Whatever Life Throws at You (6 page)

“Imagine if I didn’t have my high school diploma, Ann.” He lifts his non-leg as if I need a reminder. “The best I could do before this coaching gig was a fifteen dollar an hour job. Without that diploma, it would have been so much worse. Give the kid a break, would you?”

My face heats up. When did I become so judgmental? “I’m sorry. I’ll apologize or something, okay?”

He looks at me then turns back to the sink, shaking his head. “Forget it, Ann. I’ll get someone else to help him. Maybe Savannah.”

I don’t know why, but the idea of Savannah and her much kinder disposition huddled close to Brody while discussing verb tenses bugs me. I reach for Dad’s phone on the table, find Brody’s number, and while his back is turned to me, I program Jason Brody’s into my phone.

It takes me the rest of my sandwich and half the apple before I figure out what to text.

ME: Just so you know, I’m barely pulling Cs in my class. Haven’t exactly been honest with my dad about this. So I’m probably not the best tutor—Annie Lucas

I wait only three minutes for his one word—two letter—reply.

BRODY: OK

A little while later, I’m in the kitchen scarfing down the Doritos that I resisted earlier, when I spot, through the kitchen window, a blue convertible rolling down the street. A blond leggy (okay, I can’t see her legs, but I know they’re super long) girl probably five years older than me is behind the wheel. And in the passenger seat, one arm tossed across the girl’s seat, is Jason Brody.

I roll my eyes, disgusted. That’s what I get for apologizing. I should probably warn Lenny about the potential for random undergarments turning up by her pool tonight.

And I actually felt sorry for him about an hour ago.

Vow to avoid substitute relief pitchers officially reinstated.

opening

Day

Chapter 6

Lenny London:
Why not just skip ahead to the World Series? Why all the foreplay? I smell a conspiracy within the hot dog industry.

4 hours ago

Annie Lucas:
What is the statistical probability of throwing a strike? I mean, I know it’s harder than shooting fish in a barrel, but how much harder? And what really defines a strike? Throwing it within the strike zone or getting the batter to swing and miss? These seem like two very different skills.

3 hours ago

I’m sitting in Dad’s office a couple hours before the game starts. I’m trying to get my weekend homework done so I can let loose at Lenny’s party tonight. I’ve been running and reading and running and reading…words and mile paces are starting to ooze out my ears and I need some pure teenage fun. And I can only assume a private party at Lenny’s will be free of Larry Johnson’s judgmental, strike-issuing self.

The phone on Dad’s desk rings, pulling me away from
Gatsby
. I can’t tell who he’s talking to, but I don’t think it’s Frank. His posture is too formal for a Frank call. After a minute or two, the vein on the side of his neck bulges, his forehead wrinkling. “I’m really not sure this is the best plan… Yes, I understand…What about Halloway…?”

Halloway? Right. Another pitcher.

“I see,” Dad says. “We can’t get two or three innings out of him? I realize I said he had the arm to be a starter, but I was referring to the future—preferably the distant future, and I’m sure that you know that.”

He’s gotten snippier with each word, but I have no idea what’s going on.

Dad slams the phone down and drops his head in his hands. “Fuck.”

“What? What happened? They aren’t going to use Brody?” That last part is a wild guess. Brody is the player Dad is most invested in and therefore most likely to get this upset over.

“They’re using him.” He’s up on his feet, piling up papers onto his clipboard. “He’s starting.”

“That’s good, right?”

“No, Ann, it’s not good.” He sighs, stops moving, and looks at me. “I need you to go up to the seats wherever you’re supposed to meet Lenny, all right?”

I pile my books into my bag quickly, but I press him for answers before leaving the office. “Dad, what’s going on?”

He closes the door, leaning his back against it. “Johnson doesn’t like the idea of Brody replacing a seasoned player, he never has. But he also knows that he has to give Frank room to do his job. In addition, I’ve gotten the sense that Johnson isn’t too keen on having two pitching coaches.”

It’s exactly what Brody said. Damn.

From what I’ve heard, Johnson expects Frank to sign some hotshot free agents from other teams for a tenth of their former salary. Yeah, right. Frank might be from the Yankees where twenty million dollar contracts are regular occurrences, but he’s realistic about the Royals much smaller budget and commitment to developing younger players. Like Brody. I’m not a baseball expert, but this seems like a great strategy to me. Too bad Johnson doesn’t agree. Or maybe his real issue is the ex-convict thing.

My stomach twists into knots. The problem is clear now. And if I’m feeling sick, I can’t imagine what Dad’s feeling. “Johnson wants you and Brody both to screw up so he has an excuse to dump you?”

God, I hate that Brody was right. I hate that Johnson saw me in the bar. That I’ve added an unnecessary strike to my family’s record.

