Page 16 of Unwritten Rules
“First time for everything.” She gets up, pointing to the restrooms at the back of the restaurant. “Order me another shot. It’s been a shitty week, and we’re in for four more.”
Chapter Six
They play the next day because that’s how baseball is. A bad outing or a good one and it doesn’t matter—the slate wipes clean. Courtland wants to test out a succession of double-A and single-A catchers, though none of them knows what to do with Hayek’s slider, and he peppers the backstop with passed balls.
Zach spends the game in the dugout standing by the railing next to Eugenio, who’s charting the game, a golf pencil gripped in his hand as he records every pitch and its outcome—a make-work task in the age of video and analytics that D’Spara assigns as punishment.
“You know how to field Hayek’s slider, right?” Zach says. “You wait until it stops rolling and then you pick it up.”
Eugenio laughs, and notes yet another ball that misses both the strike zone and their catcher, a kid from single-A young enough to still have a squeak in his voice. “Glad I’m not trying to catch that thing for the first time in a live game.”
“It takes him a while, but he usually settles down by mid-May or so.”
Up close, Eugenio looks tired. The kind of tired that Morgan and possibly some of the medical staff should know about, even if it’s not Zach’s issue to tell. He has deep, almost purple, bags under his eyes, and he’s actively yawning.
“There’s coffee,” Zach says. “I think I saw a pot on in the kitchen if you want to go grab some.”
“I’m good. But thanks.”
“Still not gonna drink clubhouse coffee?”
“Something like that.”
Eugenio’s shoulder occasionally brushes his as they stand there, the way guys brush against each other constantly like silverware in a drawer. Zach could leave; it’s within his rights as a major leaguer. But he spent the winter mostly not watching baseball, aside from a few Dominican league games. He misses its rhythms, even as each team sheds anyone who’ll end up in the majors from its lineup and brings in guys seemingly made in a baseball-player cloning factory. Blond guys who probably have Bible verses in their Twitter bios. Players from Cuba and Curaçao, speaking to one another in a combo of Spanish and Papiamento—and the coaches have been using Eugenio as a de facto translator, even after he asked why the club didn’t have an actual interpreter.
So Zach tries to focus on each play, each at-bat, each fielded out—all of which contribute to a score that doesn’t matter except to those who have a vague hope of making the team—and not the frisson of Eugenio’s shoulder as it brushes against his. Next to him, Eugenio is charting like he’s being graded on it, hand enormous around the nub of a pencil. It’s not a bad exercise, at least not when watching actual big-league pitching, but probably not as some anonymous hitter goes down swinging against some anonymous pitcher.
“You can probably quit doing that,” Zach says.
“It’s keeping me awake. Though, barely.”
“Jeez.”
“Before,” Eugenio says, “you mentioned your place has a pool. Sometimes swimming helps when I can’t sleep.”
“I guess I didn’t actually say you could use it. But let me know if you want to swing by.”
Something about the way he says it makes Eugenio smile, a little upturned tug at his lips. “You got a kitchen at the place you’re staying?”
“Yeah.” Though Zach’s mostly using his fridge to keep his beer cold.
“Okay, I’ll come by around seven, if that works for you.” It’s a little more formal than Zach is expecting, especially when Eugenio asks to see his phone later, putting his number in it.
Zach gets a text from him a half an hour before he’s supposed to get there asking Zach if he has any food allergies or stuff he doesn’t like eating.
No shellfish,Zach sends, before he can convince himself that this whole thing is a bad idea.
Eugenio knocks when he arrives, having come up the steps to Zach’s place carrying a few reusable shopping bags.
“What’s all the stuff?” Zach asks as Eugenio unloads it onto his counter.
“It’s not a big deal.” Which isn’t an answer. He rifles through Zach’s kitchen, pulling things out from the cupboards, rinsing off a bowl that Zach hasn’t used, locating and washing a cutting board and knife. He takes out a few jars of spices, oil, and salt, like he didn’t trust that Zach’s rental place came with it—though Zach didn’t know that it did until Eugenio locates the shaker in a cabinet.
“You all have a grill, right?” He smiles when Zach says they do.
Zach’s staying in a one-bedroom unit, and the only places to sit are his couch and on his bed, so he grabs a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge, offering one to Eugenio, who takes it. It feels weird, just the two of them, Eugenio moving around his kitchen like he belongs there, Zach glancing up every few minutes from his phone to confirm how much he’s not watching him. Though it’s less weird when Eugenio grabs a metal bowl and starts whacking the hell out of the pork chops he brought.
“That looks kind of therapeutic,” Zach says.
