Page 32 of The Third Baseman

Present Day

Lowe hadn’t been kidding about taking over New York with images of The Lions team.

In fact, if I stood on a chair and pressed my face against the corner glass of my apartment window facing due east, I could clearly see the highest billboard screen in Times Square…

the one where Jupiter’s face appeared every seventy-five seconds.

The one I’d spent an hour watching yesterday, and the day before, while I sipped my morning coffee.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it. If he wasn’t content to haunt my days – his piercing blue eyes following me with every Lions poster I passed – he was haunting my nights too. I’d dream of his lips brushing along the surface of my feverish skin where a flurry of goosebumps followed the tickle of his hot breath. I’d dream of being trapped against the cage of his muscles, where I’d trace my fingertips around the delicate patterns inked into his skin. I’d dream and dream until I’d wake up dripping in sweat and shaking uncontrollably with longing, frustration, and anger.

I’d gone from nothing to all in.

From avoiding him, to him being unavoidable.

He was everywhere.

And since yesterday, our conversation had been playing on a loop in my mind. I hadn’t lied when I said I didn’t know him; the Jupiter I’d met this past week covered in tattoos compared to the high-school Jupiter I knew with his dimples and wicked smile were as different as night and day.

Except,except, when he pounded on my office door and told me he planned to win me back, I saw that eighteen-year-old, the one with dimples and a wicked smile; the one who used to pick me up for school and make me hot chocolate to watch the stars. The one who made sure the last thing he did every night was kiss me.

The one who was doing his hardest to get me to notice him again.

It was confusing as hell.

I took a deep breath as another bout of rage threatened to ambush me.

With one last look in the mirror, attempting to stretch out the new wrinkles which seemed to have arrived from all my recent frowning at Jupiter’s face, I gave up and headed into the bustle of the city for my new commute.

I was so used to driving to work in Houston that I thought it might be fun to walk, but that lasted precisely one day when I realized it was nearly eighty blocks, and took an hour and a half. For the past week I’d used the subway, and managed to get my commute down to a slick thirty minutes. I wasn’t counting the twelve it took to get through the two sets of security at Lions Stadium, across The Lions plaza and into my office, however.

But today things were a little different, as tonight we’d be leaving for a series of away games; my first ones.

Security waved my Uber through the gates and the driver pulled up at the executive entrance, where I tried to hop out but hadn’t packed light, so ended up lugging my bag into the stadium. As with every morning so far, it was quieter around the club before eleven a.m., and I liked it. It wasn’t exactly solitude, but there were few enough people around that I could absorb the space, the atmosphere, the love everyone had for baseball, and this club.

The club everyone longed to succeed.

The morning times over the past week had also given me an opportunity to think about how I was going to help make that happen. Or more specifically, what my job was and how I was going to do it. Because if I succeeded, then maybe I’d be able go back to Houston earlier than planned.

I was a little bit closer than I had been.

Grabbing some coffee from the team dining room, while also managing to balance a slice of toast on top of it, I made my way downstairs. After punching my code in, I used my free arm to push my office door open and finally dropped my bag.

I really need a wheelie case.

I scanned around the detritus. It was amazing to me how quickly I’d managed to make my new office resemble my old lab in Houston, but I guess piles of books and paper scattered about could make anywhere look familiar. I’d long come to the conclusion that while I probably should tidy up, it was never going to happen.

I was messy, and I’d made peace with it.

The books I’d been working through were spread across the metal desks at the end, and all were still open on the pages I’d been reading when I’d left every night over the past week; with subjects ranging from my usual aerodynamics or physics literature to – gasp – sports. I’d branched out because I figured if I could understand how teams and individuals got to the top of their game, I might be closer to figuring out how I could use my background to help them.

It would come as no surprise that it wasn’t immediately obvious.

Turns out when something isn’t rocket science, it’s really hard.

I’d spent over half my life studying astrodynamics, engineering, astrophysics, and space. My most recent task had been working on a jet propulsion program at N.A.S.A, which in no way had anything to do with baseball – unless you counted objects moving through the air, something else Penn Shepherd seemed to think qualified me for this made up job I didn’t ask for.

Still, I wasn’t a person who liked to fail, so made up job or not, I was going to do my best to succeed.

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