Her new dressing room was very small, with a regular wooden locker—exactly like the ones in the clubhouse—a folding chair, and a small wooden stool. There was a shelf above the locker, to use for personal items, she assumed, since there was a small box on the left that could be locked—although, since she didn’t know the combination, that was kind of moot. The shelf had a neatly arranged supply of new travel-sized toiletries, including a bar of soap, some shampoo, two plastic razors, and a small can of shaving cream.
There were also two cubbyholes at the bottom of the locker, for things like cleats and street shoes. And, very sweetly, there were several bouquets of flowers on the floor in the corner, two of which turned out to be from her grandparents, plus one from her mother, and some from a couple of family friends.
The door didn’t lock—which might not bode well for potential pranks, but at least, it closed tightly. So, she changed into compression gear, and then put on the home uniform, which had Retrievers blazed across the front in royal blue. It didn’t fit quite right, and she was probably going to need to swap the pants out for the next smaller size. The tailor was going to come in handy, since she was pretty sure that the jersey made her look like a beefy rectangle, but the dressing room didn’t have a mirror, so she couldn’t tell for sure.
She put up her hair in the usual chignon, making sure that her new cap—with the smiling cartoon dog—would fit comfortably above it. Then, she hung up the road and BP uniforms, and unpacked enough of her baseball stuff so that she could put on her cleats and have a glove ready for warm-ups.
When she was done, she wasn’t sure if she should venture bravely out, wait for someone to come and get her—or just sit there quietly in the folding chair, take a few calming breaths, and mull over the degree to which her stomach was upset again. For lack of a better idea, sitting in the chair seemed like the least stressful choice.
Then, it occurred to her that it had been an eternity since she had checked her phone. Maybe the most soothing thing to do would be to text people like Lauren and Greg, see what was going on at home, and what she was missing.
She was retrieving the phone from her bag when there was a knock on the door, so she went over to answer it and saw a guy standing there in full uniform. A teammate, she assumed, as opposed to a very young coach. She had no intention of noticing whether any of the other players were attractive—but, this guy was, in an understated sort of way. African-American, hair closely cropped, but not shaved, carried himself well.
“Hi, I’m Marcus Grimes,” he said, with a soft Southern accent, although there was a distinct note in his voice that commanded attention.
“Hi, Marcus,” she said. “I’m Jill Cafferty.”
They shook hands, quite formally.
“So,” he said. “Welcome.”
She nodded, trying not to look as anxious as she was feeling. “Thanks. I’m guessing”—based upon his build, which was similar to a defensive lineman—“that you’re a catcher or first baseman?”
He smiled slightly. “Catcher.”
Ergo, they would be spending a lot of time together this season.
“I was wondering,” he said. “Did they do it of their own volition, or did you request a private room like this?”
She didn’t want to say that the grown-ups had decided—since she was supposed to be one. “I think the front office presented the idea,” she said. Possibly, her aunt had worked on it during negotiations, too. “Although I’m sure my mother would have strongly advocated for it, if they hadn’t.”
“But, you’ve spent time in male locker rooms,” he said.
Most notably, yesterday. “Not much,” she said. “Usually just for team meetings, and things like that.”
He leaned against the doorjamb and folded his arms. Not quite as tall as she was, but way more muscular, with wide shoulders. “Are you squeamish?” he asked.
Strange question. “I don’t know,” she said. She wasn’t big on cinematic gore, but that probably wasn’t what he meant. “I guess it depends.”
He nodded gravely. “Will being around male genitalia be something that would unnerve you?”
Did everyone think she was gay? She frowned at him. “Is that a trick question?”
“Clubhouses are rowdy,” he said. “And often crass. Will that be a problem?”
Points to him, for being up-front. “I could probably do without the homoerotic hijinks,” she said, “but, no, as long as I don’t have to take group showers, I don’t really care. I mean, female reporters have been in locker rooms for decades.”
“Many of whom have been harassed, and hazed,” he said.
He had extremely bookish diction, for a jock. “Where’d you go to school?” she asked.
“Vanderbilt,” he said, somewhat impatiently. “But, right now, I’m trying to figure out your position on this.”
“Well, I assume most people are here to play baseball,” she said. “And that there’s a difference between harassment and practical jokes.”
He nodded. “Okay. Although there are plenty of guys who can’t necessarily tell the difference.”
Good point. “If they’re just burning off energy, that’s one thing,” she said. “If they’re intentionally trying to make my life difficult, that would be another. I kind of figure that most of them probably usually know which one they’re doing.”
He nodded again.
“Are you saying I should have a regular clubhouse locker?” she asked.
