Page 207 of Just for the Plot
Bennett:Pointing out people’s mistakes gets you nowhere.
OC:Oh yeah? I beg to differ. I told Graydon when he was being an idiot with Maple and he fixed it. I told you hooking Bower up with Gator was a huge mistake and you fixed that.
Bennett:His name is Cougar!
OC:Huh, why do I keep doing that?
Graydon:Because you’re a dumbass.
The stadium is loud tonight. Really fucking loud.
The pressure to win almost feels overwhelming. We’ve had our ups and downs this season, some real highs and some fucking terrible lows. And this is the first time since I’ve been on this team that I’ve felt the fans are behind us after the cheating scandal.
I don’t know whether that’s because we’re possibly in the playoffs or because some of the PR I’ve been doing has paid off, but the vibe feels different.
Very different.
Warm-ups are over, the field is being marked up and refined after we took our batting practice, and the stadium is filling up, fans filing into their seats. Up on the Jumbotron, they’re playing highlights from the season, the crowd cheering over one of my home runs. I watch the clip, the casual way I trot the bases, no celebration, just a solid understanding that that’s what’s expected of me.
“I remember that hit,” Asher Peppers says, shocking the shit out of me.He’s our snarly catcher that talks to no one. Don’t think he’s said more than five words to me since I came on the team.
So consider me confused that he’s talking to me now. “Yeah?” I ask, unsure of what else to say.
He rests his head against the wall behind him as we both sit on the top part of the bench in the dugout. “Yeah, it was the first time I knew you were going to be a franchise player.”
A franchise player? As in someone who represents the team their entire career? Like a Derek Jeter?
“That’s a pretty heavy thing to say.”
“I mean it,” he says as I hold my breath, because I feel like if I make too much movement, I might scare him away. “You will do well here. The fans already love you.”
“What about you?” I ask, feeling like I need to offer him a compliment. “The fans love you.”
“Don’t blow steam up my ass. They tolerate me.”
That’s a lie. They love him, even when he’s a giant asshole in press conferences. I think that’s when they like him the most.
“I’ve been tainted; you haven’t,” he says. “You’re the new face of the club. Don’t fucking blow it.”
“You weren’t part of the scandal, though,” I say. Asher never took part in the cheating. You can look back at all the videos that proved that the Bombers were stealing signs, and he was never one of them, but he was here when it happened.
“Doesn’t matter, guilty by association.” He spits out a few sunflower seeds. No idea when he put those in his mouth. “It’s my last year. Doesn’t fucking matter either way.”
“Wait, really?” I ask, wanting to turn toward him, but he’s not facing me, so therefore, I feel like this is a conversation we’re having that doesn’t look like a conversation to those watching.
“Yeah.”
“Does anyone know?”
“You.”
“Why just me?” I ask.
“Because.” He sighs and stares out at the field. “I love this team. I’ve given everything I have to it—my fucking blood, sweat, and tears. And even though I’m leaving, with my number stained with a scandal, it doesn’t mean I don’t love this team any less. I want to see it succeed, and it will best succeed with you at the helm.”
“I have so much to learn,” I say, thinking about the weight of that responsibility.
“You’ll learn along the way. But if I were you, I’d keep your moral compass. I lost mine along the way and should have reported the cheating. But never did. That’s on me. Don’t make the same fucking mistake I did.” Then he turns his head to the side and says, “Got it?”
