“I don’t see her as much, but maybe once a month we do a Zoom session. It’s helpful.”
“Of course. I still see mine, as you know.” She takes a beat, taps on her keyboard. “Why don’t I come to your game tomorrow afternoon, and we can grab a bite at the Ferry Building after? Wait. Nope. Too crowded post-game. Too many fans.”
I smile, glad she caught onto that right away. “What about that new noodle bar in the marina? Reese was telling Grant about it, and it sounded good. It’s less fan-centric.”
“Perfect.” Her voice softens. “Are you sure you don’t want to chat now? I’m happy to talk anytime.”
I shake my head. “I have a game against Chicago in a couple hours. The pitcher is a ruthless leftie who owns me at the plate this season, so I need to get in the zone.”
“John-Paul Stockman. You’ve had a tough time hitting against him since you became a Dragon.”
Mom knows the pitchers now? “You follow me that closely?”
“I’m a baseball fan. I know a thing or two.”
“Color me impressed.”
“Don’t act so surprised. Your father isn’t the only one who knows the sport. And I bet you can crack the code on Stockman.”
“That’s why I’m going in early today. To work with some of our lefties.”
“If we could bottle your focus and market it, we’d own the world,” she remarks, then we say goodbye.
A little later, I’m ready to go to the ballpark for some extra practice with Gunnar and the bullpen. I bound downstairs and stop in the foyer to grab my keys. As I toss them up and down, I flash back on the day Grant gave me this new car.
I’d just been traded to San Francisco. We’d been sharing his Tesla for the first week we lived together. But our schedules weren’t lining up, so one Sunday morning he told me he was taking me out for a coffee at a new café across the city. That was unlike him. My guy likes to walk and stay in the hood for his morning Joe. But I didn’t suspect he was giving me new wheels, until I pushed open the door to the garage. A huge red bow sat perched on the hood of a new BMWi8.
“Your favorite car,” he’d said.
I turned to him, blinking, in shock. “You got me a car?”
“You got me you, so I figure this is a good start at giving back.”
I kissed the hell out of him, and then we christened the car. Pretty sure we never got that cup of coffee. Grant knows how to take care of me, whether it’s a car or a bagel or a text message. More proof that he’d make a great dad someday, and not because he gave me a car, but because he cares deeply about the people in his life. There’s zero doubt in my mind about him. The doubt is all on me.
And I hate doubt.
But in the meantime, I can let him know I’m thinking about him. That’s our routine when we’re apart—to chat before our games.
As I unlock the car and slide in, I grab my phone to send him a message. But once I open his name, a notification pops up from Owen, asking me to give him a quick call.
Before I turn the engine, I dial the PR guy’s number.
“What’s up?” I ask, cutting to the chase.
“Hey! So, I’m calling you in a work capacity and a friend capacity,” he says, direct and upbeat, since that’s his style.
“Got it. Hit me,” I say, bracing myself for whatever media issue has reared its head.
“Troy ran another piece this afternoon about you and Grant. It’s more of the same blah-blah-blah bullshit as last time,” he adds.
“Thanks for the heads up. But I don’t read that crap.”
Owen sighs happily. “And that is one of my favorite things about you. It could not make my PR heart happier to know that my players can ignore the stupid stuff out there. But,” he says, slowing down, a note of concern in his voice, “the piece mentions Grant, and tries to claim that because your performance against pitchers in Grant’s league has improved this year, that supports his claim that Grant is giving you tips on all the pitchers in his league . . .”
Ah, yes. I get it now. I understand Owen’s concern. It’s for Grant, and that’s sweet. “I’ll call him right now. Make sure he’s okay. Thanks for reaching out as a friend.”
“No problem. I know he worries about this more than you.”
“He does. You’re a good one, Owen,” I say, then hang up and dial my guy.
Grant answers right away. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a phone call? Wait. Let me guess. You’re horny and need me to tell you exactly how I plan to ravage your sexy-ass body when I get home this weekend? Okay, fine. I was just putting on chest pads, but I can take a break to tell you all about it.”