Chapter Text
Shane:
Shane rubbed a scab on his left forearm, just under the pad of his thumb. He had forgotten how he broke the skin. The wound was no bigger than a freckle, but he found it.
He needed to find something to do in the thrumming silence while he waited to meet with the Blues’ President of Baseball Operations. Scrolling his phone in an empty boardroom when Zimmerman and his team arrived would seem anxious, or worse—childish. But he was doing something far weirder, massaging a scab in circles, leaning into the sensation of it, the smoothness of the dried clot, the faint hurt of applying pressure.
He took a deep breath. The breath broke his rhythm. His thumbnail dragged on the scab, ripping it open. Blood seeped from the wound’s edges.
Shane heard something. He startled when he realized it was the slow, metallic clicking of a door handle. Raising his chin, he tore his gaze away from his arm. The door to the boardroom began to open. He covered up the small, bloody wound with his right hand. He stood as Jacob Zimmerman entered the room, followed by a trail of staff.
“Shane Hollander, good to finally meet you,” Zimmerman said. Zimmerman smiled at Shane broadly as he approached, offering his hand to him. Shane instinctively offered his own. His palm was still smeared with blood. Their eyes met. Zimmerman did not appear to notice anything.
“Good to meet you, too,” Shane said. That was a lie. He hated that he was here. He hated that this trade had happened. Once Zimmerman let go, Shane wiped his hand on his jeans. He glanced down. His hand was still streaked with blood, just dry now. “Glad to be here,” Shane added, remembering that was the kind of thing people say.
“We have a lot planned for you,” Zimmerman said. Shane suppressed a wince.
Ilya:
The pitch clock was counting down. There was one out to go. The Los Angeles crowd was silent, standing at attention. Ilya took a deep breath, wiped his knuckles on his pants and tried to ignore the quiet: no beer vendors shouting, no chatting, no cheering. This was the first time he had been nervous on the mound since scouts came to watch him during high school.
He worked the rosin bag longer than usual, pressing the powder into his palms until the tack returned and he could find his grip again. The final pitch was processed only as its aftermath: Ilya blacked out during it. What he absorbed was the crack of the ball on the mitt, the umpire's grunt, teammates rushing him, a prospect whose name he kept forgetting mussing his hair. He had thrown a no-hitter. His mind was taking a second to catch up.
“You did it. You did it. You did it,” his catcher, Skip Lacey, shouted as he came barreling toward him, joyful and boyish like everyone else. That was one of the things Ilya loved about baseball, the way men and children celebrate a big win is always identical. His eyes burned as journalists and cameramen circled him. The crowd chanted Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, with an extra syllable, but he had adjusted to that when he moved to America at age five. It didn’t bother him.
The on-field reporter approached slowly. She waited for eye contact that would indicate he was ready to have a microphone in front of his face. The jumping had left him out of breath. He doubled over, holding his knees, looking at the red dirt that was now staining his uniform from when he stole a base. He could have kissed the ground, grateful to even the dirt for letting it happen.
A click-click-click-click sounded behind him. He straightened quickly and blinked hard. It was the shutter of a camera, inches from his ear. Personal space had become something he couldn’t expect now that he had become this famous.
“Ilya, congratulations,” the reporter said into the microphone, her voice reverberating through the speakers of the stadium. The crowd roared in response.
He wanted rest. He wanted to drive home and kiss his twins. He wanted a long hug. He smiled for the camera.
“Thank you,” Ilya said.
The crowd continued chanting his name, and he slipped into a version of himself that knew how to receive it.
Once able to leave the field, he entered the dugout shadow, then the concrete tunnel, which swallowed the crowd noise until it became a low, muffled pulse. His cleats echoed against the floor. The air was cooler here. His senses were heightened from the adrenaline, but he was starting to come down. Skip was waiting at the end of the hallway, still in his catcher’s gear, chest protector unstrapped and hanging loose.
“There’s a clubhouse meeting before the circus. Price told me to tell you.” Skip always called press conferences “the circus.” The tilt of Skip’s head and his expression made the delivery apologetic.
“Thanks.” He nodded wearily. He was starting to register dirt and sweat clinging to him. All he wanted to do was stand under the showers, process what had just happened, but he knew there would be more cameras waiting for him in the media room, more questions.
