Page 1 of Sideline Play

ONE

SCARLET

My radiosoftly hums with the announcers’ commentary from tonight’s pregame show and I know I’m late, again. Instead of being at The Nest, which is prominently featured through my passenger window from the city loop, I’m sitting in bumper to bumper traffic sweating like a sinner in church in spite of my AC being on full blast, summer keeping everyone firmly within its grasp even this late into September. I guess this could be called my weekly penance for signing up for that damn lecture even when I knew I would be spending most Thursdays driving home to Nashville from Chattanooga. Because even gaining an hour when I cross the meridian doesn’t seem to help my perpetually tardy behind.

My ETA jumps back by another three minutes as the radio is replaced by the blaring sounds of “Wreak Havoc,” perfectly cued up to the 30 second section that plays whenever my brother takes to the mound. “They’re gonna kill me,” I groan, Winnie giving me an unhelpful bark of agreement from her harness in the backseat as I jab the green icon with my knuckle to accept his call.

“You’re late,” he says the moment we’re connected.

“I know.”

“Again.”

“Iknow.”

“It’s 6:15; we start atseven.”

“I have class!” I defend. “You know, that place that teaches me how best to care for you?”

“Shouldn’t have signed up for that lecture.”

“Yeah, I regret it every week,” I huff, blowing the loose strands of hair from my face.

“At least you’re consistent.”

Creeping my SUV up to squeeze onto the shoulder as my exit comes into sight, I grumble, “Shut up,” and his deep laugh siphons off the pinched tension that’s had my shoulders up by my ears for the last half hour as it fills my car.

His next words are lost to the boisterous commotion of the clubhouse that bleeds through the line and with it, his attention.

“Roman,” I sing-song, my foot going heavy on the gas as the exit lane begins to take shape in front of me. Drawing his name out several more times while I speed down the ramp to beat the yellow light, I shout, “I’m pulling up right now!” I end the call as I unapologetically cut across traffic to the sound of blaring horns in order to make the turn for the players’ lot.

Rolling down my window, I snag my badge from the mess in my front seat, and Barney—a security guard who’s been working this post since my father’s rookie year—greets me with a smile.

“Miss Jones, you’re late.”

“Not you too,” I whine with an exaggerated downturn of my lips.

Chuckling, he scans my ID and replies, “I’ll radio the guys at the turnstyle that you’re coming. You can run right through.”

“You’re a god amongst men, Barney,” I praise, blowing him a kiss as the gate lifts.

Shooing me through, he blushes. “So you say.”

Weaving through the parking lot, I roll my window up and hunt for Roman’s custom Nighthawks green paint job, a perfect match to my SUV. Truck in sight, I spin the steering wheel so I can cut into the empty space beside him. Haphazardly parked in both my spot and his, I don’t bother straightening my vehicle, opting instead to hop out and free Winnie before racing around to the trunk to grab my bags. Slamming the hatch closed, we take off at a run, our feet pounding against the concrete of the sidewalk. Hitting the opening for the stadium gate, I yell out to the other security guards, “Y’all are the best!” and double my speed to chase my sweet Doberman down the enclosed corridor.

Skidding to a squeaking halt in front of the clubhouse right after she runs into the door, I force several deep breaths before I crack it open enough to slip in and quietly scootch over to my spot along the wall, my dog slinking right at my hip. Catching Roman’s shit eating grin across the way as our dad—the switch pitching legend that is Colt Jones—addresses the team, my face scrunches up at him as I make a small jerk forward as if taunting him into a fight.

“Must be nice,” Brady hisses from my right, the grating sound of his voice pulling my spine tight. “If other people were as habitually late as you, they’d be reassigned.”

Closing my eyes and praying for patience, I remind myself not to take the bait. To ignore my classmate and rise above it. That nothing he’s saying is new or worthy of a response.

“Though I got to know, is it because of daddy? Or is it because of Roman?” he continues.

Grinding my teeth together as he prods at my patience, I slow my breathing even further to remain outwardly unfazed.

I know I got my placement in the program and with the team because of my capability, career potential, and established trust with the players and staff. But if it looks like nepotism and walks like nepotism, you get ostracized before you even have a chanceto meet people and make your own impression upon them. And if my history has taught me anything, it’s that once people have crafted their own narrative of me, there’s little I can do to change it—my Summa Cum Laude honors from Knoxville and current 4.0 be damned.

Even without my name though, I would still be fighting the perpetuated idea that professional sports is a man’s world, and a girl with a sparkly manicure, blonde hair, and pink sneakers doesn’t belong amongst the boys. That I couldn’t possibly want anything more than to become a player’s wife and further expand my existing brand within the MLB. Never mind that I know more about this sport and what its players need to remain in peak performance shape than all of them combined.

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