Page 9 of West Bound

“I got you–ready?…two hundred and eighty-one million for five years.”

I literally choke on my own saliva. I coughed, I sputtered and I damn near passed out. Two hundred and eighty-one million. “I only wanted one seventy-five. How did you get me more than one hundred g’s?”

I hear his chair squeak on the other end and I can picture him sitting behind his big desk, scratching his pot belly and patting himself on the back. The guy reminded me a bit of a an ice salesman in Alaska, but fuck was he a bulldog. I never had to worry about whether or not I was getting what I was worth with him. From day one, he’s had my best interest at heart.

“Seems there was a bidding war for you. The Roughnecks were battling with the Wranglers over you. Wranglers got a new owner and he was hellbent on acquiring you. No matter the cost.”

“Holy fuck,” I whisper and hear Mauricio laugh.

“I know you were hoping to land in Louisiana, being your home state and all, but I really think Houston is the better fit for you. They are definitely in the pennant race this year. And I think you can take them there.”

I’m speechless. It’s a kick to the gut, but not the bad kind.

I thought back to when I was just a kid, playing with a worn out glove and cheap bat with my friends in the streets of the Louisiana parish I grew up in. I was the poor biracial kid in a predominantly black neighborhood, and I stood out like a sore thumb. I was too black for the white kids, and too white for the black kids. But the one thing that stuffed all those prejudices down their throats was that I could play ball better than even the high school kids when I was just in elementary.

My dad spent hours with me in our postage stamp backyard with the overgrown grass and the copse of sassafras trees. He found an old punching bag from a boxing gym that was shutting down and painted a target on it.

He showed me how to hold the seams to throw a knuckleball, the perfect grip for a changeup, and how to spin a curveball that would have them swinging and missing every time. I worked everyday from the minute I got home from school until it was too dark to see my hand in front of my face, never thinking I was quite good enough.

When I got a baseball scholarship to LSU, my dad cheered right beside me. When our team won the college baseball world series, we celebrated for weeks. And when I was drafted to the New York City Bombers, my dad cried harder than anyone in the room. I only wish he could’ve seen me throw my first pitch in the majors.

A hard lump forms in my throat thinking back to all that my dad missed. I clear it away and take some solace knowing that he can see me and maybe had a hand in making my dreams come true.

“Thank you, Maury. Houston was actually my second choice and honestly, I couldn’t be happier. I’ve got a buddy that lives down there, so it’ll be good to be closer to him.”

“Oh yeah,” he drawls. “Bishop Michaels. He’s the head coach at Rice, isn’t he?”

I nod. “Yup. Doing pretty well, too. I mean, they aren’t the twenty-twelve LSU team, but they’re not too far behind.”

I think back to those college days with Bish. He was my closest friend, back then. We did pretty much everything together. Lived together, practiced, partied, drafted together. We saw each other through injuries and became as close as brothers.

We’ve drifted over the past few years–completely on my shoulders–and now I can’t wait to rebuild that brotherhood we had. Party some, but of course not too much. We’re older and our bones creak and pop more than they should. We’ll probably do more sitting on the patio, drinking beers and reminiscing over college days.

Thinking of our party days reminds me of those crazy spring breaks we spent with his friends, which makes me think of her.

Vivian.

Now that memory is a kick in the balls. Fuck, I was such an asshole to her. Some days I wish I could hop in a time machine and kick my own ass for being such a douche. I liked her. I mean, I really liked her, and I fucked it all up playing some goddamn game with the assholes on my team, just to show them I was better.

Thinking of that awful night has me wondering if she’s still in Houston. I stalked her socials for a few years, but I stopped when I got caught up with all those thirsty cleat chasers. Who wouldn’t? I was a twenty-three year old baseball stud and women were throwing pussy at me like they were beads on Fat Tuesday. I grabbed each and every one that was thrown my way.

But now that more than a few years have passed, the women just don’t have the same appeal as they used to. It’s the same damn thing in every city we stop in. The year away rehabbing after my surgery really helped me see that I needed to cut out all the sleeping around bullshit. My life had consisted of two things; baseball and pussy. And only one of those vices still held their appeal.

And recently, there was only one woman who still drifted in and out of my dreams.

“So you said the Wranglers have a new owner? Who is it, and why haven’t I heard anything about it?”

The sound of crumpling was followed by Mauricio mumbling through a mouthful of his lunch. “Luca Amato. He’s an Italian billionaire, apparently. Shipping, imports, exports. He’s based out of New York and is a huge fan of yours. It’s why he put up so much money to get you. And you haven’t heard anything because it’s been kept hush hush. The purchase went through last week and an announcement will come in the next day. In fact…”

He grew silent, aside from some more loud mouthed chewing. My phone buzzed and I pulled it away from my face to see an event added to my calendar.

“Did you get it?” he asked, sounding far away since I was still staring at my screen.

“Yeah,” I replied. “What is it? I didn’t open it.”

“Mr. Amato wants to do a joint press conference tomorrow. The team just finished their three game series in Seattle and have a home game on Tuesday, your debut.”

I put him on speaker and opened up my calendar and began reading the details.

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