Page 53 of Diamond Ring
Alex hasn’t said anything. Maybe he’s deciding the right words that boil down toget rid of him. Worse, maybe he’s trying to be diplomatic. “Fastball velo could use some work.” Jake’s own assessment, put more bluntly. “Normal for the beginning of the season.” Like Jake needs him to intervene on his behalf.
Jake doesn’t sigh. He possibly exhales. Audibly.
Courtland makes another noncommittal noise. “Okay.”
They all stand there for a minute, Jake wondering if he’s getting cut or if Courtland will sentence them to more time together with Todd. The only clue he gets is the lift of one of Courtland’s gray eyebrows, which are as unruly as his office. “Sounds like you know what you need to do.”
Jake ekes out a “Yes, sir,” then walks out, looking past Alex, eyes affixed to a spot on the far end of the clubhouse. His fastball velo is down and he should work on it. Oh, of course, why didn’t he think of that?
Most players have already left. Charlie’s still at his stall, alternating between a tablet of scouting reports and smiling while typing something on his phone, light glinting off the watch at his wrist. He’s wearing a T-shirt with hacked-off sleeves, the long stitchery of his elbow scar visible. The same scar Jake has, except Charlie’s elbow healed correctly and Jake’s didn’t. Something Jake shouldn’t be wildly resentful about since he knows it’s just luck and not a moral failing, even if the game treats it that way.
Charlie gives him an encouraging tilt of his chin that from anyone else would be a full-throated attaboy. The motion softens some of Jake’s resentment; he manages a nod in return. All he wants is to go home with a team-provided meal and the last shreds of his dignity. What he gets is Alex, trailing behind him, probably wanting something Jake can’t give.
Jake wheels around, sharply enough that Alex flinches back. “Whatever it is,” Jake says, “it can wait until tomorrow.”
Alex’s eyes widen, the dark fringe of his eyelashes especially pronounced in the yellow overhead light. Then a slight smile, and Jake wants to shout or fling his hands up in exasperation or do any of a number of things that will get them hauled back into Todd’s office.
“You do your throwing two days after your starts,” Alex says. A belated, “Right?” like it’s a question.
Because Jake likes his practice session a day earlier than many pitchers. Something Alex remembered from when they played together the first time, possibly because he found it annoying having to catch two sessions on the same day: Jake’s and another starter’s.
“Yeah,” Jake says.
“Guess we’ll work together then.”
“What?”
A furrow develops between Alex’s eyebrows. “Courtland was pretty clear.”
“Yeah, that I should get my shit together.”
“You think I’m ecstatic about this?”
Jake shrugs. “So don’t do it.”
Alex gives him another look. “You know, you ain’t the only one who’s had a rough couple years. If I can suck it up, so can you.”
All of which awakens the temper that normally lives in Jake’s belly like a dormant thing. He used to like how gently Alex treated him. Less so now that gentleness has turned to pity. “Fine,” Jake bites out.
“If you’re gonna be like that...” As if Alex didn’t try to goad him into a fight out on the mound.
“I said it was fine.”
If Jake didn’t know any better, he’d think it was amusement in Alex’s eyes and not just a trick of the light as he says, “Guess I’ll see you then.”
Jake’s restless when he gets back to his apartment. The place is purposefully messy: dishes in the dish rack, a spill of laundry from the hamper, things he’s worked to let go. Now his thoughts are similarly disorganized. That he had an average start when he wanted a good one. That the work of keeping his roster spot is never done. That it’s one thing to get to the big leagues and another to stay.
When they first started working together, his therapist asked why he thought he rearranged things when he was stressed. “I guess it’s my way of controlling the stuff I can control,” Jake said. Because that made it sound normal as a habit. Practically healthy.
His therapist smiled, and nodded, and asked him when he felt out of control, casually enough that Jake’s honest answer slipped out.All the time.
But especially right this second.
He needs—
(To be ten years younger, with a good elbow, with the career he was supposed to have. A championship ring, a record-breaking contract. To stop feeling a hot wash of shame when his parents and friends ask him when he’s going to settle down. To give up this stupid fucking dream and begin his actual life.)
—a distraction. Especially from the impulse to look up every bad thing fans are saying about him on social media, the chorus of them echoing his own worst thoughts.
