Chapter Twenty Jimmy

Chapter Twenty

Jimmy

J IMMY SITS ON THE COUCH FOR A LONG TIME AFTER L ACEY LEAVES, staring blankly out the window at the city. He wants another drink, badly. He wants another drink, or he wants his brother, or he wants to hit something over and over until his knuckles are shredded and bloody. Instead he gets up and runs seven miles on the treadmill even though it's twelve thirty a.m. and he just caught nine innings, even though he just pounded two fingers of Basil Hayden. It hurts like all hell, which is what he was after. The pain feels like something he deserves.

When he's finished he collapses into bed and sleeps for four hours, then gets up and drives over to the clubhouse, the sun dripping up orange and pink and yellow in the rearview as he cruises through the city toward the park. They don't need to catch the bus to the airport for another couple of hours, but Jimmy likes being the only one here in the morning: the bleachy, mineral smell of the tunnels, the grounds team and the maintenance guys all going about their days. It's peaceful—or it usually is, anyway. This morning when he gets into the locker room he finds Tuck is already waiting for him, sitting in a rolling chair with his ankles crossed on one of the benches and an enormous Starbucks cup in each hand.

"Thought you might show," he says, reaching forward and handing one over. "You all right?"

"I'm fine," Jimmy promises him gratefully, tossing his bag in his locker before sitting down and taking a sip. It's still hot enough to burn through some of the hangover fog in his brain. "I'm good."

"Bullshit." Tuck raises an eyebrow. "You look like a fucking untoasted bagel. You want to go play catch?"

Jimmy barks a laugh, then reconsiders, looking at Tuck for a moment. "Yeah," he says. "That would be good."

So they go outside and drink their coffee and toss the ball back and forth for a while, not saying much, just breathing in the fresh clean air and the smell of the grass and watching the sky turn full morning. Jimmy's head has almost stopped throbbing by the time Jonesy shows up. "If you guys were looking for someplace to be alone to practice French kissing, you could have picked a more private venue," he calls, strolling out of the tunnel with his sunglasses perched on the brim of his ballcap.

"We were waiting for you to give us some tips, actually," Tuck shoots back. "Hodges keeps coming in too hot with his tongue."

Hugo turns up before Jonesy can answer, the rest of the guys trickling out onto the field one after another, all of them in their practice uniforms, quietly warming up. They're all early, Jimmy realizes—they must have planned it—and for a second he loves them all so fucking much and so fucking deeply he almost needs to turn around and walk off the field so he doesn't fall down.

He clears his throat instead, swallowing down the strange lump that's settled there, swiping as surreptitiously as he can at his cheekbone behind his sunglasses. "What?" he says, when he catches Ray looking at him. "I got something on my face?"

"Little bit of jizz, yeah," Jonesy pipes up helpfully, motioning to the side of his own mouth.

Jimmy snorts. "Fuck you," he says, but he's laughing, which he knows was the point.

But Ray shakes his head. "I was just, uh. Waiting for your speech, is all."

Jimmy rubs a hand over his chin and looks back at him for a moment, at this kid whose entire career in the majors is still in front of him like a carpet, like the fucking yellow brick road. Then he takes a breath and gets to work.

"Some of you guys know I got into baseball in the first place because of my brother," he begins, jamming his hands into his pockets and rocking back on the heels of his cleats. "He was older than me, and he was my hero, and he loved this game more than anything. And I stood around and watched while the world crept in and took that from him and stole his focus and made him less than what could have been. Less than what he was." Jimmy clears his throat. "Anyway," he continues, "I promised myself that for his sake I was never going to let that happen to me, and you know what? I mostly haven't. No matter what shit was going on in my personal life, no matter what the media was saying about me—about us—I always tried to check it at the door. The last couple weeks, though..." He shakes his head. "Look, you fucks have been here the last couple weeks. You know what it's been like. And I owe you all an apology for that."

"Aw, Cap," Jonesy says, "it hasn't been so bad."

"Are you kidding?" Hugo cuffs him gently on the side of the head. "You've been complaining louder than anyone, you grouchy little pissant."

"No, he's been right to complain," Jimmy says. "It's been a shitshow, and we can't afford it. But in the end there's nothing more important to me than baseball, and I'm not about to let anything fuck it up. So let's go to Boston and let's play our fucking faces off, and let's bring this thing back to Baltimore, all right?"

