24. Felix

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Felix

We're five hours into an almost silent ten-hour trip when the Monsters' manager, Skip, finally answers my text saying Blake and I will be late to spring training. I sent it a day and a lifetime ago, when my biggest worry was if I was going to slip up and kiss Shira in the middle of a rest stop. If Blake would figure out that I knew Shira from when she danced.

He's very clearly in love with you—or Melody, or whoever—and you're pretending like he isn't. Is it because you're in love with him too?

What my brain won't stop playing on a constant loop. Miles of highway are good for contemplation, especially after Blake insisted on driving. Shira spends most of the ride shifting around the backseat like she can't get comfortable. We promised to leave her squirming. Just not like this.

When the text comes in, the fact that we're not talking to each other only makes the buzz of it louder.

Skip: Thanks for the head's up.

No yelling, not even a whiff of disappointment from the team. Must be the consequence of having Blake with me. Another message comes through a second later:

Skip: Let us know when you get in. We'd like to talk in person.

Which, fuck. Most baseball business is done in person, but there's always that feeling like being summoned to the principal's office when team personnel ask to speak with you. They could just be doing pre-spring training meetings with all the guys. Or they could shake my hand, thank me for my baseball services, and trade me to another team or release me outright.

I could ask Blake if he got the same thing. If he didn't…then he'll know I might be losing my job when we get to Florida. As if he didn't already.

There's no way to know until we get there. I check the clock. Only another five hours. So I just write back Sure and go back to staring at the highway.

It's evening when we get into Fort Lauderdale. I forget how much Florida in the winter throws me off—how strange it is to be someplace that's warm but dark early. Blake pulls up at what must be his rental house. He drove the whole way. Waved off Shira's and my attempts to give him a break.

"Driving really takes my mind off things," he says, which certainly ranks as the politest fuck you I've ever received.

Now he gets out, stretches his legs. On the other side of the car, Shira does the same. This would be an appropriate time for a goodbye. Like a fool, I canceled my rental reservation when Blake said I could stay with him. But at least there's a cheap-ish hotel nearby that's a cheap-ish Uber ride away.

"Thanks for driving," I call to Blake. Completely inadequate, but what else is there to say? "I'll see you at the ballpark tomorrow."

For a moment, Blake looks surprised. Then he nods. "Night." As if he's not necessarily wishing me a good one.

Which only leaves Shira. I spent much of the last ten hours—the parts where I wasn't worried about losing my job or if Blake was going to change his mind and deck me—wondering what I should say.

I'll just quit the team. Not when I need the money.

We could date. Not if Blake and I are going to be teammates. Not if I don't want the entire baseball world to think that I stole Blake Forsyth's girl. She was mine first . But that isn't right either.

Shira's her own person. Right now she looks road-weary, her teeth gnawing on her bottom lip. She's leaving tomorrow—taking a train north back to Boston. It's a big city. We might not run into each other again. After all, we lived there for months and didn't. Because she didn't want to.

This might be the last time I see her. Goodbye doesn't feel adequate. So I nod to Shira. "Have a good night."

Then I go to the corner to summon a ride and tell myself I'm not disappointed that Blake and Shira don't yell for me to come back.

Spring training means early mornings, so when I roll into the clubhouse, coffee in hand, dark circles under my eyes, my teammates probably won't guess it's because I didn't sleep.

I'm used to farmers' hours—used to breaking the film of ice on the water trough in the barn, to watching my breath fog in the morning cold and feeling the crunch of snow under my boots. Entirely different from the kind of do-nothing milling around that makes up most early morning baseball activities.

I take a long sip of coffee. Swallow. Yawn.

Another player—a former triple-A teammate—catches me. "Rough night?" Said with same tone he'd use when I'd come to the clubhouse with a shimmer of Shira's glitter lotion stuck in my beard.

"Hotel beds, ya know?" I say. Except this bed was comfortable. Comfortable and far too empty.

I don't have much time to linger. Skip comes out of his office. He's older for a manager, a throwback in a game that favors younger and younger coaches. He's the kind of guy who defaults to calling everyone son whether he likes you or not. Well, I've gotten worse news from worse people.

He's making his way toward me, clapping various players on the shoulder, inquiring about their breakfasts and their wives and their offseasons. Finally, he gets over to where I'm standing. "Son, you have a minute to talk?" As if it's urgent.

My coffee sours in my stomach. It's one thing to drive down here knowing I was probably heading toward a demotion. Another to trail behind him as we walk back up the hall. Something about the situation calls for dramatic music, not just the squeak and scrape of my teammates' shoes against the floor, the silence that echoes around me as we walk.

And when we get to his office, Blake is already there, seated in one of two chairs in front of our manager's desk.

Are they going to fire me in front of him? No. Something worse, possibly. My heart rate, already jumpy from caffeine, kicks into staccato.

Half of me demands to know what Blake is doing here.

The other half wants to say fuck this and hop a flight back to Boston.

I sit in the chair next to Blake. He's hefting an equally large cup of coffee, looks like he got an equally bad night's sleep. Yesterday, we woke up nestled against each other.

Today, he gives me a clipped, "Good morning." Polite from anyone else. Practically an insult from Blake.

