The Trade(108)

She rubs her palm over her chest and shakes her head. “I love it.”

And I love her . . . so fucking much.

I press another kiss against her lips and then back away, putting some distance between us. “Not sure how long I’ll be today, but I’ll text you when I’m on my way back.”

“Hey, what about my passes to watch practice?”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea yet,” I say. She lowers her head. “Just because of everything that’s going on. The fans are crazy.”

“I understand.” She clears her throat and says, “I brought my computer so I can do some work while I’m here. I’ll catch up on that for now.”

“Natalie.”

“It’s fine, Cory, really. I understand.”

Sighing, I go back to the edge of the bed where I sit and lift her chin with two fingers, forcing her to look me in the eyes. “I’m watching out for you, okay?”

“And who’s watching out for you?” she asks, making me feel tongue-tied.

Unsure how to answer, I say, “I can take care of myself.” I glide my lips over hers and then lift from the bed. “I’ll text you.”

“Okay,” she says. “I love you.”

I stop and face her, looking her in the eyes. “I love you too.”





Sitting in an office made from cinder blocks, waiting for what feels like my death sentence, doesn’t help to calm my nerves. I’ve seen my fair share of manager’s offices and they seem to all look the same, stuck deep in the bellows of the stadium with no windows and worn-out carpet. Managers deserve so much more, but they’re treated like they belong in a small room under the stairs.

The creaky door behind me opens and shuts. Coach Gordan and Gregory both enter. Gordan sits down, Gregory leans against the wall. They don’t look pleased.

“I’m sorry,” I say, before either one of them can speak. “I’m really fucking sorry. Natalie is . . . hell, she feels like she’s been punched a few too many times.”

“This is a goddamn nightmare,” Gregory says. “Way worse than predicted. We have sponsors now sending emails, concerned about what the hell our organization is doing, questioning our reasoning for acquiring you last year.”

Shit.

I swallow hard.

Fans and sponsors, they bring in the money. Without them, there is no money, and I seem to have a penchant for cutting them both out.

“Is there anything I can do?” I ask, desperate to make amends. I want to discuss the idea of me going on the offensive or getting out there and quelling the lies with facts. But, over the years, I’ve learned my place. If Gordan thought it would work, he probably would have suggested it.

“Yes,” Gordan says, leaning forward on his desk. “There is.”

Please don’t fucking say break up with Natalie, please don’t fucking say it. I’m not not having her as part of my life. My days. My future.

“What?” I ask. My heart is breaking.

He clears his throat and steeples his fingers in front of him. “Lie low.”

I’m caught so off guard that a strangled sound constricts my throat. Sitting back, I blink a few times and nod.

“Yeah,” I answer with a hoarse voice. “I can, uh . . . I can do that.”

“No more drawing attention to yourself. Head down, play baseball,” my manager says, and even though I know he’s angry, when I look up, I can see a sympathetic glint in his eye, as if he feels bad for my situation.

I nod. “Play baseball, I got it.”

I go to stand when Gregory says, “This media attention is less than ideal. Your lack of fan appreciation really hurts the jersey sales we were expecting, and last season wasn’t what we were expecting from you on the field either.” Way to kick a guy when he’s down. “But”—Gregory crosses his arms over his chest—“I’ve heard from many that you’re the hardest working player on and off the field. That will translate, Potter. Keep it up.”

I give him a curt nod and head out of the office straight to an empty locker room. It’s still early, none of the guys will be here yet, which means I have plenty of time to get in a few extra workouts before them.

There’s one thing I’ve noticed during this debacle of my team hating me, fans hating me, press using me as a goddamn tool to make money: my game has fired up and I’m stronger now at thirty-five than I was at twenty-five. I’m more limber, powerful, and laser-focused. My mental game off the field is shit, but when I’m on the field, it’s as if nothing else exists. I see the ball so well off the bat, and off the arm of the pitcher, that it looks like a beach ball. We start spring training games tomorrow, and I can’t wait to annihilate every goddamn ball that comes my way.

Coach wants me to lie low. Well, the only place that’s not going to happen is on the field. It’s the only place I’ll gain respect. The only place where I can fix this mess, so when I do go home to Natalie, I don’t break out in a cold sweat when I see her.

Put in the time and this will get better.





“Hey Potter, where’s your Bobbies whore?”

I grind my teeth and stare at my coach, watching him talk to one of the rookie shortstops trying to make it to the big leagues, about sweeping properly across second base when turning a double play.