Sweet Spot (12 page)

“Just because mom couldn’t handle it doesn’t mean I can’t!”

“This has nothing to do with your mom, AllyCat. I promise. This has everything to do with giving you the best life. I’ll pay for everything, give you a stipend, and you’ll be happy at U of A. Fish Camp starts next week, and you’re going.”

He’s right. I hate it, but he’s right. This is the only way she’ll have a future, a future without me. It sucks and I want to punch a thousand holes in his walls, but I can’t blame the man. My mom did so much to give me a better life. I see now that’s all he’s trying to do for Ally. I can’t get in the way of that. For starters, my mother would kill me.

It’s like her angel came down from heaven and rested on my shoulders. I asked her what I’m supposed to do and I got my answer. I’m supposed to let her go. It feels like there is a knife in my gut, but I have to let her go.

Ally comes running down the hall, mascara streaming down her face. She buries her face in my chest, sobbing. I hold her tight, for the last time, and kiss her head.

“Do it, for me. Take his offer.”

She pulls back and stares at me.

“You deserve the best life ever, Ally. I can’t give it to you and I can’t ruin what you have now. Go to U of A, start over. Forget about me.”

Ally stares at me for what feels like forever. Finally, she nods and walks away, never looking back. And now it’s my turn. It feels like a death sentence again as I walk down to his study.

“You’re off the team.”

“Eric says you can’t do that.” I try to remain as calm and neutral as possible. “Because of my contract.”

“Fuck Eric. It’s my goddamn team. I’m not an idiot, Kemp. I know your knee is shot and I also know you’re a free agent at the end of this season. We aren’t renewing your contract and you’re going to spend the rest of the season, and all of the postseason on the disabled list.”

“Coach, I can’t go to Triple A. I need to help the team get to the series.”

Coach still hasn’t looked at me. I feel the panic rising in my chest. “You need that knee looked at if you’re ever going to have a career, Kemp. This is what’s best for everyone.”

“Coach.” My voice drops and tears fill my eyes. “Please.”

“I gave you one more chance, Kemp. And you betrayed me.” He finally looks at me, and he’s got tears in his eyes, too. “Don’t bother coming to practice today. You’re going to start rehab next week.”

“But Ally—“

“Goodbye, Kemper.” Coach doesn’t look at me again. My whole world just exploded underneath his fingers, and I can’t even be mad at him.

I’m mad at myself. I knew better and I fucked up. I made a promise and I broke it. In that moment, I became my father.

It’s funny, I thought the worst day of my life was when I lost my mom.

Turns out it was the day I lost everything else.

R
ehab is
a special level of hell. A level of hell reserved for people who lead mediocre baseball careers and are trying to milk the junket. A level of hell reserved for people who don’t ever see the action out on the field.

Don’t get me wrong, okay. Injuries happen and injuries are common. Lots of great players have to dip their toes into rehab and the Trips circuit to heal. But I am not your average player and I don’t belong here. I belong in the dirt, under the stadium lights. Physical therapy is not my home. Not now, not ever.

Okay, the guys here are pretty cool. Lots of dudes who have blown out their knees, too. Luckily, I didn’t need surgery and just sprained the fuck out of my knee, but some of these guys have torn their ACL or PCLs and needed surgery. Thank fuck I didn’t need
that
, because my career really would be over. Going in as a free agent with a bum knee? Ha. Right.

“Keemmpp!” Rodrigo slaps my back as I walk in. He’s one of our bullpen pitchers, but sprained his elbow. Death to a pitcher right there. He’s been down here most of the season, but he’s finally about to be cleared to start pitching in the Trips. I’m jealous, because if he heals up quick, he’ll be able to pitch in the postseason. Postseason is like Christmas for ball players. Everything is magical and awesome. Furthermore, the Royals are kicking ass and taking names without me, and another visit to the series is looking like a sure thing. “What’s shakin’, brother?”

Sometimes, he reminds me of Jamie. “Your mom, brother.”

“Class act, as always.”

He winks at me and starts doing some stretches before pairing up with his physical therapist. He gets the hot one today, lucky bastard. I’ve been stuck with Ivan for weeks and I’m about to kill him.

Look, I’m not the judgiest guy in the world, and plenty of people swear by chakras or whatever the fuck, and I’m generally into letting everyone do their own thing. Ivan, however, keeps trying to purge my aura and shit and I’m about six seconds away from choking him out with my belt. I don’t want to hear his hippie nonsense ever again, and it’s like the universe is personally trying to punish me by setting us up together every day.

Seriously, a whole staff of physical therapists, and Ivan will not get off my ass.

Put me through the worst physical pain imaginable, I can handle it. But another day of Ivan reminding me I store my emotional pain in my shoulders and encouraging me to confront my problems—goddamnit. The last thing I want to do is confront my heartbreak. I just want to suffocate it in the pain of a thousand practices.

“Wanna trade today?” I long for someone who only wants to discuss my actual physical pain. To discuss how relieve stress on a joint, to give me PT exercise. My emotions are not what I want to discuss with my closest friends, much less a stranger.

