Chapter Eighteen Jimmy

Chapter Eighteen

Jimmy

H E FLIES HOME EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, LANDING JUST IN time to make it to practice at Camden. The Division Series starts tomorrow, the team flying up to Boston for Game 1. The air is colder, not quite feeling like fall yet—it takes time for autumn to come in Baltimore—but not quite summer anymore, either, the leaves turning to flame overhead. There's a scrum of reporters waiting for him outside the clubhouse when he arrives, plus a cluster of teenage girls who don't exactly fit Jimmy's usual fan demographic. "How was Cincinnati?" one of the journalists calls—at least, Jimmy thinks that's the question. The girls are all screaming like they just saw a Jonas Brother, and honestly it's kind of hard to hear.

"It was good," Jimmy reports as blandly as humanly possible. "I'm glad to be back here, though. Ready to play."

He repeats some variation on that sentiment two dozen times in the next twenty-four hours, to his coffee guy and his barber and to Moira, the team doctor, as she shoots cortisone into his swollen knees; to his assistant Jennifer, who after three years of courteous, professional efficiency has suddenly developed more than what one might call a passing interest in the minutiae of his personal life. It's all anyone wants to talk about, it seems, Jimmy and Lacey Logan. It's all anyone wants to hear. Dimly, he's aware that he couldn't have picked a worse time for this to happen, an awareness that sharpens into stark, unforgiving focus when they lose the first game of the ALDS at Fenway Park, 5–3. B AD L UCK C HARM? reads the front page of the Sun .

They pull it back in Game 2, thank fuck, beating the Sox 7–6, though Jimmy strikes out twice and Hugo winds up on the injured list following a bad landing on his right wrist; still, all anyone wants to talk about at the presser later that night is whether Lacey Logan is going to be coming to Camden anytime soon.

"Didn't realize your girlfriend had gotten called up to the majors," Tito says once it's over, all of them back in the away-team locker room, the stink of sweat and foot spray heavy in the air. He's teasing—at least, Jimmy thinks he's teasing—but Jimmy cringes anyway. This is exactly what he didn't want to happen: the way it's pulling everyone's focus, the way it's singling him out in the exact moment they need to be operating as a unit. This is exactly what he was trying to avoid.

Two things happen the afternoon before the third game of the series. The first is that Toby announces his Netflix special, Problematic Dickhead or whatever the fuck it's called, which for some reason a significant number of national media outlets seem to believe Jimmy might have an opinion regarding. The second is that Lacey calls him as he's driving over to Camden. "So here's a question," she says, the connection crackling through the Bluetooth. "What do you think about me maybe coming to see you play some baseball?"

"Seriously?" Jimmy laughs at that, then realizes all at once she isn't joking. "Do you want to come see me play baseball?"

"I'm thinking about it," she admits. "I might."

"When?"

"I don't know," she says. "Game 4? I think it sounds like fun."

" You think it sounds fun?" he asks before he can stop himself. Game 4 is tomorrow fucking night. "Or Maddie thinks it sounds fun?"

"Rude!" she says, laughing a little. "We both think it's a good idea."

"Because of Toby's comedy thing?"

"Because you're my boyfriend , Jimmy!" Lacey sounds stung. "And I'm proud of you, and I'm excited you're in the playoffs, and I just—whatever. If you don't want me to, I won't."

Right away, Jimmy feels like a massive douchebag. "It's not that I don't want you to," he says quickly, though he's not actually sure that's the truth. He tries to imagine it, just as a thought experiment, Lacey up in one of the boxes with all the other WAGs: Jonesy's wife, who he's always in a fight with, Tito's longtime girlfriend and their three quiet, polite kids. Rachel used to come sometimes, though she always liked to sit in the cheap seats instead of upstairs in the suites eating Sysco chicken tenders from catering. She used to bring a book of crossword puzzles, her sneakered feet propped up in front of her while she worked through the clues. "Of course I want you to."

"Okay," Lacey says, still sulking a little. "Well then?"

Jimmy hesitates, paused at a red light not far from the stadium. His instinct is to tell her no. The stakes are too high, and already he knows what it's going to be like, the way she has of bringing the circus to town everywhere she goes: the press, the fans, the general hysteria. They're talking about the playoffs here, not some sleepy afternoon game in the middle of June that doesn't matter. He should tell her it isn't a good idea.

Then he thinks of kissing her bright red mouth in the middle of the field, confetti raining down all around them. Flashbulbs exploding like stars.

"Absolutely," Jimmy says, hitting the gas as the light turns green up above him. "Let's make it happen."

***

T HE FRONT OFFICE LOVES THE IDEA, OBVIOUSLY. T HEY'RE PRACTICALLY salivating, counting their coins like predatory cartoon forest animals in a 1970s Disney movie. "You think she'd want to do a promo spot?" one of them asks when they call him in later that afternoon to talk logistics.

"To promote... the fact that she's attending the game?" Jimmy asks, shaking his head a little. "I think maybe we want to preserve the element of surprise there, boys, don't you?"

The guys are, understandably, significantly less enthused. "I thought we were supposed to be playing professional sports here," Jonesy grumbles when word gets out around the locker room after the game that night. They won, which puts them ahead 2–1 in the series; Jimmy had hoped the lead would soften the ground for him a little bit, though it doesn't seem to have worked that way. "Not hosting the Jimmy Hodges Dating Experience."

