Page 1 of Diamond Ring
Part I:
Ten Years Ago
Chapter One
May
Alex
Alex spends his first few hours in the big leagues with his shoulders up around his ears.
He drives in from Salt Lake City, a ten-hour slog that leaves him checking into a hotel at dawn. It’s not like he could sleep. His stomach aches from black coffee, a couple stay-awake cigarettes, adrenaline.
He’s not expecting much fanfare when he gets to the ballpark. Security asks his name, then asks his name again, then says, “Oh, yeah, we got an Angelides,” mispronouncing it asangeland notangle. They wave him in, not telling him anything other than the vague direction of the Elephants clubhouse.
When he gets there, the door demands a lock code. One he doesn’t have. He waits. Maybe security is letting someone know he’s here. No one comes. The hallway he’s waiting in is a little dank. He’s heard stories about the Elephants Coliseum that are apparently true—its peeling paint, its smell like the alley behind a bar. Kind of punk rock.
He scrolls through his phone, looking for any numbers that might be useful, finding none. His minor-league manager delivered the news about his call-up in person. No one from the Elephants has made contact since then.Maybe it’s a prank.
His Aunt Sofia is flying out, along with his cousin Evie, to see him. It’s possible that there’s been a mix-up. That the Elephants somehow meant to call up another catcher named Alex Angelides who plays for their triple-A team.
A few more minutes pass. Anger starts to build. Annoyance that they’re leaving him out here. At himself for assuming that the team would take care of things. That he expected anything beyond anattaboyand abetter get drivingfrom his manager.
A cluster of people—personnel wearing team-branded lanyards—interrupts his stewing. With them is a guy built like a pitcher—lanky, broad-shouldered, with wavy red-brown hair barely concealed under a hat. His expression is also spilling out, a mix of nerves and incandescent joy. Right. Must be Jake Fischer. Because that’s all sports radio talked about on Alex’s long drive west.
A team employee, juggling two phones and an air of his own importance, gives Alex the eye. “Can I help you?” His nostril curls slightly.
Before Alex can spit that he’salsogotten called up, someone in the entourage swipes their badge and unlocks the door, sending the whole mess of them spilling into the clubhouse in an excited chatter.
The door almost swings shut, locking Alex out again; he sticks out his foot, grimacing as the door lands heavily on his sneaker, then follows the group. Phone Guy is busy pointing out various clubhouse features—weight rooms and massage rooms and meal prep areas where catering provides two spreads a day—to Fischer, who’s nodding like there’s going to be a quiz or possibly a Mr. Congeniality award.
At the center of the clubhouse sits the changing area: a ring of wooden-backed stalls each with a player’s name on a placard.Fischerone reads. A blank next to it, stall empty except for a few unlettered jerseys. That must be where they’re parking Alex.
Alex isn’t jealous. Being jealous would be dangerously close to giving a fuck about Fischer, which Alex firmly does not. Except his being here probably means Alex won’t get to play tonight. They wouldn’t pair an inexperienced catcher withtheJake Fischer, newly arrived from their double-A team, where they stash all the high-value prospects, and Oakland’s bright hope for its pitching future. So Alex’s aunt and cousin flew out to watch him ride the pine. Great.
Alex drops his stuff at the placardless stall, a printout on the shelf confirming that he’s in the right place. He begins unloading things. If he tosses his socks onto a shelf with a little too much force, no one’s paying attention to him anyway.
Every eye in the room remains focused on Fischer. They haven’t met before. Alex signed with the Elephants right at the end of spring training after being released from the Blues minor-league system, and guys like Fischer don’t really deign to greet new arrivals to camp, especially not third-string catchers. In person, Fischer is tall—at least a head taller than Alex, whose scouting report reads a slightly exaggerated 5'9"—and hunched like he’s trying to hide it, with a toothpaste-commercial grin and eyes that are either gray or green and seem to change color every time Alex looks at him. He’s handsome for a straight guy and about as threatening as a glass of skim milk.
Alex hates him, not even for anything he’s saying—which is all “yes, ma’am” this and “no, sir” that—but for how everyone is so busy fawning over him they might as well shove Alex into a corner.
They practically do. In addition to the team personnel, a camera crew is erecting lights like this is a movie set, if movie sets smelled like the inside of a cleat. A camera operator shoos Alex, telling him he’s obstructing their shot. He’s about to go figure out what to do for the next several hours when another team employee stops him. “Wait, you’re Angelides, right?”
She’s short, about his height but in towering platform heels. Her name badge reads Stephanie Guzman; her hair is streaked an electric shade of blue.Finally, someone normal. Particularly amid professional ballplayers, who mostly have the personalities of office-appropriate khakis.
Fischer might be the khaki-est of them all because he taps Stephanie’s shoulder and asks if the chair at his stall is for him. As if it could possibly be for anyone else.
Alex is about to hightail it to the weight room when Stephanie grabs his shirtsleeve in a surprisingly firm grip. “You just got called up today too, right?”
Alex doesn’t trust himself to say anything that’s not mostly swearing, so he nods.
“Great.” Her smile goes from bright to sharklike. “Two rookies. We’ll do this together.”
They bring over another chair. When Fischer sees what they’re doing, he moves the existing chair to accommodate them both. The kind of thing that’d make Sofia call hima nice young man, though coming from her, it wouldn’t be a compliment.
Before Alex can sit, Stephanie gives him another once-over. “You don’t have another shirt, do you?”
And he changed from the one he wore driving in, and showered and shaved at the hotel, even if that only keeps his dark stubble at bay for a few hours. Next to Fischer’s wholesomeness, he probably looks rough.
