Page 15 of Unwritten Rules
“What’d Johnson say to you?” Zach asks, rather than watch her start to shred the placemat.
“He saw my wedding ring. And asked me about what myhusbandthought of me working with a bunch of guys.”
And Zach is torn between laughing at that and ordering them both a drink. “What’d you say to him?”
“That it wasn’t an issue.”
“Well, shit.” Because she came into the clubhouse after the Supreme Court decision, a piece of string tied around her ring finger in lieu of a ring, saying how this felt like a dream, something that she would wake up from any moment.
Zach congratulated her, even if some part of him wondered if the decision was something temporary, revocable, a brief window of happiness that could be slammed shut before the end of his career. Something he didn’t say out loud, even as a hypothetical, especially at Morgan’s joy in talking about marrying her now-wife. Especially when he considered how his life might be different if he was a trainer or if he stayed in Baltimore, reupholstering dining room chairs for his parents’ business.
“It would be funny if it wasn’t just all so constant,” she says. “When I was younger, I thought it was gonna be a one-and-done. Like, I wasn’t out, and now I am, and no more conversations about it.” She shifts one of the little paper wads around on the table, edging it into a pool of water, watching as it wicks it up. “The thing is, though, is that it’s not. It’s always this calculation of who’s worth it and who’s not. Who might have some kind of homophobic freak-out. Who’s gonna make my job tougher than it needs to be.”
Her voice tightens at the end and she blinks a few times, hard enough that Zach considers if he should get up, excuse himself to the bathroom, just to give her a minute. About the right thing to say, starting withI know how that is, which seems to die between his lungs and his vocal cords. About how he wanted to tell his brother, his sister, but told only his high school guidance counselor when he cried in her office, asking how he was going to play baseball. And no one else since then.
Even now, watching her as she tries not to tear up and mostly succeeds, his voice feels stuck in his mouth. He manages only, “I’m sorry. That’s really rough.”
There’s a long moment, Morgan blinking rapidly, and Zach looking past her, watching the cars outside, two elderly people having a fight at their table about something to do with the menu. The bartender leaning to flirt with a customer who’s at least thirty years his senior. The traffic in and out of the kitchen, servers and busboys passing each other as if choreographed. He wonders if anyone recognizes them or is covertly taking pictures. If he’ll get asked for an autograph afterward, even if he’s barely a celebrity in Oakland itself, much less in suburban Phoenix.
“Fuck,” she says. “It’s not even Johnson or whatever’s fault. Like, I don’t even think he meant it like that.”
“Probably not.” Because it probably didn’t occur to him, like it didn’t occur to him that Zach might not go to the same kind of church that he did. “If you want, I can talk with him.”
“No, if anyone’s gonna mention it, I’d rather it be me. Just give me a heads-up, all right, about the next green-as-grass rookie you send my way.”
“Sure, of course.” Their waitress walks by and Zach flags her down, requesting two shots of mezcal.
“Thanks,” Morgan says, after they’ve taken them—or after Morgan has taken hers and Zach sipped from his. “All right, enough. Tell me about how framing practice is going other than video review. Marti said a mild disaster, so give me some details.”
He tells her about their practice that morning, at one point yanking up his shirt to show her where he has a bruise blooming on his side. “They’re sort of using me as, I don’t know, almost like I was a coach. But I’m sure you’re up to your ears in demanding-ass minor leaguers.”
“I could stand to be a little busier. A couple of guys have no-showed to training sessions.” And Zach tries to remember if he was supposed to come see her about something and spent the morning out in the bullpen instead, which must show, because Morgan continues, “Not you. You’d be buying me dinner if you had.”
“I’m buying it anyway.”
“So, yeah. I had to go track ’em down, and then they were mad that I reported ’em because they also got fined by the club for skipping. It hasn’t been the best week.”
“You want me to go and talk to them?”
“Stop trying to solve my problems for me, Glasser. Do you think that’s gonna make them more likely to respect me?”
“Okay, point taken.”
“It’s not even the guys on the big-league roster,” she says. “It’d be easier if it was. Like, everyone expects you to be assholes.”
“Wow, thanks.”
“It’s just some short-season kids who probably won’t even crack double-A. Which, fine, whatever. I have to chase after them like they’re doing me a favor.”
“They’ll figure it out,” Zach says, because they would or get reputations for being difficult. “Eugenio isn’t ducking you, right?”
“Morales? No, it’s the opposite. He’s veryprepared.”
“I get that feeling. But he’s not giving you a hard time, right?”
She gives him an assessing look, eyes narrowed, like there are reasons for him asking about Eugenio beyond them having to work together. “Only about kettlebell techniques. He also brought me a scone.”
“Yeah, he does that.”
