The Sweetest Game(32)

I asked Jack over dinner one night what he was doing to torture his teammates and he couldn’t stop laughing. He said, “I kept moving the new kid’s gear in front of Newman’s locker.” I remembered that Newman was a veteran ball player, and if there was one thing that any first-year player had to do, it was respect the veterans. They weren’t supposed to talk to them, let alone go anywhere near their stuff.

Jack leaned back and chuckled. “Newman was pissed and the poor kid had no idea how his shit kept getting there, but he couldn’t say anything. Because, you know, he can’t talk to a veteran player, and he certainly can’t defend himself. Newman would take out all the crap in his bag, throw it across the locker room, and threaten the kid. I just kept doing it the whole weekend. Poor kid was about to lose his mind until someone told him, ‘Welcome to the big leagues.’”

“Did they tell him it was you?” I smiled, happy to hear Jack laughing.

“Fuck no! No one tells him who is fucking with him. It’s a rule. You play pranks, but you don’t rat anyone out.”

“Glad you’re having fun with your teammates, babe.” I smiled, reaching my hand across the table and touching the stubble on his cheek. I loved his scruff.

I will admit that having Jack home for dinner was really sort of nice. He’d never been around this much, and while his mind was definitely preoccupied with his injury, his physical presence was a welcome change. It made me realize how little he truly was home. And how rare it was for us to sit and have dinner together every night. That almost never happened.

Even during the off-season, Jack was always focused on what was to come. His mental state was all about working out, staying fit, eating right, and doing whatever had to be done to stay relevant and needed for the upcoming season. I honestly didn’t mind the amount of his time that baseball took, but some moments, like the ones right now, it was nice to have him around.

Staring over at my sexy man, I stifled the urge to crawl across the table and eat him for dinner. I knew he wouldn’t mind, but didn’t want to stop the current conversation that flowed between us. Watching Jack smile and laugh had been the highlight of my day.

“So, tell me about the rookie they brought up to pitch for you,” I said and his eyebrows lifted.

“Did I tell you he won’t be staying?” He smirked and a dimple appeared. I wanted to get lost in that dimple.

I reached for my wineglass and took a sip. “Where’s he going?”

“He’s temporary,” he said with a smirk.

“Who told you that?”

“He told me. Just walked up to me one night during a game and said, ‘They told me not to get too comfortable here, you know.’ Which, of course, I didn’t know.” Jack fumbled with his fork. “Fuck. I’ll never get used to trying to eat with my right hand.”

I laughed. “So, what did you say to him after that? Anything?”

“Fuck no, I didn’t say anything. I just looked at him. I don’t owe that kid anything. He’d take my position in a heartbeat if they let him. And I know that.”

“So, he’ll get sent back down to Triple-A when you’re off the disabled list?” I asked before filling my mouth with a large helping of Caesar salad.

“I assume so. He’s good, though. And I hate how much I hate that he’s good. Makes me feel like a dick.”

“You’re not a dick. You worked your ass off to earn that position and you don’t want it taken away from you.” I understood that feeling. I knew how much baseball meant to Jack and how much he’d been through personally and professionally to achieve his goals. No one wanted to have one stupid incident be the catalyst for your entire career changing. Or for its loss.

“Exactly. But I want the team to win. And he helps them win. But then I’m pissed that he helped them win because sometimes I don’t want him to be that good.” He dragged his good hand through his hair, his mood suddenly shifting.

“It makes sense,” I said encouragingly, trying to reassure him as his eyes lifted to meet mine. It was the team’s job to win games at all costs. Jack was terrified he’d lose his position to a younger kid who threw faster than him. Every player’s fear when they were injured was that they’d be replaced. Baseball made it known that there was a long line of younger guys waiting to take your spot the moment you screwed up. That was a lot of pressure.

My voice rose in pitch as my thoughts spilled from my mouth, my adrenaline kicking in. “You love your team. You don’t ever want them to lose. But you don’t want this kid to be better than you are because you want to be missed. You want to be needed. You want the goddamn Mets to be affected by your absence!”