Page 52 of Unwritten Rules
But when he tells her so, she just shrugs. “Sure. Thanks for doing this.”
“You gonna let me know what this was about?”
“No. Not yet anyway.”
Chapter Fifteen
It’s early June when Courtland, Oakland’s manager, calls Zach into his office.
“Sit wherever you like,” he says, as Zach navigates between two chairs stacked with papers before standing in front of the desk, which is also piled high with papers. “The pencil necks don’t think us old guys know how to open email attachments.”
There’s an ancient coffeepot on a table behind his desk, along with the largest container of Maxwell House Zach has ever seen. The pot has rings of coffee in it, the fossilized remains of late nights and early mornings. Courtland offers him a mug from one of the ones scattered around the room, some that look more or less clean, some with remnants of days-old coffee in them.
“I’m good, but thank you, sir.” The clutter forces Zach to stand almost at attention, arms tight by his sides, and Courtland probably keeps the place that way to shorten conversations he doesn’t care to have. Possibly like this one.
“Morales has the next two against Cleveland. Just wanted to let you know.”
“He’s, uh, starting two this series.”
Courtland shoots him a look that makes Zach want to crawl into the nearest pile of papers. “I’m aware of that, son. We’re considering how to better balance your workloads. Keep your legs fresh and all.”
He gives a wave of dismissal.
And Zach wants to argue—to say he’s been deep in game-planning with D’Spara, that he’s hitting almost as well as Eugenio. Wants to argue, and can’t without making the situation worse, so eases his way back into the hallway, careful not to disturb the piles of paper around him.
He doesn’t ask Eugenio about it until after their game. They’re driving back to Zach’s condo, late enough that there isn’t much traffic.
Zach rolls down the back window an inch to bring some cool air into his truck. “They say anything to you about why you’re starting the first two against the Spiders?”
Eugenio is leaning on the window half asleep. The game went into extras, and he caught all of them. “No. Why?”
“Just thought it was weird.”
Eugenio grunts, adjusting how he’s sitting, closing his eyes.
When they get back to Zach’s condo, Zach has to wake him up, shepherding him out of the garage to the elevator and then into bed. Eugenio’s awake enough to kick his shoes off by the door, but asleep enough that he’s going to pass out in his clothes.
Zach takes his glasses off, his keys from his pocket and his phone, which he connects to the charger Eugenio leaves there.
Eugenio mumbles that he’s cold and that Zach should come to bed to warm him up.
“Be there in a second, baby.” And Zach kisses him before going to brush his teeth.
“I can talk to D’Spara if you want,” Zach says the next morning. They’re drinking coffee out on Zach’s rooftop patio, the kind of whole-bean stuff that he didn’t buy before, Eugenio arriving one day with a burr grinder and a lot of opinions about buying pre-ground coffee. “Tell ’em I’m good to start today or tomorrow, if you need a game off or something.”
“I’m fine.” Though Eugenio slept through his phone alarm and practically fell out of bed when Zach’s alarm went off, complaining it sounded like a tornado siren.
“You sure?”
“They won’t take it well if I start saying I’m being overworked.” Eugenio yawns, draining the rest of his coffee mug.
And Zach doesn’t say he’s going to be out of rhythm if he’s underworked, left to rust on the bench every two games out of three, mostly because there isn’t anything either of them can do to fix that.
It’s a bright Oakland morning, the kind where they can see the fog shrouding San Francisco across the Bay. Eugenio’s wearing a pair of sweatpants he stashed in Zach’s dresser and one of Zach’s team-issued T-shirts, too tight across the shoulders and too long on him, Zach’s last name stretched between his shoulder blades.
Zach’s neighbors have been coming up for the past few days, doing sun salutations while he and Eugenio try to keep their eyes open. Two arrive now, waving hello, unfurling yoga mats and beginning their stretches.
“Could you turn or face the other way?” Zach says, lowering his voice.
