The Trade(101)

The smell.

The sounds.

The distinct feel of spring training surrounds me and for the first time since I left Baltimore, I’m starting to feel at home.

“Nice attempt at a beard,” Maddox says, coming up behind me. “Could be thicker.”

His voice startles me at first because any time he’s talked to me, his voice has been full of malice, hate, dislike. He’s egged me on, encouraged me to fight, poked and prodded at me until I felt like I was at my breaking point. Not just him, but all the guys, and yet, they’re . . . smiling. What the fuck happened?

Not wanting to disturb the peace and call a spade a spade—why the fuck are you being nice to me?—I go with a joking lilt. “Have any oils for that?” I ask, knowing full well, Maddox is one of those guys who relies on “holistic” methods to help him ease the tension in his body.

“Nah, you either got it or you don’t.” He walks over to his locker and takes a seat in the chair in front of it, and it’s like being in a different universe. Teammates are smiling at me, shaking my hand, talking to me. What the fuck happened over the last few months that changed their minds about me? Because last I knew, they hated me. But it’s almost as if Maddox gave me his approval and so now everyone has.

Turning to Jason, I quietly whisper, “Did you say anything to these guys?”

He shakes his head. “Hell no. I wasn’t about to sign my death sentence.” At least he’s honest. “When that shit was released about you on the beach rather than preparing for spring training, they saw it wasn’t true. They knew you were the one busting your ass in the cages, taking ball after ball off the tee. And, a lot of the guys stepped up. There’s something to be said about leading a team without being vocal about it, and that’s what you’ve been doing.”

It’s what I’ve always done. If you want a change, be the change. That’s the motto I’ve lived off. It’s why I don’t partake in any of the press, why I don’t shoot back at fans, why I keep my mouth shut, because if I want a change . . . I need to be the change.

“Personally, I think his beard is coming in nicely,” Ray, our second baseman says, coming up to me and examining it. “Has a thickness that will make him want to die in the summer.”

“You think?” Nate, our shortstop says, walking up to me now, so two of my teammates are examining my beard, running their fingers over it. “Huh, it’s softer than I thought.”

Marcus is now up in my face, cupping my jaw. “I saw it from day one, just little-bitty hairs. Now, it’s starting to gain some legs.” He pretends to wipe a tear. “Makes me so goddamn happy.”

I push at his chest and he laughs, backing away.

“How long did it take?” Maddox asks, leaning against his locker now, his arms crossed over his chest, looking like the actual rebel that he is. He drives a Harley into the stadium, has a mohawk, faux-hawk, not quite sure, and looks the part from head to toe with his dark features and menacing eyes, but right now, a worn-out book in his hand, the same leather one I always see him carry around, he doesn’t look menacing. He looks observant, interested.

“To grow it?” I ask. He nods. “Longer than I care to admit.”

He chuckles and I swear the earth rumbles beneath me, because I don’t think I’ve ever heard the man chuckle.

“The old man on the team can’t even grow a beard when management asks him.” He shakes his head and smirks. “At least you tried.” He opens his book and pulls a pen from behind his ear and starts making sketch marks.

“I’d do just about anything short of sucking your dick to support my team.”

Smirking still, Maddox says, “I get my dick sucked off enough; that’s covered.” He glances up and says, “The beard is a start, but your work ethic is what got you noticed.”

It’s weird having this conversation just loud enough for everyone to hear in the locker room, and a part of me wonders if Maddox is doing that on purpose, if he’s ensuring all the guys know where we stand. My conversation with Marcus about Maddox surfaces to the forefront of my mind. He cares about the team, homegrown, holds the Rebel badge to his heart. He’s not going to let someone just slip in; they have to prove themselves. I didn’t do that last year, but I’ll be damned if I don’t this year.

“Potter.” Our manager pops into the locker room. “A word.”





I’m a thirty-five-year-old man who’s been playing baseball for as long as I can remember. I’ve won every award you can think of including Platinum Glove, which is fucking rare, I’ve led my team in every batting category, and I’m one of the highest paid active baseball players in the league. But still, to this day, when a manager calls me into his office, I always feel nerves roll through my stomach.

It takes me back to the days in high school, when getting called to your coach’s office meant you were sitting out a game, or you were going to be cut if you didn’t get your shit together. Or in college, at Brentwood, when Coach Disik was about to ream you a new one. Going into the office never brought on anything good.

Today is no exception.

Standing in the office with my semi-new manager is Gregory, the head of PR for the Rebels. And they don’t look happy.

“Take a seat.” I sit down, sitting tall in my chair, as slouching shows a lack of respect. I clasp my hands in front of me and wait for them to lead the conversation.