“It makes sense for you to shower and change in here,” he said. “But, sitting by yourself constantly doesn’t seem like a good idea. I mean, in the minors, there probably isn’t going to be a lot of team cohesion. Too much competition for too few slots. So, that’s isolating in and of itself. If you’re going to be spending most of your time alone, it’s going to be even tougher than it needs to be.”
All of which made perfect sense. “Yeah,” she said. “Only, what if—”
He pushed away from the doorjamb. “Come on. Let’s go talk to the guys.”
Well, okay, then. She put on her cap—except, it was the away cap, so she swapped it for the home version, and tucked her glove under her arm.
“Bring your fleece,” Marcus said. “It got pretty chilly last night.”
If she knew him better, she would have saluted, and said, “Yes, sir!” or something otherwise obnoxious, but instead, she pulled her fleece out of her locker, and followed him out to the hall.
Marcus glanced at her sideways. “‘Homoerotic hijinks’?”
She grinned at him. “Just registering that one?”
“A little slow on the uptake, maybe,” he said.
Not very often, she was guessing.
Adler was standing a few feet away in the hall, conferring with a coach she hadn’t met yet, and he looked surprised to see them coming out of her dressing room, although he didn’t do anything other than raise an eyebrow.
“Are you okay with it, Skip, if we have a quick players-only meeting before stretch?” Marcus asked.
Adler paused, before answering. “We’ve only lost the one game, son.”
Marcus smiled. “Well, let’s try to keep it from getting worse.”
Adler looked at them, then nodded. “Carry on.”
When they walked into the clubhouse, almost everyone was in the middle of changing into game uniforms and getting ready to head out to the field.
“Chick in the house!” someone yelled, although she wasn’t sure who it was, and a few guys laughed when someone else screamed in mock terror and covered himself with towels.
“All right, listen up,” Marcus said, once they had settled down a little.
“Shhh,” Scott said loudly to the guy sitting next to him. “Mother is speaking.”
Jill looked at Marcus. “They call you Mother? Already?” With the season only a couple of days old?
“I can be a mite bossy,” he said, rather stiffly.
Yes, she had already caught on to that.
“Here’s the law, guys,” Marcus said to the room in general. “I know there’s been some yapping and complaining, but we’re not going to have a member of the team off by herself all season. So, we need to figure out a way for Jill to be able to spend most of her time in here, and to make sure she feels comfortable.”
“Well, it’s not like we can’t take turns visiting her,” a guy with a seedy-looking light brown mustache said.
It got really quiet, although some of the ballplayers were still speaking Spanish among themselves. She felt her face get very hot, but she wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment, or fury, or—more likely—both.
“We’ve already figured out that you’re a dick, Owen,” a tall, lanky guy with dark hair said. “You don’t have to keep proving it.”
“What?” Owen said defensively. “It’s what a lot of you were thinking.”
Oh, she hoped not. “Obviously, at least one of you is going to be an idiot,” she said, just as Marcus started to say something. “But, with luck, most of you aren’t. Either way, I’m here to play, and if anyone acts like a jerk, I’m still here to play.”
“Cafferty, we’ll get the clubbies to set you up with a locker,” the lanky guy said. “Mother’s right—you need to be able to hang out with us, or there’s no way this is going to work.”
“Yeah, go ahead and change clothes in here,” Owen said. “Give us a show every day.”
Really? “Shut up, Owen,” she said, as several other players said versions of the same thing, although “shut the fuck up, Owen” was the most popular choice.
A guy who was clearly bilingual was filling in the rest of the Latino players, although she couldn’t help contributing that one of their teammates was un imbécil—among other things. She managed to rise above using the word pendejo—but, it took some concentrated effort.
There were three loud knocks, and then one of the clubhouse doors was pushed open by a guy in black Under Armour sweatpants and a gold Pirates polo shirt.
“Time for stretch,” he said. “Let’s get out there, guys.”
That broke—although didn’t erase—the tension, and people were grabbing their caps, and gloves, and whatever else they were going to need during the game—including, she saw, more than one tin of chewing tobacco. Which was supposed to be illegal in the minors, but she had assumed that there were still people who did it, since it was a baseball thing. A stupid thing, but pretty popular, even on the AAU team she’d played on.
“Thanks for backing me up,” she said to the lanky guy. More than lanky, she could see, now that she was up close—he was at least six-six.
“No problem,” he said, and put his hand out. “Dimitri.”
“Jill,” she said.
After they shook, she followed him out to the tunnel leading to the dugout, and the field.
She’d always liked the sound of cleats on cement. It was a “Play ball!” sound.