“Something like that,” Dad says. “I’m temporary, too, Ann. I haven’t signed a full contract yet.”

I sink back into the chair. “Shit…”

Dad bends down and rests his hands on my shoulders. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you. I need to focus on getting Brody ready to start and not worrying about you worrying, okay?”

God, I have to tell him about the night at the bar. He has to know everything that’s behind Johnson’s motivation to ditch Dad and Brody. “Dad, me and Lenny were at this—”

“Annie, please,” Dad says. “Later, okay? We’ll talk later. I need to focus.”

“But, Dad—” I protest and then stop after rationalizing that this information won’t help him help Brody. It will only make the objective seem that much more difficult. Like they’re standing in a bigger hole than they originally thought. “Okay, I’ll…I’ll see you later. Good luck.”

Lenny is waiting for me in the suites reserved for players and families. It’s a fancy room with all kinds of food. As much as I love to eat, I can’t even look at any of it. I’m too nervous. Lenny introduces me to her mom and some of the other players’ wives and kids.

“I’m so excited for this party tonight,” Lenny says. “It makes suffering through the game worth it.”

“Yep, I’m totally suffering through this game.” I stare out the windows, watching the team warm up. An hour passes and I don’t see Brody at all, but Dad’s in the dugout. He looks really good in his uniform. I’m going to be so pissed off if he doesn’t get to wear it again.

We’ve only been in Kansas City for a couple weeks, but I already like it here. Dad is happier than I’ve ever seen him, and Mom has no idea where we are. Grams seems to be calm and content with her new caretaker, Caroline. Lenny is turning out to be a pretty awesome friend for a spoiled rich girl who has Daddy issues.

I don’t want this to be over.

Johnson passes through our suite to get to the owner’s box, greeting various family members. He catches my eye, and I swear he glares, silently passing a word of warning through that glare. I turn away from him quickly—
God, we’re screwed
.

When Dad disappears through the dugout, I’m too antsy to sit here any longer. “Hey, Lenny? I left something in my dad’s office, save a seat for me?”

I’m not even sure what I need to tell him, just that I need to say something. Some kind of magic words that will make everything work out. I managed to do it when I convinced him to take this job and move to Kansas City. Maybe there’s something that will work magic today. But unfortunately, Dad’s not in his office and I can’t exactly go into the dugout to have a father/daughter chat. Even if I could get past the security guards, he’d be pissed at me.

Before I can form a new plan, I hear the loud echo of someone vomiting in the bathroom stalls.
Oh no
. “Dad?” I say, my voice bouncing off the empty locker room walls. “Are you in here?”

The stall door opens, but it’s not Dad who steps out. It’s Jason Brody.

I try to turn around and hide, but he sees me right away, closes his eyes, and sighs before leaning over the sink, splashing water on his face, rinsing his mouth out. “Great…just great,” he mumbles to himself.

I should leave, but I’m frozen in place. The pressure, the stress he must feel right now, it’s right here in the air between us. And the fact that he’s handling it all alone, that he’s probably aware, like Dad, that the team owner is trying get rid of him, softens my attitude toward Brody. A little.

“You okay?” I ask finally.

He keeps his eyes on the mirror, grabs a bottle of Listerine resting on the counter, chugs it, swishes, and spits. “I’m wonderful.” I wait while he grabs a towel, drying off his face. He finally looks right at me. “Your dad’s out on the field.”

“Right. Sorry.” I turn around and head for the exit. Brody breezes past me, wringing his hands together in front of him. We get all the way to hall that leads to the Royals’ dugout before, on impulse, I reach out and grab his arm.
Magic words
. He needs them just as much as Dad. Despite my feelings toward Brody, their futures here are tied together.

He turns to face me. “What?”

“I…um…” I take a deep breath and keep my eyes on his. “Before Frank Steadman offered this job to my dad, we watched videos of you pitching. Frank asked my dad if he would sign you and you know what he said?”

The anxiety drops from his face. “What?”

“He said,
in a heartbeat
. He knows you can totally kill it today, he’s only worried because it’s a lot of pressure.”

He laughs bitterly. “That’s an understatement.”

“Pressure is just that—pressure. It’s all in your head. It has nothing to do with what you can or can’t do.” My face is flaming. I’ve totally overstepped my boundaries and this is all getting a little too
Chicken Soup for the Soul.

I wait anxiously as he takes a deep breath, nods, steps closer to me, and squeezes my arm, just above my elbow. “Keep this between us, okay?”

