Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Kill time.
Right.
He went straight for his Eve folder. Pictures of his wife. Anything to remind him why he was sore and exhausted and returning to this hellhole of a locker room, day in and day out. With their losses mounting and the press calling for a restructuring of the coaching staff, morale was at an all-time low. There was none of the camaraderie and jokes Madden was used to in the locker room setting. Just a lot of bitching and mouthing off.
Before he could swipe to his Eve folder, a text popped up from Elton.
Surprise, it read. With a picture attached.
Madden tapped immediately, his heart knocking loudly against his ribs at the photo displayed on his screen. Elton was holding up the phone, taking a group selfie that included him, Robbie, Skylar, Veda. And Eve.
Eve was there. At his game.
Madden fumbled the phone, the device bouncing off the locker to the ground and skidding a couple of feet. “Fuck.”
“That bodes well for the game,” Ruiz drawled.
“Throw the ball well enough and I’ll bloody catch it.”
Ruiz ignored the jab for once, pointing to the phone, which was still on the floor with the selfie on display. “Who is that?”
“Some friends. They’re in one of the boxes,” Madden grumbled, crouching down to scoop up the device. “My wife is there too,” he tacked on, for some reason. Maybe he just loved saying my wife in his head and couldn’t stop himself from seizing the opportunity to say it out loud too. This man wasn’t going to give a shite and he’d repeat it to no one, because Ruiz had proven to be nothing more than a narcissist who thought the entire world revolved around him.
“You’re married?”
Madden did a surprised double take. “Yes, but it’s . . . complicated. I’d rather not—”
“Guys, did you know Donahue was married?”
“Nah,” responded an unseen teammate.
A couple of locker slams. “Where you been hiding her?”
“I’m not hiding her.” On the other side of the locker room, a couple of official Yankee reporters lingered, comparing notes. They didn’t seem to be paying attention to the conversation, thankfully, but that could easily change. “Would you mind keeping it down?”
“You don’t want people to know you’re married?”
Now one of the reporters’ heads popped up, splitting his interest between Madden and Ruiz, giving Madden no choice but to take a spot on the bench beside Ruiz. “I’d rather keep my personal life to myself,” Madden said in a low voice. “That’s all.”
“Don’t worry, man. No one gives a shit about catchers.”
“Thanks.”
Ruiz sighed. “Ah, I’m only fucking with you.”
“It’s becoming a pattern.”
“Well. You’re an easy target. It’s nice to be able to hit a target these days, you know? Any fucking target.” Ruiz tapped the tip of his glove against the inside of his knee. “Starts used to be so easy. I knew what was expected of me and I executed. My ERA was two my second year in the league. Two. Soon as it started to slip, everyone around me lost faith.” He shook his head. “I had no idea my personal faith was so tied up in theirs. Can’t even find it anymore. Can’t even find the fucking point of this.”
Sure, Ruiz was talking about himself. Not exactly shocking. But he’d never gone this long without blaming someone else for his performance and that was worth noting. Normally, Madden would walk away now. It wasn’t his place to counsel anyone. What could he possibly offer by way of wisdom? He didn’t feel like keeping quiet anymore, though. Didn’t feel like blending into the scenery. Maybe . . . he had something of value to offer here. More constructive than calling Ruiz an overpriced crybaby this time.
“To be fair, your whole life, you’re working toward being a professional. Then it’s about winning championships. Leaving a legacy behind. But once you’ve secured that, once they’ve put that crown on your head, some of that drive is . . . diminished.”
“Good talk.” Ruiz wiped away a fake tear. “I’m feeling so inspired.”
Madden sighed, but he didn’t let the sarcasm deter him. “Why did you play? In the beginning.”
“What else? The promise of greatness.”
“You’ve achieved greatness now,” Madden said. “Let’s say you allow yourself to stop chasing that. What else is there?”
“Nothing.” Ruiz opened his mouth, closed it, looking at Madden curiously for the first time. “Why do you catch?”
Madden hesitated, never having voiced the truth out loud. “The goal at first was to be accepted in a new place, to blend in with new people. To observe from behind the mask. Although I’ve resented the sport for a long time for those exact reasons. The mask kept me quiet. Hidden. Like I was . . .”
“Growing up,” Ruiz finished for him, with an astute squint.
Madden nodded in affirmation, staring straight ahead. “Anyway, now a lot of this is for her. The sport gave me something to offer her and . . . I guess that broke up the resentment. More and more, I’m seeing baseball with fresh eyes.”