There was a constant flurry of high fives to give, pats to receive, praise to hear as Ilya made his way to the clubhouse. To his relief, the focus started to leak away from him as his teammates muttered to each other about why the impromptu meeting was called.
As the team filed through the hallways of the stadium to the clubhouse, Chris, a bearded, redheaded pitcher, gently elbowed Ilya. “They traded one of our guys. This front office really bums me out sometimes.”
“Oh?” Ilya replied.
“They say ‘Oh we'll do anything we can to help you.’ Next thing you know you're traded for a Cuban teenager in A-ball and living in Cincinnati.”
Frankly, he did not have the energy for this griping. “I didn’t know about the trade,” he said, which was true, at least. It must have been a reliever who was released or traded. Chris was close with the English-speakers in the bullpen. He pitched there last season. This year he was a starter. Ilya wasn’t expecting this, and he didn’t like the midseason trades, the way they unsettled a player’s life, but he did not want to engage in Chris’s constant negativity. Chris was too young to be this jaded.
Ilya wished he had time to call his mother. He never really believed he would throw a no-hitter, and his mother didn’t understand baseball terribly well, but she understood no-hitters. Maybe she watched it? It was hard to say. She lived such a vibrant life, which she deserved, always out of the house, volunteering at church, socializing, now that she was retired. Before Ilya was drafted at eighteen, with an eight million dollar signing bonus, Irina worked sixty hours a week cleaning homes for rich Russian families who had settled in Manhattan. As he walked to the clubhouse, he found himself reliving the moment they found out about the signing bonus, what it meant for them. Irina held his face and said,“God told me you’d take care of me. He told me you’d be worth it. I’m so glad I listened.” It had been such a heavy thing to hear at the moment. It still weighed on Ilya. He had never realized she had held that belief privately.
Chris and Ilya were some of the last players to file into the clubhouse. It was barred from press until the meeting had concluded. Ilya took a seat near his locker. The bottom of his ribs started to ache. He needed to drink more water.
The manager, John Price, was standing next to Skip. The pair whispered to each other. Skip nodded gravely, hands on his hips, like he was considering something. Once the coaches and trainers confirmed every player was present, the door to the clubhouse was shut.
Price cleared his throat. “We’ve had a trade, some of you may know. Smith is on his way to Houston. Best of luck to him. We appreciate the contributions he made, but you all know, I can’t control it. This meeting is about the player who is joining us. There are expectations I have regarding him that are pretty easy to meet. I’m gonna let Skip speak to them.”
Price sat down. Skip stepped forward and waited for the Spanish and Japanese and Korean interpreters to repeat in low, hushed tones what had just been said to their assigned players. The language barrier some of the foreign players had to deal with made Ilya grateful that he had immigrated young enough to acquire English, even though he could never completely get rid of the accent, young enough to learn baseball from the neighborhood kids. It was never lost on him how different his life could be.
“Listen up. The media is going to ask you about what you think, so I’ll just tell you, Shane Hollander was traded to the team.”
“What?” Chris said.
“Damn,” someone else muttered.
“Get out the shock now,” Skip drawled; his Southern accent colored almost every word.
Shane Hollander. Ilya clenched his jaw. He processed this news unmoving, leaning back in his chair, arms folded, trying to appear unreactive. He tried to remember what he knew about him. He recalled a man who spent every free moment of the last two Summer Showcases glued to his phone, wearing enormous black headphones, unreachable. He had two no-hitters to his name already despite being Ilya’s age. Shane’s father, David Hollander, was a Hall of Famer, the record holder for strikeouts. His father was—not that.
“Whatever you’ve heard about Shane Hollander, disregard it. You don’t have the whole story. Don’t be an ass. Be welcoming.”
Skip waited for the interpreters to catch up, looking annoyed.
“Hollander is sometimes going to be on a different schedule than everyone else. He may leave early during games he’s not starting. Don’t interrogate him. Just know, it’s best for the team. Alright? Be welcoming. Ignore what you’ve heard. That’s it. Alright.”
Skip sat down.
A clubbie opened the door to the clubhouse, indicating the end of the team meeting. Ilya took that as his cue to head to the media room for the press conference, which was usually only necessary after playoff games. At the threshold of the clubhouse, he remembered he had to go back to his locker. On the top shelf where the alternate color hats lived, he found his plain gold wedding band. He slipped it on. The metal was cold against his skin.
