All In With Him (Men of Summer 3)

I grit my teeth and dig in again, determined to get out of this hole. But when the pitch comes soaring at me, I’m too late, hitting a lazy fly ball that pops out to second base.

I don’t send the runner home. Two batters later, the game is over.

I leave the field, head down and jaw tight as I make for the locker room, ready to wash the game away.

From his chair in front of his locker, Crosby holds up a pair of red socks with cartoon penguins on them. “Clearly, these are about to become sock puppets since I am never wearing them again on the field.”

“Yes, please ditch your socks, Crosby. Now that we’ve found the culprit for our shitty series,” I say as I finish getting dressed, stuffing my wallet and phone into the pockets of my jeans.

“You and me both, bro.” Crosby went hitless too. “This was not the way I wanted to go into the All-Star break—losing three games in a row.”

“You guys didn’t even give me a chance to get on the mound,” Chance calls from across the locker room.

Before I can answer him, someone shushes the room and turns up the volume on the TV. A female reporter from the Sports Network speaks from in front of the Chicago ballpark, updating the anchors in the studio.

“What we know so far is that Manuel Rosa was taken to a hospital in Seattle when he fractured his leg during the Storm Chasers’ game against the Chicago Sharks today.”

A clip of the Storm Chasers’ game plays as the reporter talks about the team’s centerfielder.

“Running out a bunt, Rosa landed hard on first base, appearing to dislocate his ankle. But before trainers could even reach the Storm Chasers’ centerfielder, we all saw it was dramatically worse.”

The team stares, drop-jawed, at the footage of Rosa on the ground. Before the trainers and medics block the view, the camera catches the horrifying angle of the guy’s leg. My stomach flips, and the locker room echoes with oh fuck, that hurts, and holy shit, almost covering the reporter saying “rushed into emergency surgery” and “open compound fracture.”

The network cuts back to the reporter in front of the stadium, who tells the camera somberly, “Rosa, who was scheduled to start at center field in Monday’s All-Star game, will unquestionably be out for the rest of the season.”

I shudder, trying to shake the image of that horrible landing. But I can’t, and I’m obviously not the only one.

“I was supposed to grab a beer with him in Houston,” Crosby says.

“He was a helluva rookie last year,” Chance remarks.

Was.

Chance is already talking about Manuel like his career is over.

Well, his season is, and that sucks big time.

I head out of the stadium, and once I’m in my car, I drop my shades over my eyes to protect them against the blaze of the early evening sun before I drive around to the front of the stadium. My best friend, Reese, visited a client nearby, and she’s meeting me here. I spot her easily, her blonde hair blowing in the breeze as she sticks out her thumb, pretending she’s hitching a ride.

I’m extra grateful for her company. The thing with Rosa is making going hitless harder to shake off, and I don’t do well dwelling alone with negative thoughts, and after a game like that my brain is all kinds of dark.

I lean over to push open the passenger door, then whistle at her like I’m at a construction site. “Hey, hot, sweet thang. Want a ride?”

“Oh, you know it, baby.” She dashes inside, pulls the door closed, and clicks on her seatbelt. “How was the game?”

“Ugh. Bad.”

“Will dancing tomorrow cheer you up? Or was tonight even worse than the box score?”

“It was terrible. My game blew out, and did you hear about Rosa on the Storm Chasers?”

She pats my arm. “I did. So awful. As for you, it’s one game out of one hundred sixty-two.”

“One is all it takes to lose momentum. We’ve had a great season, and I don’t want to see it all go downhill now. Also, it’s not just one game. We lost three in a row.”

“You’re seriously adorable. These are your worries? You lose three games in a row, so now you worry that your season is whacked?” She smiles kindly, but her eyes hint that she’s concerned. “Let’s focus on real problems—like what we’re going to get your boyfriend to wear tomorrow night.”

“Those are dire dilemmas, woman,” I say, quickly shifting gears as I cruise through the city. “So, fashionista, tell me stuff. What are you up to at work?”

“I started planning a 5K run for some local animal shelters,” she says as we drive toward the shopping location she’s picked. I listen to the details, glad to focus on her now that I’ve voiced my worries.