Page 6 of Through the Water

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Killian

“You see, you spend a good piece of your life gripping a baseball, and in the end it turns out that it was the other way around all the time.”

Jim Bouton, Ball Four

If there was one thing in life I was sure about, it was baseball. Unlike most everything else, there was no overthinking the fundamentals. It was as simple as throw the ball, hit the ball, and catch the ball.

Had it ended with that, there probably would’ve been more people walking around with a glove on the one hand and a ball in the other. The game required strategy and skill, though, and that was what made it interesting.

Not everybody could do it.

Sure, they might’ve known right-handed batters were more successful against left-handed pitchers and vice-versa. Still, the majority of the general population couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.

My mama liked to joke that I was born with a baseball in my hand. My father had played ball in college and spent a few years in the minors before a knee injury ended his career. When I came along, his dreams were revived and placed squarely on my shoulders.

Luckily for him, I had a knack for it.

I was picked up by Houston right out of high school and spent a year with Quad Cities in the Class A league. I’d been cocky even back then. I knew I was better than half the guys in the majors. Unfortunately, it had taken the team a lot longer to catch on, and even then, they’d only moved me to Double-A in Corpus Christi.

When I was twenty, I was brought up to play for the Hurricanes thanks to center fielder, Austin Pineda’s injured wrist. I made my debut and snagged my first career Major League hit in the bottom of the fourth. After that infield single, I was convinced they were going to bring me up permanently.

Instead, they sent me back down—not to Double-A. No, I was promoted to Triple-A. It was frustrating—ESPN had ranked me number one in the top one hundred prospects. Everyone knew Pineda was done, but Houston hadn’t budged. Christ, I’d even been named Minor League Player of the Year but was stuck earning peanuts until my rookie contract ran out.

I’d started the next season in Fresno until, once again, Houston brought me up; this time to replace Tony Mack. He’d been slumping badly at the plate, and it was a huge opportunity for me. From there, I’d recorded my first career four-hit game and was named American League co-player of the week. I began breaking, not only the Hurricanes’ franchise records, but American League rookie records as well. I even managed to snag the AL Rookie of the Year award.

After that, I was in.

And when this season ended, I fully expected to be smashing some records off-field. With all the free-agent chatter, the Hurricanes were going to have to step up their offer if they wanted to keep me in cobalt blue and white. I was looking forward to watching the bidding war unfold.

“You ready, Red? It’s all you, baby!” Chavez slapped my back, and I fought back a grimace before nodding.

He’d been calling me Red since the day we met, said my name reminded him of the Irish beer. I’d almost slipped up and called him Limp Dick a couple of times, a lovely term of endearment I’d overheard his wife use when she thought no one was listening.

“Tie it up, and get us into the playoffs, man,” Chavez pleaded as he looked up into the stands, no doubt searching for Gabrielle. To my extreme regret, I followed his gaze and found her almost immediately.

I tried looking away, but not before she caught me staring. She winked and ran a hand down her chest as if brushing away invisible crumbs. I rubbed at the back of my neck and avoided making eye contact with Chavez, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

As her husband’s teammate, I shouldn’t have known her tits were as fake as a Nigerian prince offering up half his fortune via email. I should have been ignorant about the sounds she made when she was coming.

And the award for Biggest Douchebag of the Year goes to…

Killian Reed, ladies and gentlemen.

In my defense, I never set out to sleep with my teammate’s wife. At the time, I hadn’t even known she was married. Gabrielle approached me at a team after-party a year ago, and we fucked in a bathroom.

End of story.

When she’d shown up at the next practice, I’d chalked it up to another cleat chaser gone stage 5 clinger. I’d known exactly what she thought as I watched her saunter across the field house. It had been written all over her face. She’d convinced herself that out of all the women in the world, she’d be the one to tame me.

Convinced I’d known where things were headed, I actually opened my mouth, prepared to rattle off a speech I’d perfected over the years: “It’s not who I am… I thought you understood… don’t cry.”

Instead, she’d stalked past me, without so much as a fuck you very much, leaving a cloud of Chanel in her wake. I’d watched in utter confusion as she embraced Chavez before putting two and two together.

Only then did I realize just how badly I’d screwed up. If it had been the first time, I would have chalked it up to a minor mistake and moved on.

But it wasn’t the first time.

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