16. Ronan

Ronan

"There it is, Sin, good eye. Way to lay off the junk pitches," Coach Stirling says as he comes up to the plate. "Let's see that again tomorrow at the game against the Rose City Roasters, but watch for their ace pitcher. He's got a curveball that comes out of nowhere." He claps me on the shoulder as I walk off the field and knock fists with Rhett, who's heading up to hit next.

In the dugout, I drop to the bench and gratefully accept the bottle of sports drink one of the trainers hands to me. I really need to work on learning all their names. The Arizona heat feels intense for the second week of March. It's one month into preseason with another two weeks to go.

I try to remember the last time I had a good night"s sleep, and honestly? It was Hawaii. The night before the one I spent with Willow.

Since then, it's been one thing after another, from going home to deal with Peyton's arm to finding out my team was putting me up for a trade. Then Christmas came with still no news on where I was going, only for it to be Vancouver, home of the woman I can't stop thinking about. Of course, I didn't know that at the time, all I knew was I had to scramble to get things ready for the big move. And even after I came out west and discovered Willow's connection to my new team, the stress didn't let up. It's been nonstop, with moving into the house, getting Rocket and my mom moved in and settled as best I could, not to mention trying to find my place on the team.

Spring training is meant to help with that. Help with all of us finding our groove and connection as a team. But part of me is still back in Vancouver.

Coach calls all players out on the field, then splits us off into groups to run through some fielding drills. I'm partnered with Maverick this time, a guy I can't quite figure out. He's quiet and keeps to himself, but I've heard from the others that he's a decent guy. Any time he's landed in a fight, it always seemed to me that he was arguing in defense of someone else, and never about himself. The black eye he's sporting is even more evidence of that, no matter how the media spins it.

I was there last night, and I saw that he only punched the guy because the asswipe wasn't taking no for an answer from some random girl at the bar. I gotta have some respect for him standing up for her, even if it is shit luck it ended up on social media. Would it have gone viral if it was anyone but Mav? Like a player who hasn't already got a bad rap in the press?

"That looks like it hurts," I comment as we make our way to an open spot on the field.

He just grunts. I've heard from Monty and Rhett that Mav's a solid player, but nobody knows much about him. Except that he seems to have a chip on his shoulder the size of Vancouver Island and makes shit decisions in his personal life that bleed into his professional one.

Reaching my spot, I toss the ball at him. He powers it back at me full strength, taking me by surprise. "Guess we're not warming up?" I call out, whipping it back to him.

"Thought you could handle the heat."

"I can if you can."

We start throwing harder than we should be for spring training. Mav has one hell of an arm. And accurate as hell. I can already imagine being on the receiving end as we turn double plays this season. Whatever issues he's got, the others were right. The guy is one hell of a player.

After some infield drills, Coach calls us in for a debrief, and then we're free for the evening. The locker room is full of noise. Guys talking about training and the upcoming season.

"Hey Ronan, you're coming out for dinner, right?" Monty comes up beside me, a white towel wrapped around his waist, another in his hands as he rubs his hair dry.

"Is that wise given last night's events?" I ask in a low voice.

Monty shrugs. "Mav's not coming. He's on hotel arrest according to Coach. But Taco Tuesday can't be missed, my friend."

Tacos do sound good. My stomach rumbles in agreement. "Yeah, sure. Count me in."

I make my way to the showers, finish up quickly, and hop on the bus with the guys heading back to the hotel. Once there, I sit down on the small couch in my room and call Mom and Peyton, as usual.

Her face fills the screen seconds later and her expression instantly makes me worried. "Hey Mom, how are things?"

I see her glance to the side, and then she moves into the kitchen of the house I closed on just two days before leaving for Arizona. Boxes are still everywhere, but I paid a crew to do a rush job setting up Peyton's purple bedroom and the guest house for Mom, although with me away, she's using one of the spare bedrooms instead.

"Peyton's having a rough time," she says quietly. "I think it's just the timing with the move happening right before you had to go south. I've tried taking her to drop-in classes and the park, but she just isn't interested in anything."

"Shit," I mutter, raking my hands through my hair. "I'm stuck here for two more weeks. Maybe you can fly back down here for another short trip? At least then I could see her after practice."

Mom and Peyton came down to see me for a long weekend early on in training. Thank fuck the Tridents are so supportive of players with families.