He walks away, and I release all the air in my lungs and fall back against the wall. If I’m feeling the pressure, he must have five hundred tons more resting on his shoulders. I take the long route back up to the seats and instead of going inside the suite, I stand outside, leaning against the rail, listening to them introduce the players for both teams. I’m right behind home plate when Brody stands on the pitcher’s mound, his white and blue Royals’ uniform spotless and tight in all the right places. But it kind of sucks, playing your first major league game without the support of your team’s owner.

I’m holding my breath while Brody throws a few warm-up pitches. The speed registers between ninety-six and ninety-eight, but they’re wild pitches. Not even close to strikes. Dad is statue-like in the dugout, his arms folded over his chest, his gaze locked on Jason Brody. My hands turn white from gripping the railing so hard. I let go and lean my stomach against it instead.

Another wild pitch is thrown, forcing the catcher to dive sideways.

Come on, Brody…focus.

My heart pounds when the first batter steps into the box. They can’t dump him for one out, right? He’s going to get at least an inning?

The first pitch is way outside. Fast but outside. I manage a breath and see that Dad hasn’t moved an inch. He’s not breathing either. Brody’s first pitch replays over and over again on the giant stadium screens. He shakes out his arms and takes his stance a second time, and I swear to God, he looks up at me. For a brief moment, I’m sure he sees me. Then his focus narrows, his expression identical to the one I’ve seen many times when he’s staring down the pitching stand in our front yard.

The second pitch goes right down the center.

Strike.

Thank God.

I’m so relieved I have to lean over and rest my head on my hands for a minute.

Brody throws another ball, followed by another strike.

2-2 count.

It takes one more strike and the first out for the Royals’ new season for Dad to finally move some part of his body. He should be screaming and cheering, but in typical Dad fashion, he just gives a tiny nod.

While the next batter steps into the box, Brody shakes off the excess weight he’d carted out here. I can see him sweating a little, taking normal breaths, looking around at the other players and the stadium.

Good. Now do it again
.

I turn around and finally head back into the suite to take my seat beside Lenny for the rest of the game.

Brody manages to pitch six innings, letting only a single runner on base. He’s taken out after the sixth inning and replaced by a relief pitcher. The relief pitcher lets a double and then a home run sneak by, causing the Royals to lose 2–0.

But six solid innings in his first major league game ever has to be enough to keep him around a little longer. I hope. Or at least to absolve some of the bad from the night at the bar. I don’t want to be sent back to Arizona, but even more, I don’t want it to be my fault.

After the game, I head down toward the locker room to see Dad, but can’t even get through the long hall leading there because it’s jam-packed with media people—players standing in the middle of the storm talking into tape recorders, lights flashing everywhere. Dad is nowhere in sight, but I see Brody come through the doors, Savannah at his side.

A man in a blue suit shoves a microphone at Brody and drills him with questions. “How does it feel to play in the big leagues, son?”

Brody’s grin is so big I can see it from all the way down the hall. “Awesome. Seriously.”

Those two words from the team’s current youngest player earn the attention of half a dozen other reporters, causing them to abandon the player they were interviewing and focus on Brody instead.

“Think Johnson will let you stick around?” one reporter dude throws out casually, like my own life doesn’t depend on this answer.

“I hope so.”

They shout a few more questions at him, and Brody answers each with a grin.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to read a text from Dad.

DAD: It’s a zoo in here. Hiding out in my office. You’re getting a ride with Lenny, right? I’ll call you in a few minutes.

I spin around and head away from the zoo before replying to Dad.

ME: Yep, talk to you soon.

I meet Lenny back in the suites, and she drives us to her house in her silver beamer.

“That was the most amazing game ever,” I yell over Lenny’s blaring music.

She turns the volume down. “Were we at the same game? Losing isn’t usually a cause for celebration.”

I almost spill about today’s drama, but it’s nobody’s business. And Lenny hasn’t asked me what Johnson said that night in the bar, meaning she probably doesn’t want to get involved. “It’s just cool to see everything up close.”

Lenny rolls her eyes but smiles at me. “I forgot you’re still new to this. It’ll get old real fast.”

Dad calls when we’re halfway to Lenny’s and my heart speeds up a bit before I answer it. “Dad, how is everything? I mean…” I shoot a sideways glance at Lenny and wait for him to fill me in on our fate.

“Good, Annie,” he says with real enthusiasm in his voice. “They’ve decided to let Harper have that surgery he needs on his shoulder.”

Harper. One of the starting pitchers.

“So that means…?”

“Brody’s getting a three month contract,” he says like we’ve just won a big prize. I think we have. “If all goes well, he’ll sign for the rest of the season, at least as a relief pitcher. That will mean bumping someone off the roster. But if he kills it like he did today, there’s at least four guys we could lose with Brody’s stats.”

“Have I told you I love you or that you’re a super super awesome coach yet today?” I spit out, so relieved I can hardly sit still in this car. This is clearly the work of guilt.