Charlie doesn’t pitch that night. As a starting pitcher on his off night, he’s in his rights to leave. But there isn’t much waiting for him at home either. His house has only blank staring walls, his bed empty of anything other than pillows.
The stadium is wrapped in a clear June evening, a fine night for baseball. When he first pitched in Oakland, Elephants Coliseum felt overwhelming, massive, fifty thousand seats staring down at him, all asking if he was as good as his draft number promised. Tonight the ballpark is filled to half capacity, fans dressed in Oakland green. Some lean over the seats into the infamously wide foul grounds, yelling at Oakland players to get to it already, like they’re not up by seven runs. Others beat drums, a familiar rumble, the steady heartbeat of a city that loves its baseball.
He’s stationed at his normal spot at the dugout railing. Next to him, Zach Glasser, one of their catchers, makes an occasional comment about the Pilots pitching staff. At his other side, John Gordon—who isn’t in the lineup since he’s veteran enough to get one night off out of every four—points to Seattle’s hitter. “Look at that swing. More holes than Swiss cheese.”
The same hitter who stood and watched Charlie’s curveball the night before, too intimidated to even whiff at it. Charlie doesn’t say anything in response, long enough that Gordon says, “You’re quiet today. I mean, even for you.”
Charlie rubs his thumb against his ring finger, the absence of his ring more pronounced with his hand resting on the railing. “Easy game. You know how it is.”
Gordon puts his own hand on the railing. His wedding ring gleams against his light brown skin. His shoulder occasionally brushes Charlie’s. Glasser, standing on Charlie’s other side, does the same, though his hands are mercifully free of any reminders about marriage.
It is an easy game, made easier because Charlie’s not playing in it. Hitters come to take their at bats, either getting on base or retiring to their dugout. Outfielders wave their fingers to remind themselves of how many outs there are in the inning. It’s calming, the way familiar things are.
The dugout clears at the inning break. Glasser peels off too. Then an announcement for a pitching change, the announcer calling for Giordano, exaggerating the last two syllables of his name.
Gordon nudges Charlie’s shoulder. “Heard you all were cutting up in the pitching meeting.”
It’s not surprising that Gordon heard about it, because he hears about everything. “We were just looking at scouting reports,” Charlie says.
“D’Spara doesn’t like him.”
“D’Spara doesn’t like anyone.”
“He likes you just fine.” Gordon nods to where Giordano has jogged out to the mound and is rosining his hands. “I did some checking up on him. Guy’s got some issues.”
And Charlie’s spared having to reply who doesn’t when the Pilots best hitter strides into the batter’s box.
Being Seattle’s best hitter isn’t saying a whole lot. On the mound, Giordano agrees to the catcher’s sign, then delivers a fastball. A slow one, nothing like the ones he was throwing in that video. Still the umpire calls a strike.
Another fastball, another strike.
Then Giordano throws a curveball, or at least, an attempt at one. A flattened surrender of a pitch that’s met by an inevitable crack of a bat. The ball arcs up and out—a no-doubt home run. His face is hard to see under the awning of his hat, but his shoulders sag, the stadium empty enough that it’s audible when he curses into his glove.
Next to Charlie, Gordon doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to, radiating an I told you so that rankles Charlie’s nerves. But the next two Seattle hitters are disinterested in scoring, and they make for painless outs. Two down, and the outfielders all wave their fingers at each other in salute.
Another hitter comes to the box, this one with enough swagger that even Charlie leans back a little. Giordano squares his shoulders determinedly, then throws. His pitching motion really isn’t that remarkable. Except there’s something in the torsion of his back or the flex in his legs. Maybe Charlie’s just tired, or nervous. His mind sometimes gets stuck on things. A symptom of anxiety, according to their mental skills coach. Isn’t everything?
It takes less than a blink for the ball to leave Giordano’s hand and end up at home plate. Charlie’s fingers tense on the railing, knuckles pulling white. The Pilots hitter, for all his bravado, swings, an easy pop-up for Oakland’s catcher. The end of the inning. Charlie uncurls his hand.
Giordano walks off the mound, hopping over the chalked third-base line. He gets his slaps in the dugout. Charlie leans to tap him at his waist, fingers brushing the leather of his belt, before Giordano retreats into the clubhouse.
The game is winding down, and Charlie needs to go. He doesn’t particularly want to. Wants to stay and watch the rest of it and tune his brain only to game action and not think about finding Stephanie, their PR person. He inhales, counts down, exhales, then dislodges himself from his post by the railing.
“You done?” Gordon asks.
Charlie nods.
“Tell Christine hi for me.”
Charlie swallows around a lump in his throat. “I will.”
He goes into the clubhouse, expecting midgame silence, the wooden stalls lining the room unlikely to force him into conversation. Instead Giordano is there. He’s at the stall the team must have assigned him that morning, one of the ones next to Charlie’s they usually leave empty to give him space. They haven’t put up Giordano’s name placard yet. A single jersey hangs in his stall, game-used, sleeves decorated with smudges of dirt. And Giordano is standing there, whipping a pair of balled-up socks at the stall’s glossed wooden back. Thump, thump, pause. Thump, thump, pause.
He must hear Charlie approach, because he doesn’t throw again. “Hey, how about that home run? Think I could feel it in my jaw when he hit that thing.”
“It happens.”
“It happens to guys other than you, you mean,” Giordano counters. It’s not nasty the way he says it, though his mouth twists a little. “I wish I could get out of here.”
“Media’ll be in here in a minute.”
“Yeah.” Giordano exhales loudly. “I’m gonna go get a drink.” For a second Charlie wonders if he’s being invited to some crowded Oakland bar to forget this game until Giordano continues, “You want anything from the kitchen?”
