim of the can that she has dimples in her cheeks. “Maybe I’ll do a series on who grows the best mustache on the team.”

Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m running my hand down my face, feeling the soft bristle of my facial hair. I keep it trimmed and tidy so that I don’t look precisely like Sasquatch, and I’m kind of proud about it.

Mena’s eyes return to me for a second, zeroing in on my face. I drop my hand, not really meaning to get her attention or turn this into a competition, and turn back to the window.

Well, this has effectively distracted me for a few minutes.

The women continue chatting with the two clowns behind me for a while more, until the seatbelt lights come on and everyone has to return to their seats. Ironically, the closer the plane gets to the ground and to the prospect of me exiting, the easier I can breathe. I tuck the now empty can of ginger ale into my hand luggage to toss it later, and close my eyes for the landing.

The good news is that the Alfredo Harp Helú stadium is a normal, fully open one, unlike the one in Tampa for example—which I can’t stand. Even better, we’re headed straight to it from the airport without stopping at a hotel.

Fresh air, here I come.

*

I underestimated traffic as I tend to do every time I’ve come to Mexico City. By the time we get to the stadium, I’m drenched in sweat from the effort it takes to keep the claws of panic at bay.

I sit near the front of the bus, and I’m just the third person to get out. My lungs can’t grab gulps of air quick enough as my teammates file out.

“Dude,” O’Brian says to me as he passes by, “It’s kinda hot today, but not that hot.”

Grunting, I march over to the luggage compartment to find mine, doing my best to pretend like my team polo and joggers aren’t sticking to my skin with all the sweat.

Stadium staff lead us along to the team entrance and through the maze of corridors inside. My limited Spanish knowledge is enough for me to know that when they say aquí it means that I should follow them that way, not the other. Our designated clubhouse is spacious enough, and just as I’m trawling through the mass of forty men trying to pick a locker, I make eye contact with Beau. He motions at me to follow, and so I pivot with suitcase and everything.

“We’ll have to be quick, Son, since we’re running behind schedule,” he says with a low voice once I join him.

“That’s fine.” Perfect, even. Less time for me to sit in Beau’s disappointment in yet another tiny space. “This shouldn’t take long,” I add.

We commandeer the empty staff meeting room and I abandon my suitcase and carryon by the door, freeing my hands to fish my cellphone from my pocket to dial my agent.

“Hey, man. I was about to get worried that something happened,” he says in his usual tone that people confuse for friendly, but hides his ruthless business nature that made me select him as my agent.

“Traffic,” is all I say to that before shifting gears. “I’m with Beau and have you on loudspeaker.”

“Perfect,” he chimes. “Thank you for meeting us at short notice, Mr. Beau. I’m Pete Kaplan, Logan’s agent.”

Beau nods. “Of course, I remember you, Mr. Kaplan.”

“Then I’ll get straight to the point,” Kaplan says, but I’m the one who braces. “Logan has expressed a keen interest in trading to a different team.”

Even though Kaplan doesn’t stop, I inspect Beau for any signs of how this is landing, but the guy’s not a baseball manager for no reason. He’s a vault and continues listening to my agent with the exact same expression he carried five minutes ago.

“Don’t get us wrong, you’re shaping up the Wild to be an excellent team this season, but we think the timing is right for Logan to make a move that will take his career to the next level.”

Beau finally lifts his eyes from the phone in my hand to my face. Unfortunately for him, I also have a superb poker face. I give away nothing—whether I’m eager about this, doing it just because, in a hurry, or plainly to drive up my salary.

“Far be it from me to prevent a player’s growth.” Beau utters the words carefully, deliberately packing the biggest punch.

And they land just like that.

My mind takes me back to the interview Ben Williams gave last week before facing us in the opening game, saying that he traded out to the Riders because he wasn’t growing enough in the Wild. When in fact, the two men present in this room were solely responsible for any of the improvement that led Williams to a higher pay in Denver.

Shit. Am I acting like Williams?

No. We’re not the same at all. This is just how I operate. I’ve done all I can here.

“But,” Beau continues, sharp eyes watching my face. “I would also be remiss if I don’t try to keep my best player on the roster.”

I blink. I know I’m the best player. It’s just my first time hearing it from his mouth.

“That’s great to hear. I agree that Logan isn’t just a run-of-the-mill player.” Kaplan gives out what I can only define as a business laugh. It means that Beau’s comment just drew my price tag higher and Kaplan personally enjoys that. “Well, that’s all we had for today—just a heads up. I’ll stay in touch with you as the conversations progress.”

“I will thank you for that,” Beau says with a boulder-size of tact. Kaplan can probably read the meaning between the lines: we better not go around this old man’s back or else.

After one last round of pleasantries, I end the call and wait for the hammer of Beau’s disappointment.

It doesn’t come. Instead, he puts his hands in his pants and sweeps an up and down glance at me. “You should get changed before you catch a cold.”

“That’s what you’re concerned about?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Yes, player safety comes first no matter what.” He turns to the door and before leaving, says, “Remember that.”

“Shit,” I mutter in the quiet of the meeting room, the only other sound coming from a whirring fan.

Somehow, Beau’s parting words are making me sweat even harder than the barely contained anxiety attack from earlier. I run a hand through my hair, pushing it back so it’s no longer sticking to my face.

Past managers have had big reactions to this same conversation, usually manifested as anger.

No one blew up harder than the manager of the New York Eagles, my second team. His top concern had been how my departure would affect my older brother Lewis, who is still their starting pitcher, when I was the other half of the battery.

And not for why I wanted to leave in the first place.

Meanwhile, Beau’s worried about my health?

Taking a deep breath, I resolve to store this in a neat little box in my mind and analyze it later. Beau’s right in that I have to go change—not because I’m weak enough to get sick from a little A/C on wet clothes, but because I have to warm up for the game.

Then after that I will dissect every minutia of this topic until it starts making sense.