"Pretty serious talk from a guy who mooned reporters from the bus last season," Jimmy chides, but it's not like he doesn't understand what Jonesy is getting at. He's supposed to be the captain of this team and instead he knows this is going to make things objectively more difficult for his guys, who he's supposed to be looking out for. His guys, who he honestly loves.

"Oh, pull it together, you mooks," Tuck says. "You guys are just worried you're going to embarrass yourselves in front of a pretty girl."

"Thanks," Jimmy says once they're alone. "For the assist back there, I mean."

He's fully expecting some well-deserved ribbing in return, but Tuck doesn't so much as smile. "I didn't do it for you," he says. "I did it for them. Somebody needs to be thinking about morale out there, and it's sure as shit not you."

"Seriously?" Jimmy blinks, surprised by the suddenness of it. They've barely talked about Lacey at all. They've barely talked about much of anything lately, Jimmy realizes, now that he's stopping to think about it; he guesses he's been—well. Distracted. "What the fuck, dude?"

"You what the fuck!" Tuck shoots back. "I'm supposed to be your best friend, Jimmy. You didn't think a heads-up would have been appropriate?"

"Is that what this is about?" Jimmy asks. "You're salty you didn't get the celebrity gossip ahead of time? Buy you a little social capital with Rose?"

"Oh, fuck you," Tuck says. "You know I don't give a shit about that kind of thing. What I do give a shit about is you throwing a curveball like this into the most important game we've had so far this season." He shakes his head. "You really think it's a good idea for her to just, like, casually drop in?"

"People come to our games all the time," Jimmy says as coolly as he can manage. "I generally try not to pay them too much mind either way."

"Bullshit," Tuck says immediately. "You know this isn't the same." He blows out a noisy breath. "I'm not trying to be a dick to you, bro. But we have worked too fucking hard, and we have gotten too fucking lucky for you to be throwing it away now on a piece of—"

"Don't say it," Jimmy interrupts him. "I mean it. Don't say it. That's not what this is."

"Of course that's what this is!" Tuck explodes. "What are you trying to tell me, that you're in love with her? That she's your soul mate? No, of course not. She is very fucking beautiful, and she is very fucking famous, but is whatever is happening here worth throwing away your last chance to win a World Series? I'm your best friend, dude. I've been your best friend for a lot of years, and I don't want you to do that. Not for you, not for me, and not for the rest of this team."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Jimmy says stubbornly. He's out on a limb, he knows he is; all at once, it feels very, very important that he doesn't look down. "I am the leader of this team—"

"Then fucking lead it!" Tuck explodes.

"Thanks for the tip," Jimmy tells him, then turns and stalks out of the room.

***

H E'S STILL STEWING AN HOUR LATER WHEN L ACEY TEXTS HIM A mirror selfie of her wearing high-waisted jeans and a number 14 Hodges jersey. Is this right for a baseball game? she wants to know. She's flying in tomorrow morning, with the idea that someone from her camp will tip off the press while she's in the air. Asking for a friend.

Jimmy grits his teeth, flopping backward onto his mattress. He doesn't care what she wears to the baseball game, truthfully, and he knows she really doesn't care what he thinks, either. She's got a team of eleven people who are going to make sure she breaks the internet. She is never, at any time, without a plan. Looks great , he types, then tosses his phone on the nightstand and switches the lamp off. He doesn't fall asleep for a long time.

***

T HE PLAN IS FOR HER TO HEAD TO HIS PLACE FROM THE AIRPORT so they can spend some time together before Jimmy needs to be at the stadium, but there's bad weather out in the middle of the country that means she's still in the air come midafternoon. Be there in plenty of time for the first pitch , she promises breezily, but in the end she's still on the plane when Jimmy gets up on the bench in the locker room to give the guys his pregame speech.

"Just one more," he promises them, his heart red and wet and thrumming; the ALDS is a best-of-five series, which means if they win tonight they'll leave the field as Division champs. "Just one more; that's all we need."

They're going to take it, too. The beginning of the game is a breeze, three quick runs in the bottom of the second inning. Tuck's grin is beatific in the stadium lights. This is it, Jimmy thinks to himself, not bothering to tamp down his excitement. They're going to go all the fucking way.

He's just turning to Tuck to say so when the roars start up all around the stadium; Jonesy almost drops the ball onto the grass. When Jimmy lifts his head there's Lacey up on the Jumbotron, all dark hair and winning smile and oversized Hodges jersey. For a second there, he'd honestly forgotten she was on her way.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer intones, the sound of it barely audible over the screaming, "please welcome a very special guest to Camden Yards!"

And that's when the game starts to turn.

Jimmy strikes out in the third and sixth and seventh. Tuck strikes out in the eighth. The Sox smash bomb after bomb into the outfield, the Orioles scrambling and slow. It feels like Jimmy is watching a car crash: the board at 5–3 Boston, 6–3 Boston, 7–3 Boston. It's 11–3 Boston at the top of the ninth. It's excruciating. Jimmy knows part of what's making it so excruciating is his ego, that he doesn't want his team to lose in front of his girlfriend. But also: he doesn't want his team to lose in front of Lacey Logan, international superstar.

It happens anyway.

It's 12–3 in the end; Sox take it. Jimmy stalks off the field, spitting once into the cool red clay and looking at nothing. Looking at nobody at all.