He had never gotten used to wearing it: its pressure on his skin felt like hearing an old refrigerator humming. And it shouldn't have felt so rote and dull already, he knew that much. The press conferences, the huge extension, life in Los Angeles, knowing that he was going home to a family that loved him, all of that should add up to feeling different. It should have felt better than this. But this wasn’t the time to think about whether or not he was enjoying himself. People were waiting on him.
He checked a mirror to his left. His face was clean, but in the reflection he noticed blood pooling around the cuticle of his index finger. He held out his hand and examined it, not remembering how he had cut it. There wasn’t enough to fuss about it. He could grab a tissue somewhere. Ilya walked to the press conference, still bleeding.
Shane:
The rideshare dropped him off exactly at 2:00pm. He preferred being on time, and he regretted that he didn’t make it into the clubhouse until 2:05pm. Inside, the players milling about seemed to have been there long before him. He was confused. Maybe he would arrive a little earlier tomorrow. Shane glanced around, standing there, feeling like the new kid in school—a familiar feeling; his dad moved seven times during his childhood, trying to stay relevant in baseball. Thanks, Dad. A few players gave him nods of acknowledgement but didn’t say anything.
He saw his new number and name printed on a locker tag, so he set his backpack down and took a closer look. New Blues uniforms were already hung up. He ran his fingertips over the cool, breathable fabric. He could still imagine how his locker looked in Houston. He felt pressure behind his eyes.
Too late to think about all that. He took his phone out of his pocket, trying to distract himself. He checked his messages. There were two since this morning—his phone was perpetually on ‘Do Not Disturb.’ Shane didn’t like surprises.
Meghan: hey, call me when you get a chance?
Dad: you never called me about your meeting yesterday. How’d it go? Give me a call when you can
He rubbed his eyes, annoyed. Both of these messages asked for calls, as if they couldn’t just keep texting back and forth. It was going to make him anxious and distracted if he had the call with his dad looming over him. He needed to get it over with. Someone was in his peripheral vision. He turned. It was Skip Lacey. Shane knew him on sight. He knew every player who lasted more than a season. Skip was going to the Hall of Fame.
“Hi,” Shane said. He removed his headphones.
“Welcome, Shane. I’m—”
“Skip–Samuel–Lacey, I know. You’re kind of a big deal. You caught a no-hitter yesterday. One more, and you’ll be in a three-way tie for the most no-nos ever caught.” He shook his hand. He generally got along well with catchers, for whatever reason.
“Wow, son. You know your baseball. Nice to meet you, Shane. Been a while since someone used my government name.” Skip smiled and patted him on the back. “I wanted to alert you to one thing, Shane. We usually arrive around 1:30pm, maybe as late as 1:45.”
“The handbook says 2pm.”
“There are lots of things the handbook is missing or is wrong about. Why don’t I show you the ropes?”
Shane bit his lip, thinking. “I wouldn’t retain more than like one or two things. If you write it down, I’ll remember. Also, I gotta make some phone calls real quick, before I meet with the Wellness Coordinator. Sorry.” The meeting with the wellness coordinator wasn’t for hours, but Skip didn’t know that.
“We have a Wellness Coordinator now? Huh. I’ll see you around then.” Skip ambled away, his face scrunched like he was thinking about something else now.
Shane went into an empty meeting room that was set up like a classroom, probably used for viewing footage with players.
Once alone and seated, he swiped and scrolled to his Favorites. There were only two names. Coach M and Dad. He considered this pathetic, but considered himself pathetic in the way cancer was pathetic, a fact of life. He hit the phone icon for Dad, and it began to ring. Shit. He dragged a hand down his face.
“Shane.”
“Hey, Dad,” he said, forcing his voice into something low and cool.
“How’d the meeting go, son?”
“Um, really well actually. It went well. I have a second one today, but it's more casual.”
“What did they say yesterday? They bring up–”
“They said they believe me when I said I don't have a drinking problem.” He was careful not to use the word alcoholic, which was never a word he would ever say to his father, who called his own drinking “tendencies.”
