Lunch turned out to be grilled cheese sandwiches, a small salad—which included fresh vegetables from Mrs. Wilkins’s garden—tomato soup, and iced tea. Jill was too edgy to have much appetite, but it all looked good.
Before they ate, Mrs. Wilkins said grace—a long grace—during which Jill bowed her head.
“I gather your family isn’t very religious?” Mrs. Wilkins said.
That was putting it mildly. Jill tried to think of an inoffensive way to respond. “Well, it’s not that we—” She stopped. “I mean, generally, uh—”
Mrs. Wilkins smiled. “There’s no rule that says you have to be a believer, too.”
Sounded like good news for both of them.
After attempting to eat, Jill went downstairs to make sure she had packed everything she would need for a six-day road trip. Right before they left, Mrs. Wilkins sweetly provided her with a little zipped cooler bag, which she said was a care package.
Once she got to the park, she left her main gear bag and knapsack in the clubhouse, because Terence and Nicky were going to be packing the bus for getaway day that night, and she wasn’t entirely sure when they would get started. Then, she went to her dressing room to change into workout clothes, before sitting down with Sawyer and Marcus to discuss her pitching performance, and things she would need to work on. Like, say, a much better pickoff move—although it would help, in the future, if she remembered to check the damn runners. There was also talk of adjusting her position on the rubber, depending upon whether she was pitching to someone left-handed or right-handed, and Sawyer gave her a lecture about working on her focus and concentration—which she knew full well that she deserved. Her next start was going to be in Williamsport on Monday night, so she would have her first real five-day routine to follow.
After stretch and PFP—Pitchers’ Fielding Practice—drills, she met with Bannigan, the strength and conditioning guy, along with Louis and Sofia, and he explained the specific exercise and pre- and post-pitching programs they had designed for her. She mostly just nodded and listened, but occasionally interjected things like the importance, for her, of doing extra work on her legs, hips, back, and core, to offset any biological upper body deficiencies, since she counted on her lower body to help her power through pitches. It seemed as though she was a bigger proponent of long toss than the organization was, but she got a sense that they were willing to compromise. They were also okay with her scheduling time to throw a football on non-bullpen days, since she had being doing that with Greg for years, and was convinced that it helped maintain her arm-slot. Apparently, one of the bullpen guys, someone named Danny, had been a high school quarterback and had also asked permission to do the same thing, so she would have a partner—if he was so inclined.
The discussion didn’t exactly feel free-flowing, but it was going to be a long and unproductive summer if she couldn’t figure out a way to have less guarded conversations with these people.
She might as well go for the jugular, and see if that changed the dynamics. “So,” she said, brightly. “I guess we need to talk about my cycle, and how it’s going to affect my pitching.”
There was a painful silence, and then Sofia let out a short bark of a laugh. Bannigan and Louis did not join in.
Bannigan coughed a few times, and then ran his hand back through what little hair he had. “Are you, um, able to pitch during your, um, menstrual period?”
Yes, he really had just asked that. Although, okay, she had maybe set him up. “I’ll be fine,” she said, making sure to sound brave, “as long as I can lie down between innings.”
The sound Sofia made this time was closer to a guffaw, while Bannigan and Louis exchanged—queasy—glances.
“The good news is that I almost always pitch better than usual, because it makes me really mean,” Jill said. There was even a little truth to that, on a given day, if the ibuprofen didn’t kick in.
The silence lingered extensively this time.
“For God’s sake,” Sofia said. “She’s teasing you.”
“We knew that,” Bannigan said, after looking at Louis. “Yeah, we absolutely—why don’t we go down to the weight room, and we’ll walk through some exercises?”
The general principle was low weight, high repetitions. Maintain what she had, and use the off-season to rebuild. She was a fan of doing shoulder and arm exercises with resistance bands—and it was agreed to add that to her regular workouts, as well. The weight room was—to put it politely—compact, and erred on the side of being bare bones, but there was enough equipment for players to get their work in, as long as they took turns.
A position player whose name she didn’t know asked Bannigan a question about his deadlifts, and Louis was quick to go over and join that conversation.
