Third Base (The Boys of Summer, #1)(47)
As soon as I step into the clubhouse, I’m being called to Stone’s office. The walk can be daunting, but I have a lot of respect for him and the fact that we’re somewhat close in age helps. His secretary isn’t at her desk when I arrive, so I walk in, knocking on his doorjamb.
“Ethan, come on in. Take a seat,” he says as he looks up from his paperwork.
I do as I’m told, burying my hand under my leg to keep it still.
“Hand bothering you today?” I both hate and like that he notices. I don’t want him to think it’ll ever affect my job on the field, but it worries me that he does.
“Sometimes you make me nervous, Sir.” I finish off by calling him sir, hoping to ease the building tension.
“Just worried about you is all,” he says, folding his hands on his desk. “How’s the media stuff been working out?”
“It’s okay,” I say, honestly. “I’ve learned the dos and don’ts of what to post on social media, how words can be misconstrued, and to always enunciate my words when giving an interview.”
“That’s good. I’ve spoken to your professor, and he’s assured me that he’s taught you everything from the course, so tonight after the game you can speak to the media if they ask for you.”
I can’t hide the grin that I know is plastered all over my face. I stand and shake his hand, elated that he has enough faith in me to not screw up. I hope that I don’t make a fool out of myself when given the opportunity and that I do something tonight that will be newsworthy.
“I heard about your secret project,” Stone says, causing me to sit back down.
I run my free hand through my hair, trying to decipher if I’m in trouble or not.
“It’s a nice thing to do – to help out like that.”
I nod and say thank you, hoping that what I’ve done doesn’t cause upset or fall on deaf ears. Frankly, I’m out of options. Stone dismisses me, but not before telling me that his wife’s parents are in attendance tonight. Why he felt the need to say this is beyond me, but he loves taking every jab he can to remind me of who he’s married to and where they sit.
I opt not to work-out, but to start changing for the game. The routine is the same: Socks, cup, jock strap, Under Armor and finally my pants, but not my jersey. I’ll change into that later. I leave my cleats untied and sit on my stool, waiting. My thoughts return to what Stone said, about how it’s nice to help out. I don’t know if what I’ve done is a good thing or not, but it’s the only thing I can think of to get Daisy’s attention. If it’s successful, I owe the ladies in the main office lunch, roses and a day of pampering.
The clubhouse opens for the media and I find myself sitting tall and proud. As soon as the reporter from NESN comes over to me, I know I’m ready.
“Ethan, care to chat today?” That has been their standard question every day since I joined the team. I nod eagerly like a damn buffoon.
“Great. Your batting average is one of the highest in the league and there’s chatter that you’ll be a shoo-in for the batting title. This is only your second season, are you surpassing your personal expectations?”
What the f*ck is this noise? Why didn’t media training train me on how to answer these types of questions instead of worrying about my relationship status on Facebook?
I pretend that there’s something fascinating on the floor and bend sideways to pick it up before answering. This sly move gives me only seconds of a reprieve before the microphone is being thrust into my face.
“Each day that I go out there, it’s to win for Boston and my teammates.” The reporter smiles and thanks me for my time. I close my eyes and mentally kick my ass for being so f*cking dumb when it comes to this shit. It makes me want to call my college coach and tell him to mandate that a class like this be taken.
As soon as it’s time, I’m out of the clubhouse and onto the field. I find myself looking for Daisy every chance I get, only to find her seat empty. When we start stretching out in centerfield, I angle myself so I can spot her when she starts descending the stairs. My stalking levels know no bounds right now and I’m ashamed of myself.
By the time batting practice is over, she’s still not here, which is late for her. We head back into the clubhouse to change and meet with Diamond and the other coaches to go over the game. It’s hard to predict how a game is going to go. If pitching is tight, but batting isn’t, the game could be a battle. End up with a shitty night of pitching and swift bats – we could be putting up matching runs. Ideally, you want your strong pitcher to out duel theirs and let the bats do all the talking. The guy we’re facing tonight gave me my first grand slam last year. I thanked him by having him sign a game ball since the one I hit over the wall was taken by a fan. It probably wasn’t very nice of me, but I needed the memento.
We come back out to do some more game prep and to start the pomp and circumstance that goes into every game. As I step out, the music is a bit louder and the fans are filling their seats. Looking around I see people stuffing their faces with hotdogs, nachos and popcorn, with beer being the chaser. It’s been so long since I’ve been a spectator at a game. I miss those days.
My eyes finally land on Daisy’s seat and, much to my surprise, it’s empty. I try not to let this bother me but it does. Meyers slaps me on the back as he passes, reminding me that standing here looking like an idiot isn’t doing anyone any good.