Charlie gets a slight pang of disappointment. “Gatorade. One of the blue ones.”
Giordano returns a minute later with two bottles of Gatorade; he hands one to Charlie. “If they don’t keep me up here, it’s been a slice.” He holds out his bottle in a cheers, and Charlie taps his own against it. “Midland, man, I am not looking forward to going back to double-A. Sorry, you’re from Texas, right? I know you guys get touchy about that shit.”
“Other side of the state.” Because it’s a longer drive from Houston to Midland than it is from Oakland to LA. “My mom’s from Georgia.”
“So you’re not gonna kick my ass for talking smack on Texas?”
“Naw.” Charlie lets his accent thicken with the consonant-swallowing drawl he only gets around his family.
Giordano rewards him with a grin. “How come no one told me you were funny?” His face relaxes, the little lines they all get by their eyes from sun exposure not quite smoothing out. He has olive skin and dark hair. His eyes, rimmed by dark lashes, reflect the lights above them, distinctive enough that Charlie probably would remember if he saw him before.
Charlie’s stomach flips. Hunger, possibly, though he rode the bench all game. “That was some good pitching.”
Giordano’s smile droops a little. “Yeah, I’m sure the fan who caught that home-run ball agrees.”
“I meant the other ones.”
“You be sure to say that nice and loud when the reporters come in.” He gives a low conspiratorial whistle.
Charlie laughs slightly and nudges him with his shoulder.
“Watch where you’re aiming those things,” Giordano says with mock indignation.
And Charlie’s chest feels lighter than it has since he woke up, a burgeoning feeling that deflates when there’s a yell from somewhere in the clubhouse, the reminder to put on drawers if they’re walking around bare-assed before the postgame media scrum.
Giordano gestures like he’s keeping back a horde. “I can hold ’em off if you want to make your escape.”
“Thanks. They’re really not so bad.”
“Maybe not to you. But some of us have our transgressions to answer for.” Giordano’s lips, stained red from the Gatorade, twist with amusement.
“Giving up a homer isn’t that bad. Even to the Pilots.”
“You didn’t.”
“Well, you’re better at the whole—” Charlie makes a hand motion he hopes indicates talking.
“You calling me a chatterbox, Braxton?”
He punctuates it with a tap to Charlie’s arm, high on his biceps. Familiar, even for baseball, for guys who’ve known each other for less than twelve hours. Different from how most of the guys in the clubhouse treat him like there’s an invisible bubble around him.
“Media isn’t my favorite thing,” Charlie says. Which is a slight—extreme—understatement. “Some of us gotta do more with less.”
Giordano gives him a once-over, like he’s making a point about Charlie’s size. “Can’t imagine you doing anything with less.”
And Charlie doesn’t have the chance to respond when the press comes chattering in.
Giordano retreats to his stall to face the scrum, an array of microphones in his face. With them, the expected questions about how he felt giving up a home run.
“I did get three other outs,” he says. And the reporters have the sense enough to laugh.
Charlie stands a little way off, Stephanie next to him, though she’s dividing her attention between her phone and supervising Giordano’s interview, mouth pressed in a thin, assessing line. She doesn’t ask Charlie anything. Like why he’s standing there and not fleeing the way he normally does when there’s press around. He prepares a response anyway. That there’s traffic, though it’s the Bay Area, so there’s always traffic. That he needs to talk with her, which he does. Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow would be better.
A reporter from the East Bay Tribune, who Gordon calls Elbow Patches for the jacket he always wears, calls out a question for Giordano. “What, if anything, have you done to retool since your last stint in the big leagues?”
“Mostly just learned to trust my fastball.” A nonanswer, clearly meant to curtail any follow-ups. It doesn’t work.
“Nothing else?” Elbow Patches asks. “I’m surprised to hear that given your history.”
Said with an implication that makes Giordano’s eyes harden.
Stephanie’s face goes from merely tense to what Charlie imagines an awakened bear looks like right before it attacks. Even the blue streaks in her hair look irritated. “All right, let’s let these guys clear out. Long night. See you all bright and early tomorrow.”
She does a little shooing motion with her hands when they don’t move. Most disperse, except for the Tribune guy, who stays, holding a narrow spiral notebook and asking her something.
Giordano slides out from his stall, past the gleaming black eyes of the cameras to where Charlie’s standing.
“They always like this?” Giordano says.
“Not, um, that I’ve noticed.”
“Probably asking the wrong guy.” Giordano lets out a long breath. “Man, it felt good to get those outs. Wish they could just let all that other stuff go.”
And Charlie could ask the natural question of What stuff? But he’s not looking forward to his own interrogation by Stephanie—and eventually the press—and doesn’t want to inflict that on anyone else.
Giordano takes his silence as a response. “You know, it’s a long story, not important.”
Reporters are still standing around, some very obvious in how much they’re not eavesdropping. Giordano tilts his head toward one. “They always listen in like that and pretend they’re not?”
“Sometimes they don’t pretend.”
“They must be trying for some dirt on you. I’m just not that interesting.” A claim at odds with the defiant tilt of his chin.
“Neither am I.”
Giordano huffs a laugh at that. “I don’t know, man. It’s the quiet ones. You guys have all the scandals.”
Which sends a hot wash down Charlie’s neck that some reporter really will overhear and start digging. The door calls to him, even if the only thing he has going on at home is a ten-hour wait. He calculates the route that will take him by the least number of people. “Um, have a good night.”
Giordano looks surprised, mouth parted. Charlie must really be anxious because he can’t seem to focus anywhere but the curve of his lower lip.
“You too,” Giordano says.
And Charlie leaves before he can do something foolish. Like tell anyone the whole story.