Page 35 of Unwritten Rules
And it’s enough to trip Zach up for a second. He swallows, possibly audibly. “What kinds of problems?”
“You know. Lots of personalities. Guys competing for a limited number of spots. Sometimes people can rub each other the wrong way. It happens.”
“No, it’s all kumbaya so far.”
“Is there anything else you feel we should talk about?” He holds eye contact with Zach as he says it. “Or anything you want me to know ahead of the season?”
“Can’t think of anything. But I’ll be sure to let you know if I do.” Zach starts to get up.
“Before you go, you know anything you tell me, within reason, I’ll keep in confidence. So if there are guys who maybe aren’t doing as great as you are, or who aren’t handling their transition to the organization as well as they could, and you want me to touch base with them, now’s a good time to mention it.”
Zach considers Johnson and his problems. The dark circles under Eugenio’s eyes, and the look in them when he walked away from Zach. Considers who signs Todd’s paycheck and what “reasonable confidence” means to a team that owns Zach’s contract. “Has anyone said anything about me?”
“Are you expecting that they would?”
Which isn’t an answer. It could mean any number of things, ones Zach shouldn’t think about, not here, with Todd studying him as Zach tries not to make expressions beyond vague annoyance. Most pressingly, the possibility the team senses friction between him and Eugenio beyond two guys who want the same job. The added layer of if he’s been as obvious in his hurt feelings as he’s been with that barista—something he’s tried to hide about himself and fundamentally can’t. “No, just wondering.”
“My office is always open, if you ever just want to chat. Some guys find it helps to check in regularly just to get into the habit. Think of it like practice.”
“Thanks.” And Zach shuts the door behind him on his way out.
Morgan finds him after they’re done for the day, after he’s caught five innings, secured two hits off a double-A starter, done his cool-downs, and showered off. “C’mon.” And she doesn’t wait for him to agree.
He expects they’ll go grab a burger. Instead she navigates them to a driving range nearby. It’s the one he worked at his first year, manning the ball picker and unfucking the vacuum robots that were supposed to collect balls but instead mostly turned themselves over on the green like beached turtles.
She has a bag of clubs in the back of her car, and he rents some of questionable quality, though it doesn’t really matter when it becomes clear that they’re just gonna whack golf balls as far as they can. They hit for a while, falling into the rhythm of setting the ball on its tee, ignoring the targets the course has set up and just trying for the farthest distance marker.
It’s hot out, and he’s sweating, the desert air drying his skin. Morgan orders them a round of beers, some chips and guacamole, and the combination of salt and alcohol don’t help.
“Did you and Morales have a fight or something?” she asks after a while.
“Why?”
“Because I asked him where you were earlier today and he said, ‘Fuck if I know.’”
“Yeah, well.”
Morgan eyes him like she’s going to point out that that isn’t an answer but doesn’t press him.
“Sorry, today fucking sucked,” Zach says. “I had to go see Todd. Can you tell him to be lessTodd?”
Morgan laughs. “He’s a good guy. Though he asked me why you don’t like him, and I told him you hate anyone who can run.”
“Thanks.” He drinks his beer, the same kind he keeps at his rental place, the one Eugenio left half-undrunk on his counter a few weeks ago, strips of the label pulled off and gathered in a pile next to it. He came by a few times, not to Zach’s, but to the cookouts that have now become a regular thing, sitting as far from Zach as the picnic tables allow and mostly talking to the other Spanish-speaking players. He brought store-bought dip.
It’s enough of a rift that Gordon pulled him aside at one point, asking if Zach was doing all right, something he couldn’t blow off the way he did Todd, even if the answer wasno. “I’m working on it,” he said, and left it at that.
Morgan seems to sense similar discontent, though he’s also making less of an effort to hide it. “Hey, look, if you ever need to tell me something, you know you can, right?”
“You work for the team.” He says it sharply enough that she leans away from him.
“Fuck the team. Honestly, Zach. When you called this morning, you sounded pretty bad. And I’ve been in some places where I needed people to tell me ‘Hey, buddy, we love you and we’re here to help you.’”
“I’m fine.” Even though his throat is tight, the carbonation from his beer painful on his tongue.
“Hey, buddy...” She trails off but holds his gaze.
“I’m just having a bad day. I’m allowed. I just need a couple of drinks and to get the hell out of Arizona.”
