Page 3 of Pitcher Us
As the words leave her mouth, she squeals, which tells me Jett just got back. Wyla’s voice comes next. “Babe, come say hi to Adam and Callie.”
I stand up and reach to take my phone back, but Adam jerks it to the side as his best friend comes into frame.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know an Adam,” Jett jokes.
“Yeah, yeah, listen. I don’t have time for this reunion. Say bye to Callie and wish her luck because she has an interview at the complex starting in twenty minutes.”
I’m sorry, what?
“What are you talking about right now? I don’t have an interview!” My voice sounds all loud and squeaky.
Wyla’s question comes next but in a less stressed tone. “Ooo, what job?”
Adam gives me a little nudge before reaching for my travel duffle bag and plopping it on the bed. “Team photographer. Now, say bye!” Adam tilts the phone to me for a second as they all yell “bye” and “good luck” before he clicks it off.
He tosses my phone on the bed before unzipping my bag. “Did you happen to pack anything other than sweatpants in this bag?”
I’m baffled by one, his fucking audacity, and two, the fact that he actually thinks I’m going to an interview right now.
“Have you lost your mind?!” My voice has gone up another octave.
He starts throwing clothes out of my bag before landing on the one pair of jeans I packed in my travel bag. “Here, these’ll do.”
“These…” I sputter as he tosses them to me. “Adam, I am not going to an interview to be your team’s photographer. You’re insane! You were supposed to ask about apartments, not a job!”
My brother huffs as he filters through my shirts next. “Cals, you know I love you, but you’ve been moping around for a year trying to figure out what you want to do.”
Holding back an eye roll, I grumble, “I haven’t moped.”
To anyone else that statement would be true, but to Adam it’s a bald-faced lie. There are not many people that I let see any other side than my happy-go-lucky attitude. Despite our differences, I’m pretty sure he’s the only person I don’t feel this pressure to fill the silences with.
“Here.” Tossing me yet another article of clothing, Adam then goes and grabs my laptop. “You got five minutes to change. I’ve got an Uber waiting downstairs.”
With the click of the hotel door, I’m left to argue with no one. Welp, I guess I’m going to an interview.
The entirety of the car ride over Adam fills me in on the details. The team’s photographer backed out of their offer maybe an hour ago, and while it seems they have plenty of time to find someone before the season actually starts, my brother didn’t hesitate to snag an interview for me as quickly as possible.
“You’ve got some pictures on your laptop, right?” Adam asks as he leads me down the hallways of the complex.
“Yes, but not a lot of sports pictures.” I exhale, trying to let the nerves out and keep up with Adam’s pace. “I mostly took pictures of the city back in Seattle. I doubt that’s what they’re looking for. This is just a silly hobby of mine, Adam.”
Looking back with a half-annoyed look on his face, Adam huffs. “Don’t do that. That’s Dad talking, and I don’t talk to him for a reason. Cals, they're looking for someone who loves photography and takes good pictures—that’s you.”
I do love photography. It’s always been a passion of mine—one my father always aimed to snuff out. One that bit me in the ass before, but that’s not a thought I want to have right now.
When I allow myself to think of what this job could mean, I get a little excited. My pictures could be used for a professional team. Used on their websites, socials, and possibly even for articles with ESPN. There’s so much I could do—blogs, social media campaigns, revamping their brand. It’s always been my creative outlet, but could I make it my career?
I used to take pictures of Adam playing all the time but after what happened at the beginning of this year, baseball players have been on my shit list. I honestly put photography on my shit list for a little bit too, but it’s hard being mad at something you love.
Adam stops abruptly in front of an office, and I can feel my blood pressure shoot up. Hugging my laptop to my chest, my fingers fiddle with the edges. “Adam, I’m nervous.”
Turning to face me, Adam places his bear-paw-sized hands on my shoulders. “Deep breath, Cals. You’ve got this. Nothing bad will happen if you don’t get it, so relax. Forget every interview rule Dad taught you.”
When I start to roll my eyes, he squeezes my shoulders. “This isn’t Dad’s company. Mr. Olsson’s not going to grill you. At the core of any interview, it’s just a conversation. And Callie Reyer knows how to fucking talk so just talk, okay?”
Breathing in through my nose and out my mouth, I nod. “You’re right. Talking, I can do that. I know words…kind of.”
My brother chuckles softly. “That you do. His secretary knows you’re coming so, again, deep breath. You got this.”
