Page 2 of Diamond Ring
Fischer, for his part, hasn’t sat down yet. He lopes up to Alex, extends a paw of a hand, and shakes Alex’s like they’re at a business meeting. “Which chair do you want?” Fischer asks.
Sofia believes in numerology, to the point where she won’t even park in a space with an inauspicious number. Alex resists the urge to examine the chair’s serial numbers and picks the one on the left, Fischer smiling like he’s done more than sit his ass down.
Fischer drops into the other chair then immediately starts drumming his hands on his legs. “This is exciting.” He seems sincere. It makes Alex wonder if he ever got stuffed in a locker, though, given his size, his status as an ace-in-the-making, probably not. People probably find his enthusiasm endearing. Then again people find golden retrievers endearing. Sofia has a yard full of diffident cats and Alex, taken in as yet another stray.
“Did they tell you what they were going to ask us?” Fischer asks.
Alex amends his previous assessment of him to the kid who probably wiped tables down for the teacher and got extra helpings in the cafeteria. If he even ate cafeteria food. Wherever he’s from likely has better food than what Alex remembers of the free-and-reduced-price lunch at Providence public schools.
Fischer is still looking at him like he expects Alex to respond. “Uh, no,” Alex manages.
Something about that makes Fischer laugh, loud enough that Stephanie looks up from her phone. “You both ready?” she asks.
Fischer gives an enthusiastic nod. Alex doesn’t growl. Well, he might, but he also spent yesterday’s game with his knees in the dirt before driving ten hours to be here, so he’s earned it.
An interviewer comes in, a red-haired woman who introduces herself as Kimberly Montgomery. She shakes both their hands.
“Jake Fischer,” Fischer says. Unnecessarily. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”
She turns to Alex, a slightWho the hell are you?expression knitting her eyebrows.
“Alex Angelides. I also got called up today.”
She shoots a look over at Stephanie like there’s been some mistake. Alex should just get up, let them interviewJakeabout his eventual superstardom. At least he can take his anger out on the weight room.
He’s about leave when Fischer says, “Good thing Alex is a catcher.”Alex. Like they’re friends. He must sense Alex’s confusion. “Just, you know, one of us should have a slow heartbeat. I’ve been trying not to throw up from excitement all day.” The kind of self-deprecation other people must find charming.
And Alex can’t leave, especially when Fischer’s declaration segues into a question about how they’re both feeling having gottenthecall.
“I’m sorry it happened this way,” Fischer says, gravely. “The game’s better with Braxton playing in it.” Charlie Braxton, the Elephants ace pitcher, now out for the season with an elbow injury that’ll require surgery and extensive rehab, leaving a Fischer-sized gap on the roster.
“But you must be pretty excited,” Kimberly prompts.
Fischer’s grin returns. “Best day of my baseball life. So far, anyway.” It’s possible he winks.
Now Alex wants to throw up too. At least that takes his mind off being nervous. He tries to summarize how the last day has felt: that he busted his ass to be here. That he drove all night, literally, and would again. That he’s trying not to think about playing in front of thirty thousand people, because if he does, that slow heartbeat of his will start beating a lot faster.
“It’s exciting,” Alex grits out. Whatever. They’ll probably edit around him.
“Why don’t you tell the folks in the Bay Area a little more about yourselves. Let them get to know you.” Kimberly smiles. “Jake, get us started.”
“Don’t know that there’s much to tell. I grew up in Maryland right outside DC...” He continues with the story of his life that everyone in baseball knows. Two parents, a suburban house. Drafted out of high school as a high-ceiling, high-valueprospect who signed for a check with a lot of zeros on it.
“I’m really grateful to my mom and dad for supporting me through everything,” Fischer says. Like there’s anygettingthroughnecessary for that kind of insulated existence. “I just feel really lucky to be sitting here today talking with you.” An endorsement smile to go with it.
Kimberly looks like she’s about to ask Fischer a follow-up question when he nudges Alex with his elbow.
“Yes”—Kimberly gives Fischer an indulgent smile—“Alex, tell us a little about yourself.” With an unstatedBut keep it brief.
Alex focuses on the unblinking eye of the camera and not how Fischer’s looking at him, or how his jersey makes his eyes very green, or the sweep of his light brown eyelashes. Harmless. Infuriating.
Alex’s back is stiff; his heart comes in a dull thud. He wanted them to acknowledge he’s here. Now that he’s got it, he wants to tell everyone to fuck off. Himself, most of all, for thinking that his first day would go anything but disastrously. He tries to condense the facts of his life to something palatable for TV, to summarize his childhood without sayingcar accidentorfoster careoradoption, when Fischer says, “That was some game you called yesterday.”
For a second, Alex thinks he’s talking to someone else. “Didn’t think they televised minor-league games.”
Fischer lifts a shoulder. “Caught the highlights. How’d you decide to be a catcher?”
A decision that wasn’t really a decision. “My Little League coach asked who wanted to try catching. When no one volunteered, he convinced a couple of us to gear up, then tossed pitches and told us to grab them out of the dirt. I guess I complained the least. So here I am.”
