21. Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

Andrew

The only thing that made watching Martinez bomb the first of two away games any better was getting to talk to Lottie about it that night. It looks like he's going two for two with tonight's game, which means he's going to be a beast to deal with in the locker room. The guys grumble and groan with every solid hit the Tennessee Wildcats knock out of the park, and all I can do is pray that my shoulder heals soon so we don't slip into obscurity in the first half of the season.

My old college teammate and friend, Jesse Waycross, steps up to the plate. He's a power hitter, also close to retirement, and Marco makes the mistake of pegging him as too old to hit a fast ball. He's wrong. Despite the heat Marco puts on that ball, Jesse connects with it in full force making Boone whistle long and low.

"We gotta get him on our team," he says.

"Nah, this is his last year. His wife wants to move back home with the kids near their parents." I watch my friend slide into first while our pitcher has a fit on the mound. "Went to college with him. He's a nice guy, but yeah, he's not looking to join another team."

"Hey, Quinn, speed it up!" Martinez shouts to Travis Quinn, our first baseman. The guy's been busting his rear end all night thanks to Martinez's inability to get a strike out in edgewise.

"Well, we gotta get rid of this kid," Boone says as if the Sharks can trade their next starting pitcher for a soon to be retiree.

The guys on the bench with me groan their agreement while the Tennessee crowd goes wild. There's no way around what I have to do. I've gotta sit down with this kid and try to knock some sense into him before he makes us the laughingstock of the league with his bad attitude and the way he's falling apart under pressure. He's used to filling in the last couple of innings, not pitching a full game, and it shows. He tries to keep up that cocky exterior, but one look straight into his eyes, and any fool can see he's barely holding it together. The kid is scared.

He needs the team behind him, but with the way he's lashing out and generally annoying the guys, he's going to find himself the odd man out with no camaraderie to speak of. It'll land him a trade to a terrible team, one where all the troublesome players end up if he's not careful. That's no way to build a career, and despite my irritation with him, I don't want that to happen.

Marco proceeds to singlehandedly pitch the worst game of any Sharks pitcher on record, which is saying something. The guys leave him in the dugout and head to the showers to the chants of Tennessee fans. Losers! Losers!

Well, as much as I hate to admit it, we are and it's all thanks to a creaky machine we call a team.

I grab a gear bag just in time to catch Marco running his mouth to a drunken fan. The fan grabs his arm and tries to yank him into the stands and it ends in a tumble of arms and legs on the field. Security steps in, but Marco is fuming.

"Son of a—" Coach Conyers throws his cap on the dirt and grumbles. "I'm gonna kill that kid."

Before he storms off to collect our player, I stop him. "Hang on. Lemme get him. You go do what you need to do in the locker room."

"Drag his butt down there in five minutes or I'm coming for both of you," Coach says. He's not hard to get worked up, but this is more than his usual grumpiness. If I don't get Martinez into the locker room soon, he might pack him up and ship him away tonight. On the one hand, that'll make a lot of people happy, but on the other, I kinda get where the kid is coming from. He's got a chip on his shoulder from way back. Had it before he arrived in Savannah, and I aim to figure out what it is.

The security guards escort the fan off the field while Marco picks himself up and dusts himself off, all the while the crowd is booing him. He crosses my path and I make my move.

"You sure know how to win friends," I say, for which I earn myself a glare and a mumbled string of curse words.

"What do you care?" he spits, striking at me like a snake in defense mode.

"I don't particularly care for you when you act like that, but with an arm like yours, it sure would be a waste to let you dig your own hole. You're going to get traded if you keep throwing trash at your team."

I get another glare but now we're headed to the locker rooms. Coach is loud tonight. The guys are getting a good old fashioned chewing out, but it's hardly their fault. They're getting the brunt end of Coach's frustration which should be pointed directly at the guy scowling beside me. I stop in the hallway and grab his elbow. He yanks himself free and growls.

"Would you stop? You got skill kid, and you're going to ruin it all acting like this. I'm the only one on this team that doesn't want you on the first bus out of Savannah right now."

"Right," he says. "Like you don't want to see me get traded so you can keep your job. Maybe if you'd just retire and I could get some more game time, I might be better."

I chuckle. Idiot kid.

"Ain't enough game time in the world that can fix your issue. It's not your ability, it's your attitude. That mouth is gonna get you in trouble with every coach and trainer in the league. What's your deal? For real? You've got starting pitcher in the bag when I leave, and everyone in the game knows you're a great player."

"I don't see how it's your business. Just leave me alone." He takes a few steps so I yank him back.

Marco raises a fist but holds back.

"You're not a man when you act like that. You're a twenty-two year old kid who has the opportunity of a lifetime right in front of him, and can't get out of his own way. What happened tonight? A few days ago?"

A flicker of something, maybe realization that I mean it when I say I care—which surprises me as much as it must surprise him—crosses his face and he relaxes his arm. He looks away and swallows deep, and I realize the guy is fighting back tears. Whatever it is runs deep, and maybe he'll share it with me, maybe not. Either way, now he knows I'm in his corner, however unexpected it might be.

"I had to fight my whole life for even a scrap of something." He shrugs and clears his throat, biting that lump holding in his emotions. It's all he says, but it's more insight into the guy than I've gotten up to this point.

"Fighting's all you know, yeah? Being scrappy to stay ahead and get what you need?"

He nods. "Yeah. Sure, but that don't mean you know anything about me."

"I don't need to know more than that. Kid, you've already made it. You won the fight, but you're going to destroy the prize if you keep up this attitude."

He grinds his teeth together, still refusing to look at me. I get it. He's busted his tail end to get here, had to have a hard exterior all his life, but if he keeps up that wall, he's going to lose it all.

"Would it help if I told you I'd rather be your mentor than your competition? I'm no fool. I know my career is almost over, and I can deal with that if I know the team is in good hands when I'm gone."

Marco finally makes eye contact again. Big and bad as he tries to act, he's about to fall apart at the seams. He studies me for a minute, probably making sure I'm not setting him up. Maybe even gauging how much I actually care about him. He licks his lips and huffs. "Listen, my old man died when I was a little kid, but my stepdad is all right. He took care of us even though he had to work two jobs and was gone a lot. He still found time to teach me how to play, and I want to make him proud, you know? I lived in a rough city. I had to fight for good grades and to even get into a decent college. We didn't have money growing up, and now I can afford to do things for him and my mom."

"So don't be an idiot and screw it up thinking you've got something to prove to your own team."

"They all hate me," he admits.

"They don't want to hate you. They want to cheer for you, but you make it difficult," I say just as Coach yanks the door open and spews a string of curse words at us the entire stadium can probably hear.

I ruffle my hair and nod toward the locker room. "Uh, we should—"

"Yeah," he says. "Uh, thanks for…you know. And if the offer is genuine then I accept."

"Mentoring?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Sure. Teach me your skills, old man." Marco cracks a smile, the first I've seen since he arrived in Savannah for spring training.

I clasp a hand on his shoulder and direct him toward our angry coach. "First, just know that if you call me old man again, I'll take out your knees. Second, don't ever get the coach this mad again and you'll be all right."