There was enough crowd noise outside, so that it was probably a full house. She was trying not to be conspicuous, but as soon as she left the dugout, there was a surge of energy in the stands, and people were calling her name from a lot of different directions.
She lifted her hand in a wave, but didn’t stray from the team, as they headed out to the right field foul line to stretch. Marcus was off with that night’s starting pitcher, but it probably would have looked dumb if she had clung to him like some insecure little shadow, anyway. So, she found an open spot, and followed along as the guy in the Pirates shirt—a man, actually, in his early thirties, maybe—led them through a series of organized stretches. Shoulder shrugs, arm circles, hamstrings, quads, and so forth.
Of course, being baseball players, more than a few of her teammates didn’t exactly overexert themselves, although there was a noticeable lack of chatter and joking around.
“How those groin stretches feel for you, Cafferty?” someone asked.
She didn’t even have to look up to know who it was. “Shut up, Owen,” she said, which was echoed by Dimitri and Scott and at least two other players.
Owen just kind of leered at her. “You wearing your—”
“Don’t say it,” she said, before he could get the word “cup” out. Christ, guys were obsessed with their damn athletic supporters.
“Let’s see some focus,” the man leading the stretches said, sounding grim.
This did not lighten the atmosphere.
When it was time to break off into pairs to play catch, she had a “What if no one picks me?” moment of panic, the likes of which she hadn’t felt—well, ever—in her entire life, when it came to sports.
“Who’s Schwartzman?” she asked, hoping that it wasn’t Owen.
No one said anything right away, but since they were all looking at the same guy, he sighed and lifted his hand briefly.
“Me,” he said. “Why?”
“Thank you for the number,” she said. “I think I owe you a steak dinner or something.”
“Get him a car,” someone said.
Okay, all high draft picks probably got grief about their bonuses. She saw Owen start to open his mouth, and pointed at him. “Shut up, Owen,” she said, before he could even let out one syllable—and several of the guys laughed.
There was a big canvas Pirates bag full of baseballs, and people were helping themselves, to use for the pre-game throwing routine.
“Are you really okay with it?” she asked Schwartzman.
He shrugged. “It’s just a number.”
Yeah, but baseball players were superstitious, so she definitely appreciated it. “Want to warm up with me?” she asked, before he could slip away.
He hesitated, but his better angels must have won out, because he nodded. “Sure.”
Guys were already throwing back and forth, but baseball teams were usually loose, and this group wasn’t—at all. So, for the hell of it, when Schwartzman tossed her the ball, she sent it back underhand, in a reasonable facsimile of a fast-pitch softball pitcher.
He stared at her with such horror that the ball—which was already wild, because her release point was way off—zipped right past him.
The rest of the team had also stopped playing catch, and most of them looked equally dismayed.
“Just fulfilled all of your worst expectations, didn’t I,” she said.
Pretty much everyone nodded vigorously.
“Did I even do it right?” she asked, since softball pitching mechanics were complex, with a lot of moving parts, and she had never really tried to do it before.
“No,” a guy with a crewcut said. “My sister’s a DI pitcher, and—well, that was terrible.”
At least half of the guys were now throwing to each other underhand, and the mood was suddenly much lighter.
“Knock it off, bozos!” Louis, the male trainer, said grumpily. “We have a game, remember?”
So, they went back to normal throwing, but people were joking around now, and she felt less like an unwelcome interloper.
“You know this is just for position players, right?” Dimitri said.
Oh. Hunh. News to her. She’d assumed that all pre-game warm-ups were mandatory. “I do,” she said. “But, I wanted you all to see that I’m open-minded, and willing to mix with you, sometimes.”
Which amused at least some of them.
She and Schwartzman threw easily back and forth, as he moved deeper into the outfield every few tosses, and then gradually in again.
“What position?” she asked.
“Corner outfield, mostly,” he said. “I think they might give me some time at third, too.”
Which made sense, because he certainly had a strong arm.
Once the warm-ups were finished, people headed back to the dugout, except for the starting players, who began to do some jogging or sprints, or get stretched out by the strength coach and the trainers.
“You can run, too,” Dimitri said, from the ground, wincing slightly as Sofia worked on his hamstrings and lower back. “For solidarity.”
“I’m very fast,” Jill said. “I don’t want to show anyone up.”
He nodded, even though he was wincing more visibly. “That’s a good story. Stick to it.”
Yep. Because she totally and completely knew what she was doing.
And she had intended to stand here, by herself, for no reason, with nothing to do. She was not at all embarrassed, or self-conscious.
Nope. Not even a little bit.