Plus, having someone of the fairer, sweeter sex touch me again would be a welcome change, even if it does cause a bit of discomfort.

“Hell naw.” Rodrigo laughs, drawing me back to the moment. “I’m going to ask her to dinner today, brother. She’s mine.”

“Well shit.” I frown, watching Ivan come into the room and make a beeline for me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Good luck with that, man.”

“Kemper!” Ivan calls. Even his voice grates my nerves. High-pitched and lilty and fully annoying as fuck. “Are you ready?”

“Sure thing.” I crack a fake smile and follow Ivan across the room to start doing some stretches and meditate my way to a brighter future.

These things hurt like a sumbitch, and I’m not a wuss. It appears while trying to save my career and bang the coach’s daughter, I nearly tore my PCL. Thankfully, it remained a sprain, but it’s a pretty bad one that has me limping and icing and seeing this dreadlocked dumbfuck six days a week.

“Let’s start by taking some deep breaths to center your energy.” Ivan closes his eyes and mimics the breathing. “We want to tap into the wells of your inner strength. This will help heal your energy, and your energy will heal your knee.”

I roll my eyes and flip off Rodrigo from across the room, who returns the gesture with a wild grin on his face. Fucker.

Still, I take a breath and try to steady myself. When I close my eyes, though, all I can see is Ally’s face. It’s all I can ever see. When I see another woman out in public, I immediately compare her to Ally. I find features that are similar, find ways in which Ally is more perfect. I dream about her every night. I jerk off to memories of her naked body like eight times a day. Ally is all I can think about, and it appears I can’t even catch a goddamn break even while at physical therapy.

Ivan stretches my knee and works it, all while I’m trying not to lose my shit and cry. It hurts and each twinge of pain brings about images of my totally fucked career. Maybe I should go into sports journalism and be one of the commentators for the games.

I can join Denny Matthews and Steve Stewart up in the booth and still spend the rest of my life around baseball.

At least then I’d never have to think about her.

Except I don’t want to sit in a booth with a tie. I want to be out in the dirt. Look, that dirt has goddamn magical healing properties. It’s where my soul belongs, not in some sterile environment with Hippie Woo Woo working my knee up while talking about finding my happy place.

I want to shout, “Do you know where my happy place is? It’s with Ally Holstead.”

This wouldn’t be so terrible if I had her to come home to every night. Instead, I go home to an empty house and listen to my boys talk shit before they go out for a game. At least Jamie comes by with beer on off nights, or after a game, but they are all busy with their careers. Who gives a shit about poor Kemper Fife, stuck in Triple A hell with a bum knee?

Eric calls during a break with decent news. “The Astros are talking trades for the off-season. They know you’re on the DL, but Altuve is in talks with the Brewers right now.”

“Fuck me. Houston? Isn’t it hot as fuck down there?”

“Yeah, but Hinch is a great coach. You might like it. It’s a bigass city, Kemp. You could get lost there. Plenty of tail, plenty of booze. It’s your kind of style, like a bigger Kansas City.”

“You know who else is a great coach? Holstead.”

“Well Hols isn’t renewing your contract, so it’s time to talk business about our next move. Just think about it. How’s rehab?”

“I fucking hate this guy.” I step outside in the sun and close my eyes against it. Could I live in Houston? Could I be an Astro? I just don’t know. I don’t like the heat. This is about as hot as I’ll take it. My buddy Colby is an outfielder for the Astros and all he ever does is bitch about how fucking hot it gets during games and practice. Then again, they have one of the few stadiums with a closed roof and air conditioning.

And Coach was happy there. Much as he wouldn’t admit it now, I’m a lot like him. I could probably be happy anywhere the game is, really.

“If he talks about my chakras one more time, I’m going to kick him in the nuts,” I turn the conversation back to rehab.

“Play nice, Kemp. We need the knee in tip-top shape if we’re going to get some good trades.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“All right, listen, you’ve had a shitty few weeks. If you need to, punch the fucker out, but do it where there are no cameras, okay?”

“I don’t know, Eric. Everyone seems to really dig Bad Boy Kemper Fife. Maybe I should host another press conference and beat the shit out of him on live television.”

“Oh, the public totally does. They eat you up with a goddamn spoon. Coaches, on the other hand…”

I sigh and bum a cigarette from Rodrigo as he steps outside. Yeah, coaches don’t exactly love me anymore. Maybe I could be a new man in Houston. We pound them every series, but the dudes are pretty solid. And Hinch really is a decent guy. I followed his career as a kid, too.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Great! Think it over quick, though, because I want to get our foot in the door as soon as possible. Take care of that knee, Kemp.”

“Sure thing.” We hang up and Rodrigo cocks an eyebrow at me. “Houston is interested.”

Rodrigo lets out a low whistle. “They’re pretty up and coming. A young team, but a good one.”

“They ain’t no Royals.”

“Neither are you.” Rodrigo looks pointedly at me.

“Fuck off.”

