Page 78 of Fair Ball

Brett has been catching the whole game, and Austin looks good, at least from where I’m sitting. He appears calm, although he’s avoided his brother all day, from what I can see of the field and dugout. They’re forced to communicate for the pitches, but beyond that, I highly doubt Austin has been a chatty Cathy.

Especially after they brought Doug out onto the field with some other retired players before the start of the game. Austin and Brett both look like him. He’s good-looking and still in shape for his age, with salt-and-pepper hair and a smile that seems a little too practiced. I didn’t notice any interactions between him and Austin, but Brett did clasp hands with him and pose for pictures.

I don’t know for sure, but I imagine that Austin probably refused, sitting in the corner by himself—warning others away with his glare. But he’s supposed to be having fun. That’s the whole point of this stupid game and week. Good old-fashioned fun.

The bottom of the fifth arrives without Austin giving up any runs, but there is some signaling between the coaches that I know means he’s done for the game, and as he makes his way toward the dugout, he lifts his cap in a salute in every direction of the stadium as the crowd cheers for him. I hope that means the tide has turned for how he’s treated by fans and how he feels toward them—not believing the bullshit.

Austin Ashwood is not the spare. He is a good player and deserves recognition, so I’m happy he’s getting it here today. I only hope he takes it to heart.

By the seventh inning stretch, I’m a sweaty mess, and even though I’ve reapplied sunscreen, I know my shoulders have burned. But right when I move, intent on buying some waters for Noah and myself, two are offered to me. I turn to the man I’ve never seen before, even though he greets me by name. “Hello, Millie.”

“Hello…?”

“I’m Malcolm King,” he says as I hand off the bottles of water to Noah, because it occurs to me this is Austin’s PR guy. The one assigned to help remake his image.

“Oh, hi. I didn’t… How did you know I was here?”

He inclines his head. “I have eyes and ears everywhere.”

I give in to a smile and then accept the proffered fan he holds out to me. “I’m melting.”

He agrees with me, although he looks great. Malcolm’s probably about 5’8” or 5’9”, Black, and impeccably dressed. Unlike me, he has not one bead of sweat on him, and he’s dressed in linen shorts and a button-down that’s open at the collar and shows off his toned arms. He could be a model for Ralph Lauren, and when I tell him so, he laughs. “I appreciate the compliment, but I think these teams’ front offices would prefer I stay right where I am.”

“That’s because you’re so good at your job.”

He gestures toward me. “And you’ve been good at yours.”

I must make some kind of face because he points to his ears, reminding me that he hears everything. So I ask him straight out, “What have you heard?”

He lifts a nonchalant shoulder. “Well, any time I’ve emailed or texted Austin the last few weeks, he actually responds. Politely. I can only assume you’re rubbing off on him, and maybe his outlook is changing.”

“I hope.”

“It is. He’s happier. Believe me. I saw him when…” He glances toward the field, as if he doesn’t want to finish his sentence, but I wait him out, and he eventually faces me once more. “He’s been through some things, and believe me, he is happier now. Here. With you.”

“As his assistant,” I say, and he nods once, amusement crinkling his eyes.

“Sure.”

I swallow down the question ready to leap out about what he’s heard about Austin and me and the fact that apparently everyone, including my own son, knows we have the hots for each other. Instead, I ask a more important one. “So you know what happened? Between Austin and his family? With Brett?”

Again, he nods.

“But you won’t tell me?”

He shakes his head.

“Why not?”

“It’s not my story to tell.”

“Yeah, but…” I lift my hand then let it flop down. I don’t have an actual argument other than I care about him and I want to know what’s hurt him so bad. “He’s so secretive.”

“He’ll tell you when he’s ready. I only know because I happened to be there on a day when liquor loosened his lips.” When I huff and roll my eyes, Malcolm inclines his head toward me. “Maybe he’s rubbing off on you too.”

Well, he’s certainly rubbing something, but I keep my inside thoughts to myself. Good thing, too, because Noah pops up next to me. I motion to him. “Malcolm, this is my son, Noah.”

Noah waves and Malcolm says, “Very nice to meet you.”