"No, she'll be okay. She misses you, and it's been a lot of change in a short period. But she's a resilient kiddo. Coming down there again might sound like a good idea, but I don't think it's wise. She's used to you being gone, and another travel disruption won't help her adjust any faster. Besides, you've got to focus on the team."

"Peyton's more important than the team," I immediately protest, even though, deep down, I know she's right.

Mom nods. "I know you believe that, and that's what makes you such a wonderful father. But think with your head, not your heart right now. Peyton's safe; she might be unhappy at the moment, but she will be fine. I only told you about her sadness because I promised to always be honest with you about her."

"And I appreciate that, Mom, I do. But what the fuck am I meant to do?" I exhale sharply. This is when it's the hardest. When I know my baby girl needs me, and I can't do a fucking thing about it.

"You're meant to keep doing exactly what you always do. Focus on your job when you're on the field and focus on your daughter when you're not."

My eyes close as I take in a deep breath. "Okay. You're right."

"Of course I am, I'm your mother."

A small smile breaks free and I open my eyes to see Mom smiling, too. "Thanks, Mom. I love you."

"I love you, honey. Now let me go and get your little girl."

After a long chat with Peyton, where her somber little eyes almost broke my damn heart, I see a message from Monty confirming dinner plans. Dragging my ass off the couch, I force myself to shift out of guilty dad mode and into team player mode. Some days the transition is easier than others. Today, it's really fucking hard.

Down in the lobby, I join the group of guys walking down the street to the Mexican restaurant Kai said has the best tacos in Phoenix. If any of them notice that I'm holding myself back, they don't comment, and hopefully just chalk it up to being the new guy.

We sit around a large table, and a waitress immediately sets down pitchers of water and a large basket of chips, along with a trio of different salsas.

"Watch out for the red one, Sin." Rhett leans over to tell me. "It'll burn your fuckin" tongue off."

"Darling's just a wimp when it comes to spice," Kai calls out from across the table. He takes a chip, scoops a generous amount of red salsa onto it, and pops it in his mouth. Rhett visibly shudders, taking a chip and dipping it in a green salsa, taking only a small amount.

"I'd just rather keep my taste buds intact."

"Aren"t you from the south?" I can"t resist teasing, and the guys around the table all laugh. Rhett grins, and shrugs.

"Sure am. But I"m more a sweet tea and hush puppies kinda southern boy. Only place I want spice is in the bedroom." He winks and the table erupts again.

After some goading from Kai, I decide to suck it up and try the red salsa, which really is fucking spicy. Banter and laughter floats around me as the guys all settle in. Slowly, I feel myself relaxing and even enjoying myself. Peyton is forefront in my mind, but I'm skilled in compartmentalizing by now, so I just remind myself of what Mom said. She'll be fine, even if right now she's struggling.

"Alright, who's ready for the fishbowl?" Monty stands, lifting a bag he carried here onto the table. Out of it, he lifts a large glass fishbowl. The guys around the table cheer as I look on in confusion.

Monty starts passing out pieces of paper and pens that he also pulls out of the bag, and all the guys immediately start writing. Looking over at me, Monty grins. "Tradition for the Tridents is every year at spring training, we come here for Taco Tuesday and fill this fishbowl with our goals and predictions for the upcoming season. Then, after the season ends, we get together for a barbecue and pull them all out to see what came true."

My eyebrows lift in surprise. "Really?"

Monty just nods sagely. "The tradition started about five or six years ago when we had a trainer on staff that was really into the new age woo-woo stuff. They were big on manifesting your destiny," he says with finger quotes. "But that year over half of our goals and predictions came true. So we keep doing it."

I take the paper and pen he hands me, and stare at it for a minute. Goal setting isn't exactly a new concept, but I can honestly say I've never done it at a taco joint with my teammates all around me, and I've certainly never put my goals into a giant fishbowl with a sticker of the team logo on the side.

But I play along. Only, instead of the obvious goals — win the championships or bat a three hundred average — I open my mind to something more specific. There's a brief moment of hesitation when I think about the team reading my goals out loud at the end of the year, but fuck it. If I'm going to be on this team for the rest of my career, might as well bare my soul and put it in a fishbowl.

Putting pen to paper, I write.

Make a home in Vancouver for my family. Lock in this team as MY team and take it all the way.