Tuck claps first, God love him. The rest of them join in a moment later until the sound of it is almost loud enough to fill the chasm in Jimmy's chest. And if it still feels a little like the fucking wind is whistling through his ribs in there every time he thinks about what happened with Lacey, well, this is for the best, Jimmy reminds himself firmly. He's exactly where he's supposed to be.

"Come on," he says, slinging his arm around Ray's shoulders and steering the kid back across the ballfield, the sun high and bright in the sky. "Let's get out of here, huh? We've got a fuckin' flight to catch."

***

T HEY PULL IT TOGETHER, THANK FUCK. T HEY MORE THAN PULL IT together, actually: they win Game 5 against Boston and they win the first three games against the Astros in the League Championship Series the following week, the Texas air thick and hot and still. They lose two in a row after that, but they don't even feel like losses, exactly; they feel like stopovers, like breaks before they win again. They make mistakes and fix them. They identify their problems and they correct. And sure, the press keeps right on asking him about Lacey at every available opportunity, but Jimmy's got no problem telling them he's got nothing to say about that, because he does in fact have nothing to say about it. He wanted to concentrate, and he's concentrating. He wanted to win, and here they are.

The problem, of course, is that he feels like absolute shit.

It's not that he's lonely, exactly. After all, he's never fucking alone. He's either playing baseball, preparing to play baseball, or sleeping, calling pitches all through his dreams. Still, he wakes up every morning with a stiffness in his joints and a heaviness in his shoulders, a gnawing uneasiness he can't shake. He remembers this from after his divorce, the feeling of having perpetually just misplaced something. He tells himself, sternly, that it will pass.

It... does not so much seem to be passing.

Still, one thing about Jimmy is that he's a goddamn Hall of Famer when it comes to ignoring pain and discomfort, so he grits his teeth and pushes through it as much as humanly possible. He takes his fucking fish oil. He ices his swollen knees. This is it, he reminds himself every single morning in the mirror. This is the moment he's been waiting for his entire fucking career.

Ike calls from New York the morning of Game 6 against the Astros. "You all right?" he asks gruffly, the city clanging away in the background. "You need help?"

"Yeah," Jimmy jokes, "that'd be great, actually. You want to come down to the clubhouse, give me some pointers on my swing?"

"Cute."

"We're playing pretty well, actually," Jimmy teases. "We're in the ALCS. Dunno if you've seen on the news."

"I'll wait 'til you're finished," Ike says, then keeps talking anyway. "I don't mean with the baseball, dumbass. I mean with the... romantic shenanigans."

That makes Jimmy laugh. "I'm all right," he says, which isn't untrue, strictly speaking. "I can handle the romantic shenanigans on my own." He rubs a hand over his beard. "Anyway, I gotta tell you, I appreciate the offer, but you're a little late. That's over, anyway."

"Is it?" Ike asks. "That's too bad. She was very definitely out of your league."

"Thanks for that."

"Just saying. You doing all right?"

Jimmy shrugs even though Ike can't see him. "I'll live."

"I'm sure you will," Ike says agreeably. "So what's next, then?"

"Well, I've got the World Series coming up, hopefully. So that'll probably eat the next couple of weeks."

"Oh, you're on fire today." Ike snorts. "I'm talking about after the Series."

"Oh." Jimmy considers. "I don't know. A vacation, I guess. Double knee replacement. A brand partnership with a company that manufactures glucosamine."

This time Ike doesn't even bother to tell him he's not funny. "I mean it," he says instead. "You have something planned for yourself? Are you getting a dog? I've known you since you were a kid, Jimmy. You are not the kind of guy who is going to go gracefully into retirement."

Jimmy scowls. "I have a dog," he protests grouchily, though it's not like he doesn't know what Ike is getting at. It's been staring at him, the future, open-mouthed and hungry. He's not entirely sure it won't eat him alive. "Two, actually. At the farm."

"Good for you." Ike is unmoved. "I mean it. It's hard for a lot of guys after, especially if you're, you know. Unattached."

"I hear you." Jimmy grits his teeth. He doesn't want to talk about feelings with Ike. He doesn't want to talk about feelings with anyone, actually. It's a thing that happened, him and Lacey. It's over now. It's fine. He's not about to fall apart over it.