Jill looked at Sofia. “Do I sense palpable relief on their part?”
Sofia shook her head. “It may take them hours to recover,” she said. “Let’s go to the training room, and I’ll give you your fluff job.”
Jill wasn’t sure what that meant—but, it sounded odd.
Sofia let out a long-suffering breath. “We work out the kinks from your start last night. Then, you’ll do at least twenty minutes on the bike.”
A fluff job turned out to be yet another extensive massage, and Sofia found tiny little sore spots in her arm, shoulder, and back that Jill hadn’t even known were there. It was a whole new world to be coddled like this, and she could already see how easy it would be to get used to being considered so very damn special—and to turn into an insufferable person.
After her session on the stationary bike, she got out to the field just in time for batting practice. It was pretty hot, and it was hard not to be languid about shagging fly balls, many of which her fellow pitchers sort of waved at, or caught on a couple of bounces. But, they were all more alert than they looked, especially when they were collecting stray balls to dump into the bucket behind second base. Which was mostly her responsibility today, since she had pitched the night before.
She stood near Shosuke in right center, and they taught each other the words for cap, fly ball, grass, clouds, and sun. At least, she was pretty sure those were the right words. Either way, they did a lot of pantomiming, and it helped pass the time.
A new hitter stepped into the cage, and hit a line drive in their direction, and the unusually sharp crack got every pitcher’s attention. It was Scott, whose second swing produced an almost identical shot.
“Wow,” Jill said.
Jonesy, who was standing off to her left, nodded. “I’m not sure that kid has any idea how good he is.”
Two more shots came out to right, followed by several seemingly effortless liners to deep center and left.
She glanced at Jonesy. “It’s a different level, isn’t it?”
Jonesy nodded again. “Yeah, you can’t teach that.”
Scott stepped out, and Hector replaced him. Hector was a decent hitter—but, it wasn’t the same. His hits were scattered, and much less authoritative. And she couldn’t help thinking that even though every player on the field was a superb athlete, most of them were never going to get anywhere near the majors, and quite a few weren’t even likely to go anywhere further than this level. It was hard to ignore the fact that, in a very basic way, baseball was inescapably sad.
Jonesy locked eyes with her for a second, and she could tell that he was thinking something very similar.
“Some of them are going to grow into their bodies,” he said. “And some of the ones you won’t expect will suddenly put it together, three, four years from now, and go rocketing up.”
She nodded. And some of them were going to get hurt, and some were going to flame out—and a tiny lucky few were going to prosper, and progress, and end up in the big leagues.
“Day at a time,” Jonesy said.
It was the only way to do it—because any other outlook would just lead to madness.
In the meantime, she could see Scott goofing around and holding Schwartzman in a headlock, and Geoff was in the batter’s box, hitting fly balls, two of which went over the left field wall. Lots of power, less authority.
Once BP had ended, she decided to run a few poles, to work off a little energy—and some remaining stiffness in her legs and hips. Her guys had gone off to the clubhouse, and the visiting team filed out to take their place. A couple of them shouted somewhat friendly, and somewhat barbed, remarks at her, but she just waved and kept running. When she left the field, several of the players said a casual hello, which felt nice, because it was a reminder that—national sportscasters’ opinions aside—she hadn’t embarrassed herself last night, and so, maybe they could react to her as a fellow baseball player.
She was supposed to have a meeting with Jeremiah at five o’clock, but even though he was obviously accustomed to being around athletes, she decided she would really rather put on a fresh T-shirt before going upstairs.
There seemed to be some kind of commotion inside the clubhouse, and she could hear yelling and swearing coming from Adler’s office, too. So, she decided to avoid all of that—whatever it was—and go directly to her dressing room.
But, as she turned down the corridor to get there, she saw that the door was open, and that several people were standing out in the hall. Mr. Brayton, Mrs. Doshi, Terence, and the head of security, whose name she couldn’t remember—all of whom looked grim.
That couldn’t be good.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
The others exchanged looks.
“A small disturbance, that’s all,” Mr. Brayton said. “If you want to go up and wait in my office, I’ll come and talk to you in a little while.”
