Stella holds me in her arms soothing me. It’s some time before the tears stop and I’m able to function.
“I’ll be right back. I have to use the restroom.”
When she leaves, I pick up the letter again and reread the part about my dad. He was with someone when they met, which means they could still be together. He probably has a family and doesn’t have room for me lurking around.
“Hey, do you have any tampons?” Stella yells from the bathroom.
“Under the sink.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yep. There’s nothing under here. Can you check your suitcase? Maybe you didn’t unpack them.”
I stand and start down the hall to my room, trying to remember when the last time I had my period. The date escapes me. In fact, I can’t recall having one while in the hospital.
“I wadded up some toilet paper. Did you find one?”
I shake my head slowly.
“I can’t remember my last period,” I tell her as anxiety starts to set in.
“It’s okay. You were under a lot of stress. I’m sure your body just shut down.”
Yes, that’s it. My body went into preservation mode and stopped putting me through death once a month. Stella has to be right because there is no other alternative.
It’s hard to say if the change in managers has been a benefit to the Renegades or not, but it’s definitely been one to me. I’ve known Wes Wilson for years, back to my early college days when I tried out for the U.S. Olympic Team. I didn’t make the roster, but that was because there were other, more talented players than I was at the time. I never held a grudge or had any hard feelings. I also didn’t expect Wilson to remember me, but he did.
While Bainbridge and I still switch off and on, I’m more on lately than he is. He calls it rookie luck. The odds makers call it talent. I’m not sure what I call it. All I know is that I’m happy with my playing time. I’m still working to make the position mine, and as much as I enjoy working with Bainbridge, I’m hoping he retires at the end of the season. I’m batting in the three hundreds, and my on-base percentage is almost double what Bainbridge is achieving. At the moment, we’re a winning club, and in order to win, you keep what’s working, and right now that’s
me. Regardless of who’s playing, we’re getting it done and are currently in first place with a four-game lead.
And I’m finding that I love Boston, even though I’ve never been a fan of wind, and Boston springs remind me why. The fans here are amazing, the atmosphere is electric, and it feels like home. Once the off-season comes, I’ll start house hunting, hopefully in the Back Bay area.
Most of the guys are already in the clubhouse when I arrive, prepping for the media explosion that is about to happen outside. Travis Kidd, whose locker is next to mine, is combing his hair trying to tame a pesky flyaway. My attire is simple: Put on some Renegades clothes, my ball cap, and call it good.
“Are you trying to find a chick?” I ask him as he continues to comb the same spot after he sprays it down.
“My picture will be taken.”
“I take it you never look yourself up on the Web.”
Kidd drops his comb and glares at me. “When I’m playing, I don’t care, but today is different.”
Davenport slaps him on the shoulder. “Different because there will be women who forgot to put some clothes on and Kidd will be getting their digits.”
“Thought so,” I say, laughing right along with Davenport.
“Listen up.” Our publicity rep, Talia, comes in, not caring if we’re dressed or not. I suppose she figures we’re at least decent since our day is starting with an autograph session, although she’s been known to barge in.
“The lines are long so we want to move them along fast. We’re trying to keep them off the overpass, but more people showed up than we had originally anticipated. Staff will be on hand to give you new markers when you need them. Fans will be handed an eight-by-ten color photo for you to sign, plus they can bring their own items. They are only allowed to have three pieces signed at a time before they have to get back in line. Don’t worry about counting. The staff will be there to make sure fans comply.