"All right," Ike says finally, still sounding less than convinced. "I'll see you out there."

"See you out there," Jimmy promises, and hangs up. He keeps the phone in his hand, though—turning it over and over like a worry stone, feeling the smooth, warm weight of it in his palm. At last he opens his contacts and scrolls to Rachel's name. He stares at the screen for a long time, his thumb hovering over the button to dial. Then shoves the thing back into his pocket altogether and takes the elevator downstairs to his car.

***

R ACHEL LIVES WAY OUT IN A POSTWAR DEVELOPMENT IN T OWSON , blocks and blocks of tidy raised ranches all in a row. The house is small, maybe half the size of the new-build McMansion she and Jimmy lived in when they were first married, with a Radio Flyer trike in the driveway and red geraniums in the window boxes. A trio of pumpkins sit crookedly on the front steps.

Jimmy parks on the street, then heads up the front walk to ring the doorbell, looking uneasily over his shoulder as he goes. It feels abruptly like a donkey move on his part to have come out here in broad daylight, knowing anyone could have followed him. Knowing anyone could have seen. There haven't been a ton of photographers outside his house the last few days—Lacey's fans know she's back in LA, and none of them, it turns out, are particularly interested in Jimmy for Jimmy's sake—but still. That's all he fucking needs, a headline breathlessly announcing he's throwing Lacey Logan over for his ex-wife right before Game 6 of the ALCS.

Assuming his ex-wife even answers her door. Jimmy stands on the stoop for a long moment, hands shoved into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. He's just about to give up and tell himself he did his best when the lock snicks open.

" Jimmy? " Rachel squints at him through the screen. "Oh my god."

"Uh." Jimmy holds his empty hands up. It occurs to him, belatedly, that he should have brought her something, a plant or a box of bakery muffins. A list of all the reasons he knows he's a piece of shit. "Hi."

" Hi ." She looks past him—she's checking for reporters, too, he realizes, and feels the back of his neck get warm. "Are you okay? Is something wrong?"

Jimmy shakes his head. "Nothing's wrong," he says, feeling awkward and deeply selfish. Fuck, he should have called before he came. He thought—he guesses he thought—

That's the problem with you, Jimmy , Rachel said to him once, right before their divorce was final. You never think. "I didn't mean to get the jump on you."

"Didn't you?" Rachel's lips twist. She's wearing her teaching clothes, jeans and a cotton sweater with little polka dots that he recognizes from way back when they were married. They haven't seen each other in four years. She's lost a lot of weight in a way he thinks is a shame, though he knows it's none of his fucking business. She's done something different with her hair.

"No, I just—" Jimmy blows a breath out. "Can I come in?"

Rachel hesitates. "Sure," she says finally, and opens the screen door so he can step inside. He brushes his cheek against hers by way of greeting, quick and polite, and the smell of her perfume makes him time travel.

The house is clean and quiet inside, with one of those big wooden signs that says HOME hanging on the wall in the foyer. Through the door of the den he briefly sees the profile of a toddler sitting on the carpet in front of the TV, something with blue cartoon dogs flickering jauntily across the screen. It turned out it wasn't that she didn't want to have kids, Rachel. She just didn't want to have them with him. Jimmy guesses he doesn't blame her for that.

"Can I get you anything?" she asks, once he's followed her into the kitchen. "A beer?"

"No," he says. "No, I'm not going to stay, I won't keep you." He tried to time this so her husband wouldn't be here; Jimmy doesn't particularly want the guy to walk in while he's standing here trying to do whatever he's trying to do here, and he can tell by the look on Rachel's face that she doesn't particularly want that, either.

"Okay." She stands on the other side of the breakfast bar, flattening her hands against the granite. "So what's up?"

Jimmy takes a deep breath. He had the whole ride over here to figure out what he was going to say to her. Fuck, he had four full years to figure out what he was going to say to her, but now—"How are you?"

Rachel quirks an eyebrow. "I'm good, thanks," she says slowly. "I'm really good."

"Good," he agrees. "I mean. I figured you were, I just—" He breaks off. "I'm sorry," he tries. "It's just I—I mean—" He blows out a breath. "I met someone."