This was weird. “Am I in trouble?” Jill asked.
“No,” Mrs. Doshi said. “You’re not. We just want to take care of a situation.”
“Please head up to my office,” Mr. Brayton said, “okay?”
She wasn’t about to argue with the GM, but—Terence looked downright ill, and now she wondered if he was the one in trouble.
“Yeah, well, fuck you!” someone yelled, inside Mr. Adler’s office.
Then, Adler’s door smashed open, and although the head of security and Mrs. Doshi immediately moved in front of her, she caught a glimpse of some player storming out—who they apparently didn’t want her to see.
“Go pack up,” Mr. Brayton said to Terence, who nodded and headed for the clubhouse.
So, he was in trouble? She wondered what he had—except then, she saw words scribbled in thick black Magic Marker across the wall in her changing room: “Go home,” followed by a denigrating profanity about women that she never even allowed herself to think, forget say. A word she utterly despised—and had heard far too many times over the years, usually in angry hisses, when she walked by people on the sidelines, or past opposing players.
She leaned against the doorjamb, staring at the jagged scrawl.
“Why would Terence do that?” she asked. She had been under the impression that he liked her.
“It wasn’t Terence,” Mr. Brayton said. “He just happened to walk in, and—well—” He stopped, looking very uncomfortable.
Okay, now it made more sense. Some guy on the team had come in, and Terence must have caught him in the act. “Well, it’s unpleasant,” she said, “but, it isn’t—” She stopped, realizing that she smelled something familiar, something— “Is that urine?”
Mr. Brayton, Mrs. Doshi, and the head of security all nodded.
Stupidly, her legs felt weak, and she reached back with one hand to keep her balance.
“Was it Owen?” she asked. Since he was the most obvious suspect.
“No,” Mrs. Doshi said. “But, are you having a problem with him?”
Not this serious a problem, so she shook her head. “No, I—” She was feeling fuzzy enough to need to shake her head. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t—is all my stuff wrecked?”
“We’re assessing that right now,” Mr. Brayton said. “We’ll have one of the clubbies do an inventory.”
She remembered, now, that because it was getaway day, her gear bag was in the clubhouse, and she had her gamer glove and caps and jerseys in there, so unless the guy had messed around with her main locker, too, all of that was probably safe.
But, it was still hard to take in the fact that one of her teammates had urinated in her dressing room. What kind of person would do that?
Mr. Adler came in to join them, silent, but exuding fury—and no one seemed to know what to say, including her.
“Is he going to go quietly?” Mr. Brayton asked.
“He’d better,” Adler said.
“If not, I have some of my people standing by,” the head of security said.
Jill still couldn’t figure out how she was supposed to be reacting, so she just stared at the furious writing on the wall—and the visible damage to her shower slides, turf shoes, uniform pants, T-shirts, and the care package Mrs. Wilkins had so nicely given her earlier.
“Do you want to press charges?” the head of security asked her. “Because we can—”
Did she? Was it a crime, or just an ugly prank? And did she want the big media fuss that would kick up, if the police came barreling in, and whatever else? So, she shook her head, and then glanced at Adler, whose expression was harder to read than usual.
“Who was it, sir?” she asked.
“Nelson,” he said.
Who in the hell was that? “Bullpen guy?” she asked.
He nodded.
Probably the sullen one who had made nasty cracks every time she screwed up at PFP, trying to cover first base or whatever. “I’ve never even talked to him,” she said.
“He’s already been released,” Mr. Brayton said. “He’ll be off the premises permanently within the hour.”
It was startling that they had taken such swift and decisive action—but, she wasn’t going to argue.
Mr. Brayton cleared his throat. “Jill, I want to apologize to you, on behalf of the entire—”
She raised her hand to cut him off. “Thanks, sir,” she said—probably more abruptly than was wise, but she wasn’t ready to have any kind of conversation about it yet. “I really don’t want to make a big deal out of this. It’s, um, it’s just—well—”
Mrs. Doshi stepped forward. “I think we’re going to open the gates about half an hour early tonight, and do an autographing session up on the concourse,” she said. “Benny, we’d like to have two players up there, so maybe you could pull someone out of the clubhouse, and have him meet Jill and me in my office?”