“Well, that's good. I’m glad they took your word for it. Unlike the Meteors. Christ. I can't believe they traded you. After everything I had given to the organization–”
“It's over. And they didn't take my word for it exactly. They looked at my medical information. That stuff is all in the files the Blues got before they traded for me. My meds, the diagnosis–it's all in my files–”
“You know I never really thought you had bipolar. You just had that one episode at eighteen–”
“Dad, I haven't had a second one because I take my meds.”
“Alright, if you say so–”
“Anyway, they said they can fix my sleep issues. Um… they’ll be using a psychiatrist instead of the team doctor. Get me on better meds. I don't know— they say he’s the best in LA. He’s a professor.”
“Sleep. That’s hard to believe. You didn’t need a shrink your first season—”
“It’s the sleep issues. It’s getting fixed.”
“Don't be so defensive. I just want you to succeed. I want you to get your endorsements back. You know the David Hollander Beef Company gave me most of what I'm worth.”
“I don't want a beef company. I have money from my extension.”
“And you could have more. You should have done a commercial for the company right after you won Rookie and Pitcher of the Year. You have your mother's face. You could sell pork to—well, never mind. I won't say that. I have to remember you're too PC for that kind of joke.”
“Christ, Dad. Knock it off with the racist bullshit.” Too PC. Maybe close to another thing his father could accuse him of. Shane gritted his teeth.
“Now, you know us talking about whatever bleeding heart nonsense is in your head never goes anywhere good. Why don't we change the subject?” Shane cracked his knuckles on his thigh, remembering how Dad said ‘you’re making him soft. You’re making him worse’ to his mom when the arguments about cutting his hair escalated. The sound of barber’s clippers gave him panic attacks, so Mom said ‘just let him grow it out and let me trim it at home.’ ‘Hair like a girl,’ Dad said to both of them many times. He remembered to start breathing and let out a sigh. At least he left it alone when she died. The line went silent.
“Yeah–I just wanted you to know… Things are going to be better. But I've got to get back to the scouting reports.”
“Alright, son. You take care. Let's talk soon.”
“Sure. Bye.”
Shane ended the call. He slumped in his seat, exhausted. He started ruminating, hunched over, staring at the floor. He wondered how the Hell his life got him to LA, but without much warning, something unrelated began to take shape in his mind.
He thought about sending him a text. Or maybe he should wait longer? His indecision and anxiety around this pissed him off.
He pulled out his hair band, letting his hair fall over his shoulders. He rarely wore his hair up, but a ponytail seemed more professional for a first impression. Fuck it. It was giving him a headache. He intended to keep it up for the meeting with Zimmerman and the new Wellness Coordinator, but he couldn’t stand it anymore. He scratched the crown of his head, still thinking about what he wanted to do next.
He put his headphones back on and started his playlist. His only playlist. The first song, his favorite, had an incessant bass line and a mournful male voice. There was something reassuring about it when he was doing this shit. He closed his eyes during the bridge, listening to the acoustic guitar and whispering vocals. He took a deep breath. Before the song finished, he started it over. A compulsion.
He scrolled back a little in his messages. He found him. Coach M.
The last message was sent one week ago. A single “hey” from Shane. There had been no response.
With a heavy exhale, he typed and sent another “hey.”
Ilya:
Half the team was changing into their uniforms, which they did about three hours before the game, when the pitching coach, Neilson, came in for an announcement.
“Guys, listen up, there’s been a change to the Shooters’ lineup. Menendez went on bereavement leave. They called up a new player. When you’re changed, I need pitchers and catchers in the film room.”
“Oh shit, I hope he’s okay. I mean–I guess not. Someone died. Anyone know Menendez from the Shooters?” Chris asked, mostly speaking to the English-speaking relievers. The other players shook their heads. No. Chris was always networking. Ilya couldn’t relate to the need to know and know about everyone.
Once Ilya had changed, he sat in the film room, waiting for the meeting to start.
“It’s bullshit we have five off days in June, and then we have eighteen games straight July into August,” Chris said to someone next to him. He seemingly always had something to complain about. “The next Union Bargaining Agreement better max out the consecutive games at fifteen.” Ilya stayed quiet, eyes downcast, not fully aware, on the edge of meditating.
Neilson walked in and counted heads in the room.
“Where’s Hollander? He’s pitching during this series,” Neilson said.
The players looked at each other.
“I don't know. Haven't seen him,” Skip said.
