Page 5 of Diamond Ring
Fischer turns to him, forehead scrunching slightly, eyes green in the fading evening light. “I meant, they should have known like...who’s on the roster.” It’s clear that he’s trying to avoid sayingwho you were. Like he doesn’t know that the team—hell, the whole baseball world—is liable to treat them differently.
Alex revises his assessment of Fischer—Jake—to the kid who probably did everyone else’s work on the group project. Infinitely worse than just disliking him. Enough to make Alex a little dizzy.
The game winds down. The rest of the team retreats to the clubhouse to confront the media about their win. Alex turns to leave, but Jake’s still standing there, still gripping the dugout railing with his big pitcher hands. He nods up to the emptying stadium. “This how you imagined it?”
Alex considers the adrenaline blur of the last twenty-four hours now tipping into tiredness. How he can’t wait to get up tomorrow and do it all again. “Nah, it’s better.”
Jake’s smile isn’t like any of the others he’s aimed at Alex, softer at the edges. “I hope it all stays just like this.” So for a moment they stand, shoulder to shoulder, watching the grounds crew reset the field under the ballpark’s unwavering lights.
Chapter Two
June
Alex
Oakland, having been assured that Jake won’t melt down against big-league hitting, schedules his first start. A game Alex fully expects to sit out—the team, sensing Jake’shigh-maintenance-ness, will probably put him with their more experienced catcher.
Especially when Courtland’s bellow ofAngelides, get in heregreets him when he comes into the clubhouse two days before Jake’s start. Alex lists the possibilities as he walks into Courtland’s office and sits on the teetering chair in front of his desk: That they’re sending him back down. That the player Alex is replacing has made a miraculous recovery from his season-ending hamstring injury.
Alex tells himself he’s not angry, then grinds his teeth.
Courtland hands him a packet of papers. It takes a second to realize that they’re scouting reports, detailing the opposing team’s hitters. “Thought we might try you and Fischer together,” Courtland says.
And the anger sitting under Alex’s skin withdraws, leaving nerves in its wake.
Courtland is looking at him like he expects Alex to say something. He scrambles for what he should say, for whatJakewould likely say in these circumstances. “Thank you, sir.” He doesn’t quite manage Jake’s sincerity, but it doesn’t really matter when Courtland flicks his hand in dismissal.
Alex’s previous plans for that morning—mostly hanging around hoping the team gives him something to do—are replaced by frantic studying. He’s done pregame prep, of course, but without access to the full knowledge of a major-league ball club. There are, conservatively, a lot of numbers.A lot. Stats abbreviations he doesn’t know the meanings of. Charts showing...something.
Jake comes over as Alex is trying to make sense of a particular heat map, turning the paper sideways like that will reveal its meaning.
“I heard they were starting you with me.” Jake nods to the scouting reports. “Those look like homework.” Said with apparent excitement.
“You probably liked homework.”
Jake laughs, loud, extends a hand that Alex looks at for a second, before taking, levering himself up. “Figured we could go through a game plan,” Jake says. “Feels like I’ve been doing nothing but prep the past few days.”
Because of course he has. Alex doesn’t mind opinionated pitchers the way some catchers do. Except opinionated can turn to obstinate pretty quickly, especially since the team clearly has more invested in Jake’s success than his own. “What’d you have in mind?” Alex says.
Jake’s mouth twitches. “You might not like it.”
Alex braces himself for more studying, then follows Jake down one of the hallways to a video-review room. Mismatched chairs sit around a table overseen by the large video monitor that hangs on one wall. Two more chairs sit in a corner: the comfortable wheeled kind that they have in the clubhouse. Jake drags them over to about five feet in front of the TV, then goes into a cabinet and digs out—
“Is that an Xbox?” Alex asks.
Jake laughs. “Yeah. I go through the lineup by playing against them. Or at least that’s what I did before the game the other night.” He holds up a video-game case bearing the league’s logo. “I figured we could play and talk approach. I brought snacks.” Which he did—a few bags of chips requisitioned from the team kitchen. He smiles sheepishly.
“That’s kind of genius,” Alex says, meaning it. Jake practically beams.
They end up sitting next to each other, Jake’s long legs sprawled, knee occasionally brushing Alex’s. He’s concentrating, tongue poking out from his teeth in a way Alex didn’t think people actually did, considering each pitch.
Alex taps him on the lean muscle of his thigh. “During the game, you won’t get this long to decide.”
Jake sighs, quietly, like he’s trying not to, then digs in the pocket of his athletic shorts. He pulls out a cherry-flavored ChapStick and smears some on.
Knew it. Alex idly taps the buttons on his controller and doesn’t watch him—not the shine the lip balm leaves in its wake or the slow brush of Jake’s eyelashes on his cheek.
“Everyone always says that—that I take too long at this.” Jake fiddles with the controller, rotating the little plastic joystick. “During spring training there was kind of an incident about it.”