They all frowned at her. Maybe there was some kind of method to her madness, but Jill had no idea what it might be.
“Benny?” Mrs. Doshi said, sounding very no-nonsense.
Adler looked at Jill briefly, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll send Bronsky up.”
Scott. Yeah, she wouldn’t mind getting a chance to talk to Scott—and the sooner, the better.
“Great, thank you,” Mrs. Doshi said, and took Jill’s arm. “Please have one of the clubbies bring a fresh jersey and pants for Jill, also. Come on, let’s go upstairs.”
Jill went with her, since she couldn’t think of a way to escape.
They walked very quickly past the clubhouse, where there was still a lot of yelling going on, and Jill found herself reaching inside her shirt to take out her father’s dog tag, and hold it tightly in her right hand for a moment.
“We are so sorry about this,” Mrs. Doshi said, once they were out of everyone else’s earshot. “I mean, I assumed there would be a few malcontents, but—well, I just don’t know what’s the matter with some people.”
Jill nodded, trying to separate the unwieldy mix of rage and embarrassment roiling around somewhere inside.
Mrs. Doshi gave her a concerned, motherly look. “Are you all right?”
Yeah, she was nifty. Jill shrugged, and gently tucked the dog tag away, instead of answering. Mrs. Doshi had the sense not to push it any further—which she appreciated.
On their way upstairs, they ran into Jeremiah, who was rushing down, but stopped when he saw them.
“I was just coming to look for you,” he said. “I heard.”
Yeah, rumors—and exaggerations—were probably already flying around like crazy. And the press was going to go to town, and her mother would be really upset. “Can we keep it, you know, in-house?” Jill asked.
Jeremiah frowned. “Do you want to?”
God, yes. The last damn thing she wanted was for the media—and the Internet—to start pontificating and screeching about bullying or something—because that would make her a victim.
A role she had no intention of ever playing.
“It’ll probably get out”—since too many people already knew—“but I’m pretty much going to deny the whole thing,” Jill said, “and I don’t want to answer any questions about it. Ever.”
Jeremiah looked dubious, but he nodded. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks,” Jill said, and kept walking.
Mrs. Doshi had stayed behind to talk to Jeremiah, but Jill just wanted to go somewhere and absorb things, without anyone else looking at her. So, she went into Mrs. Doshi’s office, out of sight of the doorway. It would be good if she had her phone—but, she wasn’t sure who she should—or would—call, and—what if it was covered with urine now, and she would never be able to touch it again? Although both of her phones had been up on the top shelf of the locker, in a little box, so maybe they were okay?
She had forgotten that the team’s bat dog belonged to Mrs. Doshi, and apparently, he spent the day in her office, because he got up from the carpet by the desk and wagged his tail.
A dog was exactly what she needed right now, and Jill sat on the floor to pat him, happy to have him wag his tail even harder and lick her face playfully. He was a young golden retriever, who seemed to be unusually sweet and affable, and during every game, he was sent out during the third or fourth inning to retrieve bats—before, she assumed, going back to his owner’s office to nap.
When Mrs. Doshi came in a few minutes later, Jill started to get up, but Mrs. Doshi motioned for her to keep patting the dog.
“His name is Batty?” Jill asked, since that’s how he had been introduced by the public address announcer the night before.
Mrs. Doshi shook her head. “No, that’s just to be cute for the fans. He’s actually Oscar.”
Which was a much better name.
“You don’t have to do any autographing,” Mrs. Doshi said. “But I thought a quick change of scene was a good idea.”
And, it probably had been. “I don’t mind signing, if you think people would like it,” Jill said. Although she really would rather spend the evening—or maybe the entire season--sitting in here with the dog.
“I think they would love it,” Mrs. Doshi said. “But, if you don’t feel up to—”
“I’m fine,” Jill said. “No problem.”
Mrs. Doshi leaned back against the crowded desk and gave her a long look. A parent look.
“Do you have children?” Jill asked.
Mrs. Doshi nodded. “My son is going to be a sophomore at Northwestern, and I have a daughter who will be starting at Wharton in the fall, and my oldest girl is working in publishing.”