I lift my coffee cup in acknowledgement as Skip settles behind his desk. He has that look coaches get when they're about to deliver bad news.

Do you have to do that with him here? I don't ask.

"I'm sure neither of you is surprised to see one another this morning," Skip begins.

Whatever speed my pulse was going doubles. "How's that?"

"Apologies, I was under the impression that you all drove down together." With an unstated And were speaking to one another. "As you know, the team takes issues of integrity—personal, professional—seriously, and we're hoping to resolve this internally before the press gets wind of it."

Fuck, the team knows that we…

But how would the team know? Did we miss a camera at the hotel pool deck? Did someone snap a picture of us dancing together? Did Blake tell them I made a pass at him in an effort to offload me? Except Blake's fingers have gone white-knuckled on his coffee cup, his skin similarly ashen. He puts on a smile, something obviously affected.

If it comes down to the team choosing between him or me, I know who'll they'll pick. I think of the tiny press of his mouth against my cheek, the careful stroke of his thumb. The way he wanted to give Shira the entire world—something that'll be simpler if I'm not around.

"It's fine." Two sets of eyes turn to look at me as if they're surprised I spoke. Hell, I'm surprised I spoke. "I'll quit," I add. Once I say it, it's almost a relief.

If I quit, I can go back to the farm. I won't have to worry about forty thousand people booing me if I do something wrong. Just about a farm hovering only slightly above debt, the only thing my parents left to us that I'm going to lose.

Debt I'll have to reckon with along with the guilt that I lied when I should've come clean. And the persistent question that I ask myself every time Blake looks at me. If he never found out, what could we have been to each other?

Skip's graying eyebrows knit in confusion. He stares at me as if peering over invisible reading glasses. "I was of course talking about how we appear to be down a second baseman."

"Uh," I say articulately, "what?"

"Russo's being suspended for using performance-enhancing drugs. Again . He's out for the season."

So…not about us. I make a half-strangled noise of acknowledgement.

Next to me, Blake is studying me with an equal amount of confusion. Quit? he mouths like he can't believe I offered.

I shrug.

Skip sighs with the put-upon air of a man tasked with keeping sixty-plus ballplayers in check for the duration of spring training. "So, before anyone else becomes unavailable, I'd like to discuss our plans for dealing with an unexpected hole in our infield. You knew coming into this season that we had something of a logjam at first base. We're favoring moving Forsyth to second—no offense, Paquette, but he has a bit more positional flexibility."

I laugh agreeingly because it's true. "Yeah, he's a better athlete." And a better person .

"That'll mean more playing time for you. I know you were probably expecting to start the season in triple-A."

Instead, he's offering a season of major-league salary. Enough stability to not worry that every tap on my shoulder might be a demotion. Of knowing the money I'm putting away might keep the farm afloat for years.

But no Shira .

And no Blake.

"Can I, uh, think about it?" I ask.

Skip's frown goes even more confused. This should be an instant yes . "Why don't I step outside and leave you both to discuss this?"

He's barely past the click of his office door when Blake turns to me, fire in his eyes. "You were going to quit ?"

"I thought maybe he knew about…" I trail off. You and me. You and Shira. Me and Shira. This whole thing seems to defy categorization. "Maybe that the team found out somehow. Figured it'd be easier for you if I wasn't on the roster."

Blake's frown intensifies. "But the farm…"

"Yeah."

"What would you have done?"

I shrug. "Figured it out."

"Just like that?"

"Is it that strange that someone else might want you to be happy?" I ask.

"Yes, kind of." Said too honestly.

"Look, you don't have to believe me, but Shira and I really did want to tell you. I know that's not an excuse, but it wasn't like we were trying to be assholes. If me quitting will make it easier for you and her to work things out, then I should probably go ahead and do that."

Blake takes another long drink of coffee. "Shira got in an argument with Brayden yesterday."

I laugh. "Yeah, I noticed that too."

"It's been a long time since anyone's done that for me."

"Shira really loves you—all of you," I say pointedly. "If you love her, you need to love all of her too. And if you can't do that, you have to let her go."

Blake looks up at me from over his coffee cup, eyes a questioning blue. He has a scar through his eyebrow, barely visible unless you know what you're looking for. How did I ever think he was perfect, bordering on fake? He has scars like the rest of us, even if his only show in certain lights. Slowly, he nods.

"She's leaving, you know," I say. "She said she was taking the auto train home this afternoon."

Blake's forehead wrinkles. "She didn't mention anything?"

"Yeah, she might not."

He takes out his phone, taps something on it. A second later, a message comes through on our group chat.

Blake: Don't go back to Boston, please.

I immediately respond with a heart. Nothing from Shira. Maybe she won't see it. Maybe she'll see it and ignore it. "We should probably deliver the message in person. Tell Skip we need to go work on our infield chemistry."

Blake laughs. "Seems like. So you good with playing first if I'm at second?"

"I am if you are."

"Yeah, I feel like I could use a fresh start," Blake says. "But…can I tell you a secret?"

"What's that?"

"I'm actually pretty bad at fielding second base."

And I laugh so hard that I'm still going by the time Skip comes back.