* * *
Crosby: We’ll have his back.
* * *
Chance: Um . . . Declan . . .
* * *
I wince at those two words. That can’t be good.
* * *
Declan: Spill.
* * *
Chance: You know we have the same agent, Grant and me?
* * *
Declan: I didn’t know that, but okay. What does that mean?
* * *
Chance: Crosby and I just ran into her after we finished our workout.
* * *
My pulse skyrockets. My nerves tighten as I write back.
* * *
Declan: And what does that mean?
* * *
As the dots wiggle on the screen, I glance at the luggage belt. I spot my bag coming around.
* * *
Chance: She’s here at the complex. But she didn’t come to see me. She’s here to see someone else and she wouldn’t say who. The thing is . . . she usually only shows up in person like this, unannounced, if she needs to let someone down.
* * *
My heart sinks—a hard, heavy weight. No way. No way can this be happening.
* * *
Declan: Look, if he gets sent down, just remind him it’s not the end of the world. It’s happened to plenty of others, and he’ll have another shot.
* * *
Crosby: Of course, man. We’d do that anyway.
* * *
Chance: We’ll look out for the rookie. He’s a good one.
* * *
Declan: He is.
* * *
I thank them, close the thread, and curse under my breath. I march over to grab my bag, and a few minutes later, I’m in the black limo the New York Comets sent for me.
The driver’s chatty, wanting to talk shop, discuss predictions for the season. I don’t have many, but I offer any tidbits I know about this team, mostly to take my mind off Grant. I finish with, “I hope to take them all the way back to the World Series and to bring the trophy home.”
When I reach the ballpark, I ask the driver to drop my bag at Brady’s house where I’ll be staying, not far from the Tampa complex.
The driver says he will, then I get out, head into the vaunted home of the New York Comets, and breathe in the history of this epic team. I reach the locker room, say hello to some of the guys who I know from playing against them, then button up the blue and white uniform they have waiting for me.
Number eighteen, just like I had in San Francisco.
It’s good to be treated like baseball royalty. Once more, my heart thumps painfully as I think of Grant.
He deserves to be baseball royalty. He deserves to be treated well. He’s so damn talented.
But what’s the best path for that?
What can I do to help him?
A dark thought flickers through my head, but I shove it away.
I trot out to the field, ready to join my team for batting practice before the game, when my eyes laser in on a familiar set of shoulders.
Is that . . .?
No. It can’t be. Not here. Not now.
I peer over, narrowing my eyes at the back of a man.
He’s in the first-base seats, leaning over the side, chatting with the players.
My chest craters, my heart slamming to the ground as my skin prickles cold and clammy when he turns around.
His eyes find mine.
A man from my past.
In one cruel second, everything I tried to put behind me breaks away. My past lurches viciously forward, spilling into my present, landing smack-dab in the middle of my new life.
40
Grant
The next day
* * *
Haven calls.
I hit ignore.
I’m not in the mood to talk.
Not one bit.
I need zero distractions. Need to get in the zone. This is it—do or die. The job is on the line. Coach is giving me one last chance and it’s time to go balls to the wall.
I’m not in the mood to talk. Not to anyone. Not after the text I got late last night.
Sullivan walks behind me, stops to clap me on the back. “You’ve got this,” he says.
“Thanks,” I mutter, powering down my phone, stuffing it in the back of my locker, as if that’ll erase the sting of the message.
I shove it far, far away.
I need to get away from the text. Must erase it from my mind.
With a clenched jaw and a rapid heartbeat, I make my way out of the locker room and head straight to the diamond.
Keep your head in the game.
My grandfather’s words play on a loop in my mind.
I have to play my heart out and my ass off.
Baseball is mental and I will laser in on the pitcher, the plays, the ball.
When stray thoughts try to enter my mind, I will swat them away like flies. Kill them dead. I picture the arrow on my chest. My reminder to focus on my goals.
But I don’t need the talisman for that today. I need protection from the people who let you down. The arrow is my armor today.