Whatever Life Throws at You

  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?”
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  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.

  Dad laughs. “No, you haven’t and thanks, Ann. Today was rough. I just need a little more time to get Brody to take off and hopefully get some of the other guys on my side.”

  “Well, they’re stupid boys if they don’t want to listen to you.”

  Lenny’s watching me carefully, a curious expression on her face that makes me hurry up and end my call with Dad.

  “So you’re cool to stay all night?” she asks once I’m off the phone.

  “Yep.” I raise the duffel bag at my feet. “Your parents really don’t care if you throw a big party?”

  “Let’s just say they turn a blind eye,” Lenny says. “But we’re gonna use the guesthouse. I imagine they’ve got their own wild party happening in the main house.”

  “But Brody’s staying in your guesthouse?” And surely he has a better much cooler party to go to. What with his years of maturity and non-family appropriate plans for the night.

  Lenny pulls into her huge driveway, raising up the garage door. “Don’t worry, I talked to him. If he doesn’t end up out on the town with some loose bimbo, he’ll stay in one of the guest rooms in the main house. He’s got the garage code already.”

  I try not to focus on the image of some Royals’ groupie with bouncy size-D boobs putting her hands all over Jason Brody.

  I open the car door and lift my bag out. “That could be a problem…”

  Lenny stops and turns to face me. “Why?”

  “Well, Brody is really tight with my dad, and my dad knows I’m staying here tonight. He might tell him about the high school party that got in his way.”

  “And your dad would have issues with this…?”

  I can’t believe she’s so confused and surprised by this fact. “Yes, my dad would have major issues with me being at a party with an open bar and horny boys.”

  There are already tons of cars parked near the house and loud music coming from the guesthouse. Lenny’s older brother Carl got things started, apparently.

  “Don’t worry,” Lenny says, “He’s not going to rat you out to your dad. He didn??
?t tell your dad when he saw us in the bar that one time, right? Besides, just say you thought we were having a girls’ night and Carl decided to throw a party.”

  Maybe that would work?

  Let’s hope so ’cause I don’t want to imagine Dad’s reaction if he found out about this party.

  Chapter 7

  Annie Lucas: The definition of a perfect game in baseball means not letting anyone get on base. So my question is—why is only the pitcher credited? Does the pitcher shoulder all the responsibility for this feat?

  20 minutes ago

  Lenny London: PARTY!! Don’t judge me. I’m still gonna be brilliant even minus a couple brain cells. And what will you be? Exactly.

  10 seconds ago

  Lenny’s brother Carl is a complete asshole. He’s also completely brainless. The polar opposite of his National Honor Society sister. He’s supposed to be in college, but I highly doubt he’s willing to take a break from his pot smoking, binge drinking schedule to actually attend class. After three hours of loud music, beer, and not nearly enough food, I’m strung out on the celebrating plan.

  “Annie! Make sure I don’t sleep with that guy.” Lenny points without even attempting subtlety at a tall, lanky blond dude. “Yes, you! We are so not sleeping together.”

  The guy looks at her from across the room, and it’s clear he’s confused.

  “He’s a Scorpio,” Lenny explains. “I can’t be with a Scorpio, we’re not compatible.”

  “I’ll pry you apart if it comes to that,” I say, patting her on the back. I stand up from my spot on the couch and stretch out. Through the guesthouse windows, a very different party comes into view. I walk closer, and the view inside Lenny’s house lays out clearly for me to see. Everyone is dressed for the Oscars and holding champagne glasses. There are even waiters in crisp white shirts and black dress pants wandering around with trays of things like stuffed mushrooms. Jake London is the highest paid player on the team—though he makes half of what the highest paid in the league makes—and he can probably afford a party like this after every home game.