Not at all surprising, since she had that unmistakable motherly quality.
There was a tentative knock on the door, and they turned to see Scott standing in the hallway.
“Um, hi,” he said. “They told me to come up here?”
Mrs. Doshi straightened up from the desk. “Yes, thank you, Scott,” she said. “Come on in.”
Scott walked into the office, looking ill at ease and surprisingly uncoordinated. “Yeah,” he said, and then handed the cap, jersey, and uniform pants he was carrying to Jill. “Uh, here.”
He wasn’t even coming close to meeting her eyes, which made her wonder whether she maybe wanted to gather up her non-destroyed stuff—if there was any—and then call and ask her mother to drive all the way back to pick her up, and get the hell out of here.
“Thanks,” she said, also avoiding eye contact.
He glanced at Mrs. Doshi. “Um, I’ll go out into the waiting room, and—well, wait, I guess.”
He left the room without giving either of them a chance to answer, and now, Jill didn’t feel like putting the uniform on—or having anything to do with this damn team ever again. She hadn’t expected Scott to be such a—then, suddenly, he was back in the doorway.
“We all feel really bad about this, Jill,” he said. “I don’t even know what to—yeah, I knew there were some jerks, but not like this. I mean—I just—are you okay?”
In the past five seconds, she had started feeling about a hundred times better. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said. “But—well, it was really disgusting, and—are other guys going to do stuff like that?”
“Fuck, no,” Scott said, and then looked guiltily at Mrs. Doshi, who was now sitting behind her desk, and either actually reading some paperwork—or pretending to do so. “Um, sorry, ma’am.” He looked back at Jill. “You really think guys like me and Mother and Hector and all won’t totally have your back? But, we’ll get it, if you don’t want to have to deal with crap like this and you’re leaving.”
Is that how they thought she was going to react? That she was just going to walk away?
The fact that she suddenly had an out-clause didn’t mean that she had to take it.
Even if she kind of wished that she could.
They both glanced at Mrs. Doshi, who appeared to be engrossed in her paperwork.
“You know Andrew?” Scott asked.
Their quiet closer—so quiet that she had never spoken to him, or even seen him have a conversation with anyone else—who was a sixth round pick out of the University of Virginia.
“He whaled on that guy,” Scott said. “I mean, took him down. A bunch of us broke it up, but—well, we didn’t exactly hurry, if you know what I mean.”
That was gratifying—and embarrassing, somehow—to hear.
“Adler was pissed, but he didn’t yell right off, either, you know? Because—well.” Scott shifted his weight a couple of times. “Anyway. I’m really sorry, and I hope you’re okay, and—I guess I’ll go back now and let you hang out up here.”
She would have to be made of pretty flimsy stuff if anything that had happened today made her quit. Not that she was going to let go of it anytime soon—but, she wasn’t going home, either. “I was just waiting for you to come up with my uniform, so we could go out there and sign,” she said.
He looked surprised. “Oh. I mean, oh! Yeah. Okay.”
Mrs. Doshi pushed her papers aside, and motioned for him to follow her. “Scott, why don’t you and I go sit out in the reception area, and let Jill get changed,” she said.
“May I use your phone for a minute, ma’am?” Jill asked.
The fact that hers was—downstairs—was best left unsaid right now.
“Of course,” Mrs. Doshi said. “Help yourself.”
Once they were gone, Jill changed into the uniform pants, and put the jersey on over her T-shirt without buttoning it. Her mother should probably be her first call—but, she found herself dialing Greg, instead.
He answered right before it went to voice mail, sounding out of breath.
“It’s me,” she said.
“Sorry, didn’t recognize the number,” he said, still breathing hard. “What’s up?”
“What am I interrupting?” she asked.
“Crazy, exciting, scandalous things,” he said. “Or maybe me at the gym, working out. Don’t you have a game?”
All too soon, yeah. Good thing she wasn’t pitching tonight. “Some guy urinated in my locker while I was out at BP,” she said.
There was a short pause—and then, a loud clank, as he apparently set down some weights. “Those fuckers,” he said.
