Lachlan
Voices argued around me as I sat in the conference room in the sky deck of the ballpark, everything discussing my behavior as if I weren’t even here. As if I were inconsequential. A piece of property.
That was probably all I was to them. A piece of property to be traded when I started giving them too many problems.
On our way here, Brett told me to stay quiet and let him do all the talking. I wasn’t going to argue with that. I was more than aware of my tendency to run my mouth when angry.
And I should have been furious.
But I wasn’t.
I knew the President of Baseball Operations for the Hawks, Clark Buckley, had tossed around the possibility of a multi-game suspension. To hear him propose leaving me off the roster for the remainder of the year should have felt like a knife to the chest, considering my age.
Sure, I was only twenty-seven. But the average retirement age for baseball players is around twenty-nine or thirty. There are definitely exceptions to the rule. Hell, Curt Schilling pitched the Red Sox to their first World Series title in eighty-six years when he was in his forties.
But that wasn’t the norm, especially for a pitcher, who puts excess strain on his body above and beyond the average player. So to sit here and remain silent while the team managers debated suspending me for the rest of the season should have gutted me, considering all the sacrifices I’d made to get to where I was.
Yet it didn’t. Not like it should have.
Because I’d finally found something that mattered more to me than any short-lived baseball career.
I just prayed Julia would eventually come to realize that.
I didn’t even want to consider any other possibility.
Every minute I didn’t hear from her caused me to lose more and more hope. It didn’t matter it was only Monday morning, that she was presumably still on the island. I hated not knowing. I wanted to do the right thing. Give her time to sort it out in her head.
But how long would I have to wait?
A day?
A week?
A year?
Forever?
“You can’t be serious, Clark!” Brett’s voice cut through, snapping me out of my thoughts.
He’d spent the last half-hour arguing on my behalf, pointing out that not only was I under extreme emotional distress at the time of the assault, but that I’d also already made a hefty donation to the Fallen Officers Foundation, as well as took care of Detective Walker’s medical bills.
That didn’t seem to matter to the management team, though. At least not Clark Buckley. As the President of Operations, he was essentially the middleman between the team managers and the owners, making all the important decisions regarding the roster.
Including any regarding disciplinary actions.
As much as the team managers might come to my defense, at the end of the day, Clark Buckley had the last word.
And I feared I wasn’t going to like what that last word was.
“This was a little altercation. One Mr. Hale has already publicly apologized for, as well as made amends to the victim. The DA decided not to press charges, yet you want to punish him by benching him the remainder of the season? That’s a bit extreme.”
“This wasn’t just a simple bar brawl with minimal injuries,” Clark said evenly, keeping his shoulders square, spine straight. His thinning, gray hair was plastered to his head, but no amount of product in the world could make up for the hair loss that had grown more and more prominent the past several years. “He assaulted three law enforcement officers. They may have opted to not press charges for whatever reason, but several years ago, this organization decided to take a hard line when it came to players being involved in any sort of violence, particularly altercations with law enforcement. Need I remind you our club hasn’t had the best history when it comes to players respecting the police. A tough suspension sends a very clear message that we won’t condone this kind of behavior.”
“I absolutely agree with you,” Brett said. “And I applaud the measures management has taken in this regard, considering domestic violence tends to be an issue among some.”
“Precisely why we need to take a hard stance here. Why—”
“Mr. Buckley, if I may offer my opinion,” Daxton Shea said from the far end of the long table, speaking up for the first time since this meeting began.