“Shit, I’ll go look for him.” Neilson exited. A phone buzzed. The room went quiet again until Trey Jacobson, a reliever, younger than Chris, started to talk.
“Hey, Chris, you know how Smith is liking Houston?”
Chris chuckled with a hint of bitterness. “He doesn’t. He had four years left on his contract. His kid’s school is here.”
Trey shook his head, looking at his lap. “Sometimes I hate this game.”
“Kinda sucks a guy like Smith gets traded because some guy can’t handle his shit. Everyone knows why Hollander got traded. That photo the night before the Wild Card Game. And he’s been ass this season.” The talk about Hollander pulled Ilya back into reality. Chris lost his fifth starter spot to Shane. That was why he cared so much. Now he was back in the bullpen.
“Yeah,” Trey said absently, scrolling on his phone.
“But you know, my buddy Diaz has been on the Meteors the whole time Shane Hollander has. He was texting me some wild shit last night,” Chris went on.
“Like what?” Trey asked, looking up. He put his phone down.
“Shane Hollander… is a weird fucking dude.” Ilya stiffened in his chair, but he kept staring at the ground while everyone else scrolled through their phones or skimmed scouting reports on tablets.
“You can’t just say that and not tell us why,” Davis, another reliever, the youngest of the three, said.
“Okay, first of all—”
“Wait, it’s a DUI, right?” Trey interjected.
“No, that’s his dad. David Hollander. I think,” Davis replied.
Trey and Chris both gave Davis a look. Ilya was trying not to watch, trying not to listen, but they were so indiscreet.
“What?” Davis said. “His dad has like five thousand strikeouts. And I read the news.”
“Well, this part is just a rumor, but it’s the craziest shit of all. Diaz says he left college to go to rehab.”
“Rehab?” Trey asked.
“Yeah, but who knows? Diaz just heard it from a guy who heard it from a guy.”
“Wow. That's wild,” Davis said.
“Anyway,” Chris continued. “No one has ever seen him with a woman.”
"Maybe he's just private," Trey said.
“Like, literally? No girlfriend? No women on the road?” Davis asked, leaning forward in his chair, curious. He wanted to stop them. This kind of gossip undermined the team, he wanted to say. It was not even moral. But he felt the weight of baseball’s hierarchy, his face of the franchise status against the journeyman, the implications of it. Ilya’s right hand slowly curled shut. His nails dug into his palm.
“I don’t think I can be in the room with this kind of speculation about a man’s private life,” Skip said, raising his hands, as if he were half-sorry to interrupt.
“Who’s Shane Hollander to you, Skip? And it’s not speculation if it’s a fact,” Chris bit back. “I didn’t say it meant anything. I’m just saying he’s weird. He looks like that as a professional baseball player and he doesn’t have women hanging off of him? That’s weird.”
Skip said nothing in reply. Ilya held his breath.
“He looks like he walked out of a Ralph Lauren ad,” Davis said. He threw a pen above his head with his left hand and caught it with his right.
“That's specific,” Chris said, acid in his voice.
Davis’s eyes went wide. “What? I like high-quality clothing. And it's true. He looks more like an actor or model than a baseball player.” Davis put a hand on his hip and mimed flipping invisible hair in an exaggerated, effeminate manner. He laughed. No one else did.
“What’s more is the only person who has ever come to see him pitch is his dad,” Chris continued.
“Wait, that's weirder than everything else. He doesn't have friends come see him?” Trey said.
“I know. It's like, bro, where are your high school buddies? Friends from the minors? They’ve only seen him talk to his dad.”
“I almost feel sorry for the guy,” Trey said. Ilya bit the inside of his cheek. Then you shouldn't gossip about him. But he couldn’t bring himself to interject. This had to be slander at this point.
“He basically doesn’t talk to anyone but the analysts since he calls his own games.”
“Who the fuck—” Trey said.
Skip cleared his throat.
The door opened again. It was Neilson, followed by the assistant pitching coach, one of the baseball analysts, the interpreters, finally by Shane, who was still in street clothes, jeans and a black T-shirt that read “Formula 31”. Below the text was a picture of an exploded glass bottle, white liquid spreading, on a blood-red background. Shane’s eyes scoured the room as he stood there, tentative, not sitting down yet.