“I think there was just one,” she said, “but, yeah, for all I know, some of the others were egging him on.”
“Want me to get in my car?” he asked.
Which was exactly what she had expected him to say—and what she wanted to hear, even though she wouldn’t take him up on it. “No, I’m okay,” she said. Was she? More or less, probably.
After she had brought him up-to-date on the whole story—including the vicious invective scrawled on the wall, she checked the door to be sure that no one could hear.
“Part of me wants to say screw this and walk away,” she said. “But, that would be dumb, right?”
“There are guys there you’re pretty sure you can trust?” he asked.
Scott. Marcus. So, that was two. And probably Dimitri, and Hector. Shosuke. Jonesy, as far as she could tell. Diaz, as long as she didn’t hug him. From what Scott had said, Andrew—a total stranger—could be on the list, too. “Yeah,” she said. “Most of them seem to be fine. Nice, even.”
“How sick do you feel?” he asked.
Very god-damn sick. And grossed out. “I don’t know how much of my stuff is ruined,” she said. “I mean, we’re supposed to go on the road tonight, and I’m not sure what I still have, and—the truth is, I want to go pretty berserk.”
There was a pause.
“Hang on, I have to take this outside for a minute,” he said.
She had no idea why, but she listened, while he left the gym, and went out to the parking lot, or into an alcove, or whatever he was doing.
“Okay, I’m back,” Greg said, and then paused again. “Did Theo ever tell you what happened to me? Freshman year?”
That could be almost anything, and a lot of her freshman year was a blur, anyway, after her father died, right before Thanksgiving. “I’m not sure,” she said.
“Then, he didn’t tell you,” Greg said.
It was quiet again.
“If it’s private,” she said, “you don’t have to—”
“It’s just humiliating,” Greg said. “It was that fall, right after I came out, and some of the seniors—” He stopped. “It was all my stuff, too, but it was more than urine.”
Oh, God. “How come you never told me?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I was ashamed. My sneakers, my clothes—I had to throw away everything, while a bunch of those guys stood there, and—” He stopped. “And then, I had to walk home in my cleats, and my mother got mad when I said I lost my sneakers somewhere, and—it was terrible.”
He had been pretty tall when he was fourteen, but really skinny, to the point of being almost frail.
“I didn’t cry in front of them, because—well, fuck that, right?” he said. “But, I never wanted to go back there again.”
She wanted to cry for him, remembering how generally difficult it had been for him for a while, right after he had come out. But, she hadn’t known that it was that hard. “Where does Theo come in?” she asked.
“I needed to talk to a guy,” he said. “And my father wasn’t cool with me yet, and your father had already deployed—and one day, I went over to your house when I knew you wouldn’t be home, and—I don’t know.” He paused. “He was really cool—and I’ll always love the guy for it. I think he and some of his friends even went and yelled at them—but, I’m not sure. Seemed that way later, from the way they acted, but I took care of it on the field, anyway. Because after Peter got hurt, I was going to be their damn quarterback.”
And threw three touchdown passes, as well as scoring two on the ground himself, in his very first game. It wasn’t the size of the dog in the fight, it was the size of the fight in the dog. “How’d you take care of it?” she asked.
He didn’t answer right away. “Football’s a pretty rough game, Jill. And the quarterback has some control over what happens out there.”
When he didn’t elaborate, she knew that was all she was going to get—and, probably, all she wanted to know right now.
“I was going to tell you, but then, everything happened with your father, and you and Theo were like zombies, and—I guess the right time never came up,” he said.
Until she needed to hear about it. “Do you think I should make a big deal about this, or shut up and play the game?” she asked.
Greg sighed. “Jill, if you told me you wanted to rob a bank, I’d say, ‘You go, girl!’ and—I don’t know—drive the getaway car. So, anything you decide to do will be cool, as far as I’m concerned.”
It was comforting to know that he meant every word of that. “Including moping, and complaining, and obsessing about it for a while?” she asked.
“Yup,” he said.
She sighed. “Sometimes, don’t you just really hate jocks?”
Greg laughed, quite bitterly. “Lots of times,” he said.