The Felons had made the playoffs the previous year, and a lot of sports magazines were using their barely functional crystal balls to imply a run at the Series was a sure thing for the team this year. As much as he wanted them to get to the World Series, Alex didn’t put a lot of stock in what the mags said at the beginning of each season. There was simply no way to know how a team would do until they were out in the thick of it.
“All due respect, but the stress doesn’t seem to be getting to anyone else, does it?” He didn’t know how to deal with the manager’s forced politeness, so he chose instead to needle him. A little honesty was what Alex needed, and sugarcoating it did neither of them any good. “Just say it.”
“You’re dragging the lineup down, and we’re sending you down to Triple-A. Effective immediately. Angel will take over your full-time position starting with tomorrow’s game, and we’re going to call Jeff Craig back up
from Lakeland to fill the extra spot on the bench.”
The verdict felt like a punch in the throat. Although he’d asked for it, receiving it was still the hardest thing he’d had to hear in his major league career.
He hadn’t played anywhere but San Francisco, with the exception of his first season, playing Double-A ball in Tulsa. Since the Tulsa team was part of the Felons organization, he’d known that season was a test to show his mettle and get himself into the big leagues. He’d done it, and he’d stuck around in the big show ever since.
Now he was being shipped back down. Triple-A wasn’t as low down the ladder as Double-A, but he might as well be coaching a high school team for how terrible the move made him feel. It was a temporary shift. An opportunity for him to regroup. But he knew the truth.
If he didn’t start improving—and fast—there was a chance he’d be stuck in Lakeland for good. Or traded to another team who was willing to risk his low average.
This was his last shot.
And of course they were sending him to the one place where he could be the most distracted.
Right back to Alice’s backyard.
Chapter Sixteen
Alice checked her phone for the seven hundredth time that evening. It was late, and she should have been sleeping, but it was three hours earlier in San Francisco, and she was waiting for a reply to the text message she’d sent two hours ago.
During the last few innings of the Felons-Royals game, she’d watched with gritted teeth as Alex took a foul tip off the bat of a Royals player that clipped the catcher right in the mask.
Sparks had literally flown from the metal grill, sending Alex sprawling onto his ass, but he’d held on to the ball, saving a potential stolen run home.
She’d sent him a text reading, Hell of a hit. Hope you’re okay.
And then she’d waited.
And waited.
And now it was almost two in the morning Florida time, and the game was over, yet he still hadn’t responded. Normally if she sent him a message during a game, he would reply when he reached the locker rooms. Even if it was a quick one-line quip or a smiley face, it was something.
She hadn’t realized how much she depended on those messages until she didn’t get one.
Maybe he wasn’t okay.
Alice Googled him on her phone—something she’d done often enough the search bar now remembered his name—and checked for recent news stories that might suggest his injury had been more severe than it looked. Nothing came up.
So he was ignoring her.
She rebooted her phone, wondering if perhaps it was a problem with the signal causing her to miss a return text. When nothing new came from that¸ she sent herself a test message to ensure she was receiving them okay.
She was.
With each passing minute she didn’t hear from him, her concern and anxiety began to transform into anger. What was worse, when she realized her anger was totally irrational—she was mad at him for doing literally nothing—she got upset with herself, ratcheting her fury up to new levels.
Soon the phone was taunting her, as she imagined the message notification light flashing. She turned it facedown on her comforter, then after a moment of phantom vibrations, flipped it back over to see if she’d missed anything.
“Fuck.” She kicked her sheets off and lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling in the hopes her light fixtures might distract her from her mounting irritation.
Instead she noticed a crack in the stucco.
Her phone buzzed and she ignored it, assuming she was imagining things still.