Page 9 of Unwritten Rules
“No, we’re good for a minute.” Out on the field, guys are hugging, laughing, their kids running excitedly through the outfield in a game of tag. It looks like it could be a family reunion, except for the fact that it’s on a baseball diamond and not in a city park.
Next to him, Johnson takes a few deep, shaky breaths. “I went to church yesterday. Thought it would help. But the service was in Spanish. And when I got there, everyone was so nice, I couldn’t leave, even if I didn’t know what was going on.”
Zach laughs, mostly because his parents’ synagogue’s service is almost entirely in Hebrew. “Sorry, kid.”
“You ever go into something hoping to have someone to talk to and you can’t?”
“Sure, who hasn’t?”
“My folks need me to send money. And I had to explain to them that I can’t. That I have a job that’s gonna eat up all my time, but I can’t send anything.”
“Shit,” Zach says. “That’s pretty fucking heavy for ten in the morning.”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Look, talk to Morgan. She’s the strength and conditioning coach. A couple years ago she hooked me up with a gig at a driving range nearby. The hours were shitty, and the pay was bad, but it was something.”
Johnson leans forward, picking up the Bible from where it’s sitting. “You know, I prayed on it and God delivered.”
“You don’t have the job yet.”
“I will.” And he sounds certain, like it’s all guaranteed to work out. “God is good.” He says this last thing like he’s expecting a response out of Zach, and Zach points to his ear like he didn’t hear it because he doesn’t need Johnson asking about his religious beliefs on top of everything else.
“Thanks.” Johnson says it much louder and slower than he was speaking to Zach previously.
And Zach just says, “No problem, kid,” before fleeing the bullpen in search of somewhere quieter.
The first few days of whole-team spring training are a blur. Zach wakes up, gets coffee at the same place near the ballpark, eats breakfast that Eugenio brings, and then splits his time between bullpen sessions, fielding drills, planning meetings, and trying to remember that he can, in fact, hit big-league pitching. He’s tired by the end of most days, and he swims at the pool in his rental complex, naps, eats with whichever guys are around, calls his family a few times, and falls asleep like a stone dropped into water, sudden and deep and largely dreamless.
It’s quiet in the mornings out in the bullpen, even with players jostling for who can get to the ballpark first and show the coaches how serious they are about training, a strange game of chicken where they get there earlier and earlier.
“Look at them.” Eugenio points toward where their teammates are out on the field, a few jogging. “What complete eyewash.”
“You’re just mad because someone took your parking spot this morning.”
“Maybe.” Eugenio’s cheeks go a little pink.
Zach watches him, then looks away briefly, in case his expression mirrors his.
Eugenio is doing warmups, oblivious to Zach’s reaction. He’s going through his stretches kind of lazily, like he’s trying not to nod off during them, even though Zach brought him two double-shots of espresso, each so sweet that they made his teeth hurt in sympathy, and Eugenio downed them both.
“You look like you could use some sleep,” Zach says.
“My place is not conducive to sleep. It’s too quiet without other people there.” He yawns. “Wish I’d gotten a place with a pool.”
“There’s a pool where I’m staying.” And Zach definitely doesn’t imagine Eugenio cutting through the lanes in it or pulling himself up on the side, water in rivulets down his back.
“Yeah?”
“It’s not, like, Olympic size, but it’s fine for laps.”
“Maybe I can come check it out some time. You know, in exchange for dinner or something?”
“Uh, sure.” And Zach’s heart rate, which was calm as he went through his morning routine, accelerates.
“We should probably game-plan,” Eugenio says. Like they haven’t been planning with D’Spara and the pitchers and the analytics guys.
“It’s spring training. It doesn’t really matter.”
