Page 6 of Off Pitch

“Hope so,” I say, standing up and waving my goodbyes as I leave the media room.

Most teams just do post-game interviews on the field. You only deal with one reporter and then head back to the clubhouse. However, Skip says we should foster a better relationship with the media. So, every game I pitch, I’m stuffed into the small media room we have at the stadium, smelling terribly of sweat and body odor before I can get to the clubhouse to take a damn shower.

Lane catches up with me in the hall after he finishes with his line of questioning. “Hey, Spence,” he says, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. “Great game today, huh?”

“Don’t call me Spence,” I say as I shrug his arm off me. “I fucking hate that.”

“Which is exactly why I do it, Spence. Gotta get you riled up somehow.”

I just roll my eyes as I follow Lane into the clubhouse.

Freshly showered with only a terrycloth towel wrapped low on my waist, I walk over to my space in the clubhouse. My jersey is hung up and ready to be cleaned, and I’m ready to head home, binge-watch some Netflix, and order some takeout so I don’t have to cook tonight. Might as well give my arm a rest after throwing out ninety-four pitches today.

As I’m about to drop the towel and get ready to get my ass out of here, I hear a voice behind me. “There you are, Knox. I’ve been looking for you.”

Simon Helbin, my agent.

I turn to face him. “Where else did you think you’d find me right now, Simon? I just got out of the damn shower.”

“We’ll circle back to your attitude in just a moment. But I figure you’ll want to hear from me, seeing as I just got off the phone with one of the execs at Axis.”

“Yeah?” I say, a rare bit of optimism to my tone. “What did they say?”

Axis Athletic Co. is one of the largest global sports apparel companies. Signing an endorsement deal with them is a huge career boost for athletes. They’re currently considering me for a future campaign.

“They said that the grumpy asshole persona has to go before they’ll offer a contract.”

“There’s no fucking way they actually said that, Simon.”

“Not in as many words, but the sentiment was the same.” He takes a seat on the sofa across from my space. I join him now, just the two of us currently in the clubhouse. “They love what you do on the field, you know that, but Axis is a very famous brand. They don’t sign endorsement deals with players they believe could be a liability.”

“How the hell am I a liability?” I reply, the irritation in my voice evident. “I come for practice, play the game, and then go home. I don’t do a damn thing that should worry them.”

“That right there is what they’re worried about.”

I sigh, scrubbing my hand over my face. “Fort Knox is the problem, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Simon responds, letting out a breath. “All of Axis’s clients are role models on and off the field. They want somebody people admire to represent their brand and the company’s integrity.”

“Axis is a goddamn corporation. How much integrity can they actually have?”

Simon pinches his fingers over the bridge of his nose, no doubt questioning his life choices that led to him signing me as a client, though I’ll forever be grateful for him. My career almost ended before it began—I wouldn’t be here without him. “This is part of the problem, Knox. You can’t say things like that if you want people to like you.”

“I don’t care if people like me, Simon. You should know that by now.”

“If you want to get this endorsement, you need Axis to like you. They’re holding off on offering the contract for now. They’ve said they want to see a major improvement from you over the seasonbefore they make their final determination on whether to extend the offer or rescind the contract altogether.”

“Fuck me.”

How do I become someone approachable and likable when the media is the bane of my existence? I don’t let people in, especially nosy reporters.

“I’m brainstorming ways to help you through the season. We’re not giving up on this; we just need a solid approach to handling it. You need this endorsement deal.”

“I know,” I say, sighing again as I lean against the sofa.

Once Simon finally left the clubhouse, I threw on a pair of black joggers and a gray T-shirt. Thank fuck the MLB doesn’t make us wear suits to and from a game like the NHL does. Having to wear a suit at least six days a week is something straight out of a nightmare to me.

I grab my jacket from the hanger, throwing it over my shoulder as I step into the hall. Cole is standing right outside chatting to a couple of women—Lucia, one of our trainers, and a blonde in a baseball cap. Even with her back to me, I know who she is—Harlow Pierce, Cole’s sister.

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