I scowl at my agent for interrupting my call with Madison. I’ve jumped through his hoops all day—I need my personal time now. We walk towards our waiting transportation while he prattles on and on regarding my rising star-power, the new endorsement contacts tonight, and all of the appointments he will need to set up in the next two weeks.
When the outer stadium door opens, I’m not prepared for the number of fans still standing behind the barricades over two hours after the event. I’ve been spotted by those standing nearest the exit. I estimate one-hundred fans now yell my name in hopes of directing my attention towards them for autographs and selfies. Of course, they aren’t yelling in unison—the noise is unnerving. Seems with ‘rising star-power’ comes new fans and thus less personal space and time.
I smile and wave but refuse to approach them. With the size of this crowd I’d be here several more hours if I began shaking hands, signing autographs, and posing for pictures. I respect fans—I know without them the league would not be what it is today. I’m exhausted and need to focus on tomorrow’s game.
We follow the two bulky event staff t-shirt wearing men to our waiting SUV.
My agent waxes poetically at my skyrocketing star-power and all of the money it will bring our way. All I see is my current struggles with personal time, friends, and personal space growing smaller and smaller. I only trust a few in my inner-circle. Too many want to exploit me for their own personal gain. I learned in my first months in Chicago how cruel fame can be. Quick photos with female fans in public were leaked by the woman to the press claiming to be my current girlfriend or even my new fiancé. Complete strangers seek attention my fame can spark for them.
After only three months in the majors, during my first off-season a female fan with a picture at my side claimed to be carrying my baby. My agent found me a publicist and after days of emphatically stating I hadn’t hooked-up with a girl since I left Athens, they went to work proving her allegations false. From that event on, I trusted only my agent, publicist, and a few teammates.
Any thoughts of dating I might have had evaporated that day. I witness my teammates and other players cheat on wives, enjoy random hook-ups, and constantly fight battles with pregnancy scares. They claim great sex is worth the hassle. I blame it on my rural Missouri small-town values. I believe in love and trust. I need to trust someone before I can share sex with them.
As we pull up to the hotel, swarms of press and paparazzi poise themselves near the entrance awaiting our arrival. I strap on my public persona, step from the SUV, and share my smile as I briskly enter the hotel.
The hotel lobby is busy for after eleven on a weeknight. While waiting for our elevator I notice several impeccably dressed women. No doubt they hope to snag more than just my eye tonight. I breathe an audible sigh of relief once the elevator sweeps us toward my room.
“Better get used to it, you’ve earned nationwide notoriety tonight.”
My agent’s words trigger bile to rise in my throat. I love playing ball. I leave everything on the field each game. I pour my heart and soul into my pitching. I love the game but hate all that comes with it. I text Madison as I lock my hotel room door. I promised to reach out to her when I could—I need to hear her voice tonight.
After an hour with no text reply from Madison, I make my peace with not performing my pregame rituals tonight, I give in to my need for sleep, and dream about the girl that holds all of my trust and owns my heart.