Page 20 of Unwritten Rules
Because he expected something else. An argument, an old one like a reaggravated injury. Or a reminder why they haven’t spoken in two years, after Eugenio left him in a beach house on the California coast and then the team entirely after demanding a trade. Like he couldn’t even stand being in the same city as Zach.
“Are you, uh, sure you want me to?” Zach asks.
“I wouldn’t have asked if I weren’t. Unless you already have plans with your family?”
“They couldn’t make it. You know how they are about me paying for them.”
“Then you should come.”
And Zach imagines them all packed into a restaurant, ordering steaks and bourbon and all the food most players don’t usually eat on their meal plans. There’ll probably be enough of them that he’ll spend dinner struggling to hear in the noise, not being able to track half the conversation and having people think he’s stuck-up. “It’ll be loud.”
“I’ll sit next to you.” Eugenio always did that, before, when they went out together, sat next to Zach in a group or across from him when it was just the two of them. He’s being insistent, like he planned this, like Zach is the one being weird or difficult. Like they’refriends.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Zach says. Because it’s one thing to stand in the sunlight of the stadium, a pace apart. Another to be pressed together, surrounded by other players. A reminder of how things were in Oakland and aren’t anymore.
Eugenio starts to say something else. But he’s interrupted when the league’s social media team spots them.
The social media people are a matched set, Carter and Caitlin, like unfortunately named twins. And they seem young to Zach, even if he’s only about five years older than they are, faces unlined from not working out in the sun or squinting in the deep shade of the roof of Swordfish Park.
And of course, two former teammates reunited at the All-Star Classic is too good an opportunity for them to let go of. “Just a quick video,” Carter says. “Something authentic.” They hold up their phone a little threateningly.
“Authentic” apparently takes a long-ass time and a lot of coaching, at least for Zach, since Eugenio shows off every inch of his New York sports media training, smiling and gamely answering questions.
“Okay, let’s run through this,” Caitlin says, “once in English with both of you, and then we’ll do yours—” she nods to Eugenio “—in Spanish too. So, when was the last time you guys saw one another?”
“Oakland,” Zach says, which isn’t an answer, especially not when Eugenio says, “We play each other a bunch during the regular season.”
“Let’s focus on your time in Oakland then.” And Zach wonders if the grounds crew can come out and dig a ditch for him to crawl into, and then possibly bury him. “So, again, when was the last time you guys played together?”
“We were in Oakland for a long time,” Eugenio says, like two years constitutes a long time in a sport as enduring as baseball.
It leads to the next question, about what they miss most about playing on the same team. One followed by a long pause. “Oh, you know,” Zach says, finally, “not worrying our pitchers are gonna give up free hits to this guy.”
“You’ve both been in the league a while,” Caitlin says. “What would you say is your biggest career moment?”
“Probably playing for the pennant last year,” Eugenio says. “Even if it didn’t turn out how we wanted.” And he laughs, like losing the league championship series in six games is something that can be brushed off.
“Zach, how about you?” she says. “You’ve been in the majors for seven years. What would you say the highlight has been?”
And Zach thinks back to his seasons in Oakland: A loss in the division series.Anotherloss in the division series. A heartbreaker of a loss in the Wild Card game. His time in Miami, the highlights of which have mostly been being able to go to the grocery store without being asked for his autograph.
“Uh,” Zach says, “I’m here, I guess. So that’s pretty cool.”
Next to him, Eugenio’s forehead creases a little, before he schools his face back to a pleasant, handsome neutral.
Carter chimes in, saying they’ll mention that Eugenio’s hit twenty home runs this season when they film the clip for real. “Think you got twenty more in you?”
“For sure.” Eugenio mimes his swing. It’s the same swing he’s always had, that compact quick-handed swing that elevates the ball just right. The same one he does during games when he takes one of the inexperienced Swordfish starters yard on a pitch Zach called.
“Sorry,” Zach says, because Carter is saying something.
“That’s a good question,” Eugenio says. “When we first met. I think it was spring training about three years ago. Right, Zach?” And he asks it the way he used to, when Zach couldn’t hear something a teammate or an interviewer said, something he misses now that he’s on his own with Miami media.
“Yeah,” Zach agrees, “spring training. Your first big-league camp.”
“This guy taught me everything I know about framing.” Eugenio elbows Zach in his ribs, like this is something they just joke about. “Though he might regret that now that we play against each other so much.”
It’s a cue for Zach to say something funny or witty or charming or anything, but his brain feels like it’s been replaced by an unwavering blank, dull and uninteresting as the roof at Swordfish Park.