He grins. “Listen, I’ve got a proposition, but you can’t tell a soul I said something. I mean, not one goddamn person because it’ll come back to me and someone will string me up by my fucking toes.”

“Okay.” I don’t really care about his date with Erica the Physical Therapist, but he gave me a cigarette, so the least I can do is listen. “Shoot.”

“My buddy is a baseball coach at the University of Arizona.”

Now he has my attention. I turn to face him so I don’t miss a single word. As it turns out, the University of Arizona is on my list of Shit I Will Pay Attention To, a list which has been greatly decreased over the past few weeks.

“They are looking for a new assistant coach. Some shit went down with their old one. Can’t really say because fuck knows who is listening, but I know that Ally went to U of A, and I may have mentioned that you might be interested in the job.”

“And?” I nearly fall over. A coaching position? Better yet, a coaching position in the same space as my Ally?

“When they heard
the
Kemper Fife might be interested, they nearly shit themselves. Or, my buddy did, anyway. Want me to give him your information?”

I don’t want to look too desperate, so I just nod. “Thanks, man.”

“It’s no Houston.”

“I’m on the decline.” I exhale the cigarette smoke and toss the butt, no longer self-destructive enough to care to smoke.

In reality, my mortality in the baseball world has been looming over my head since my knee started fucking up. Here’s the sight of what will end my fall, and it may not be sharp rocks after all.

“I’m 28 with a bum knee. How many guys do you know who honestly play past 30 or 32? I had maybe four years left before I fucked my knee up. Now? Questionable,” I want to be sold on this, not to be desperate.

“Jamie always said you’d make a good coach. I’ve watched you during batting practice.”

“I like helping people out,” No, I love it. It’s my jam.

“Well, maybe you can help them out in Arizona, close to your girl.”

“Yeah, maybe. I think my agent would kill me, though. Or shit, Coach might find out and murder me.” The actual legit problem.

“What can he do when you don’t work for him anymore?”

“You trying to get me killed?”

Rodrigo doesn’t say anything, just slaps me on the shoulder and ducks back inside. I need to go back in to get iced, but now the wheels in my brain are turning. Could I be a coach? Could I give up everything I worked so hard for to work at a college in Arizona?

A college that happens to hold the girl whose mere presence sets my heart aflame? We haven’t texted since that day at her dads, no matter how badly I wanted to. I needed to give her space and respect the new life she was trying to build. I encouraged her to do it, after all. Would she even still want me?

What if she found someone else? Coach did say it was a place for her to forget me. What if she did?

That same sinking feeling takes over my gut and I know there’s only one thing to do: I have to try. I have to give it everything I’ve got to get her back. Ally is my sweet spot, my happy place, and I need to get her back.

I’m icing up my knee when the phone rings, a number I don’t recognize from Arizona. My heart races, but I don’t answer. Is this something I’m willing to do? Am I willing to shirk my entire career to chase a girl?

And then I remember all my time on the field, helping the guys with their batting stances and swings, or working on their fielding. I remember the time we all were guest coaches for a local little league team, and how amazing it was to help these young kids fully realize their love of baseball and how to be better at it.

I remember that sweet kid in the hospital, when I went with Ally, and how passionate he was about the game and how excited he was to talk about it with me. Maybe coaching is my calling after all. Maybe this is life trying to right itself after all the shit it put me through.

I don’t call the number back until I’m at home, fearful someone nearby is going to hear and fuck up my chances to continue playing ball in case this doesn’t pan out. Can’t really jump ship until I have a backup in place. That would be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.

“Hey, this is Kemper Fife, returning a phone call from this number?”

“Mr. Fife!” A voice full of gravel and experience answers me on the other line. “My name is Derrick Schwartz, head coach for the Arizona Wildcats. How are you doing?”

“Great, thanks.” My heart still races and I don’t remember being this nervous since I went up in the draft for the first time, seven years earlier. “You can call me Kemp.”

“All right, Kemp.” I can hear him smiling. “I hear you are interested in being a Wildcat.”

“Yes, sir. Life in the majors, while great, is turning a little hectic for me. I’ve also had a major knee injury that is going to color the rest of my career. As much as I love playing long ball, I have a special passion for coaching and the time feels right.”

“You’ve certainly had your way with the news recently.”

“Uh, yes, sir.” I laugh on the phone, but wince. “I guess you could say the fame got a little to my head. But I want to buckle down and really focus on the game, in a way that matters. I understand my name is associated with chaos, but I’m a damn good ball player and I want to be known for that. Instead of having a bunch of paps follow me and try to make news every day, I want to act like a normal human being. To live like they won’t come. And after a while, I think they won’t.”

It’s Derrick’s turn to laugh. “I can understand that, son. However, working in education can be just as explosive. You’re expected to behave yourself here and not make waves.”

“Well, sir, I’d like to think I’m pretty good at keeping my head down when it needs to be.”

“It doesn’t need to be in the majors?”

Ouch. “It does, sir. It does. I’ve really cleaned up my act. Let’s be honest, though. My time in the majors is coming to an end. I’m on the higher end of the age range and this knee injury isn’t doing me any favors.”