"Yeah," Rachel says—and she's smirking at him openly now, though not unkindly. "I think I might have heard something about that." She straightens up. "Did you come all the way out here to let me down easy? Because I gotta tell you, buddy, it's a little late for—"

"No," he interrupts. "No, of course not." He laughs. "I guess I just—I met someone, and then I turned around and immediately fucked it up, which won't be super surprising to you, I'm sure, but the point is, it made me remember that I owed you an apology for fucking our thing up that I had never actually gotten around to delivering, so. I wanted to finally nut up and do that." He clears his throat. "I'm really sorry about all of it, Rach."

Rachel is quiet for a long moment, looking at him across the breakfast bar. Sometimes Jimmy used to think she could see the bones underneath his skin. "How'd you fuck it up?" she asks finally, tilting her head to the side with an expression on her face like she's expecting this to be amusing. "With your, ah. New someone."

Jimmy laughs again, yanking at his beard a little. "I don't know," he says, glancing past her. "By being myself, probably."

Right away, Rachel shakes her head. "Uh-uh," she says flatly. "That's a bullshit answer."

"It's—" Jimmy startles. "What?"

"It's a bullshit answer," she repeats, "on top of which it begs a kind of blanket absolution I have to tell you I'm not necessarily inclined to provide."

Oh, this very well may have been a big mistake. "Rach—"

"Don't Rach me, Jimmy." Rachel's voice is perfectly even. "You drop in out of the blue after literal years and tell me you ruined your new thing by being yourself; I tell you no , yourself was never that bad, at which point we hug it out and you go on your merry way feeling confident that whatever actually happened between you and that woman not only couldn't have been your fault but also couldn't have possibly been prevented? Is that what you were picturing when you came over here?"

"I—" Jimmy snaps his mouth shut. It kind of was what he was picturing, if he's being completely honest with himself, but hearing it out loud makes him feel like a psychopath. "I—"

"Well?" Rachel raises an eyebrow.

Jimmy swallows hard. "On second thought," he tells her sheepishly, "I think I actually will take that beer."

That makes her smile, just a little. "I only have the douchey kind."

"The douchey kind is great."

Rachel pulls a bottle from the fridge and holds it out in his direction, but when he moves to take it from her hand she holds on an extra second. "I chased you our entire marriage, Jimmy," she says quietly. "I was desperate for you to come to me, do you understand that? To trust me, to tell me things, to show me you loved me as much as you loved baseball. That's the thing I want you to apologize for. Not for all of it; not for your whole personality. I want you to apologize for never chasing me back."

Jimmy takes the beer and sets it down on the counter without opening it—absorbing her words in silence, looking at her here in her lovely new life. "I can see that," he tells her truthfully. "I'm so sorry, Rach."

Rachel holds his gaze for another moment, then shrugs and clears her throat. "Well," she says. "For the record: yourself was never that bad."

"Okay." Jimmy feels himself smiling at her: her slightly exasperated expression, her hair falling in her face. Rachel was the first woman he ever loved, and standing here he can feel a satisfying ache in his chest, a longing not for the past he might have had but for the future that might still be in front of him, one full of adventure and high drama and the sound of someone singing old rock and roll songs on weekend mornings. He feels abruptly certain of what he wants, here in this kitchen. He feels suddenly sure.

"Mommy!" comes a small voice just then, drifting in from down the hallway. "Can I watch another one?"

"You may not," Rachel calls back. "I'll be there in one second." She looks at Jimmy. "I should probably—"

"Yeah," he says quickly, "yeah, I'll leave you to it. Thank you, for this. For talking to me."

"Of course," she replies. "You too. And hey, good luck out there tonight."

Outside the autumn light is toasty, the air still decently warm if you stand directly in the sun. Jimmy detours by the farm instead of going directly back to the city, leaving the Tahoe running in the driveway and wandering around the back of the house. It's been a couple of weeks since he's been out here and he was expecting the garden to be mostly buttoned up for the year, but as the dogs trot gamely along behind him down the gravel path he realizes with a jolt of surprise that everything is still busy growing: The bees are still buzzing lazily around the flowers. The tomatoes are still red on the vines. Jimmy's lived in Maryland for a decade and a half now, but still he manages to forget this every single year: back in Utica the grass on his mother's front yard will have frosted over, but here the growing season doesn't finish until damn near Christmas. In a lot of ways, this is actually the best part.

"How about that, huh?" Jimmy says, reaching down to scratch the dogs underneath their soft, graying muzzles. "Turns out it's not over yet."