“In the handbook—we change two hours before the game,” Shane said to the group, clearly taken aback. Davis threw the pen in the air again, this time too far to his left. It fell to the ground. Shane was still standing there, confused.
Skip sighed, drawing attention to himself. He rubbed his temple, muttering. “That’s what the handbook says but that’s not what we do.” It was audible to the back half of the room.
Davis started laughing. All heads turned toward him. A few players looked annoyed. “I’m sorry. It’s not you, Shane,” Davis said. Next to him, Chris put a fist up to his mouth, stifling laughter.
“We’re gonna start the meeting,” Neilson said. He nodded at Shane formally, and then gave the laughing pair a stern glance.
Shane took a seat against the wall. His face was flushed. Chris and Davis finally settled down as one of the pitching analysts took the floor. Their choked back laughter reminded Ilya of his eighth grade graduation. His mom had probably bought the suit six months ago, when it fit, but it didn’t anymore. He had a growth spurt. The pants were too short. He had long socks on, but the suit still looked and felt ill-fitting. Some of the other boys couldn’t stop laughing on the stage once one of them saw and pointed it out to the others. It wasn’t that funny, but it was what they had over him, the baseball prodigy, the best athlete at the school. He was still poor, though. They weren’t.
A screen flipped on, showing a heat map. Ilya focused on the meeting. He took a deep breath. Gradually, he unclenched his fist.
Shane:
When he opened the door, Shane saw Zimmerman seated at a long table, and then a woman sitting beside him. They stood to greet him.
“Shane, good afternoon. Good to see you.” Zimmerman shook his hand vigorously. Zimmerman was so high-energy and fast-talking that Shane found him off-putting. He couldn’t relate to being that excited about anything, but he was seemingly always like this.
Zimmerman gestured to the woman standing next to him. “This is Jody Knopp. She’s our new Wellness Coordinator. She’s going to be working with you as much as you need her. She’ll also be in the background taking care of things for you so you don’t have to worry about them. Okay? Great.”
Shane followed their lead and took a seat at the table, sitting across from them. It felt vaguely like being in the principal's office. It didn’t help that he was in his baseball uniform, making him feel like a little kid in front of their business casual. They should have scheduled this earlier in the day. But it was so much better than the first meeting, which must have had a dozen people in the room while he had blood on his hand. And fuck, at least there weren’t any other players here to snicker at him.
“How’s the hotel by the way? Are you sleeping okay? Any problems?”
“It’s good. I’m sleeping fine. No problems.” He gripped the armrests of the chair for a moment, steadying himself. He wanted to be anywhere else.
“We actually have a lot to go over. It’s about a variety of things. Personally, I like starting with the agenda. Here’s the agenda.” Zimmerman handed him a piece of paper with a short, typed list. He wondered if his preference for visuals was written in his files or something.
Zimmerman began to read the headings on the paper. There was text beneath each, but Shane chose not to read ahead. “...discussing Jody’s role. Setting you up with your new psychiatrist. Changes we’re making for the whole team. Don’t worry. Jody isn’t your babysitter. She’s not here just for you.” Zimmerman looked up from the page, made eye contact, gave Shane a nod. Shane got the sense they were trying to differentiate themselves from Houston by appearing supportive rather than punitive. Shane exhaled sharply, suddenly remembering how the General Manager in Houston had called him unprofessional last off season. To the press.
“You, Shane, are the impetus we needed to institute some changes everyone from Analytics to Player Development has been begging me to make involving sleep. Lastly, Jody is going to cover some things you can start doing on your end to help you. It’s simple stuff. Are you following?”
“Yeah,” he said. He crossed his arms and found the scab again. Oh shit. Did he actually get blood on Zimmerman’s hand yesterday? It had to have been dry when they shook hands. There wasn’t that much of it. Damn. He was picking the same scab. What if Zimmerman was noticing the scab picking right now? Fuck.
“Shane?” the woman said. Jody, right. Her head was tilted to better look Shane in the eye. Shane caught himself studying the wood grain of the table. He wondered how long he had zoned out of this conversation. A second? Ten? Was she always this perceptive? Did they hire her with his diagnoses in mind?
“Sorry, I’m paying attention.” The over-air-conditioned room made him shiver. Or maybe it was embarrassment.
“I think we should be clear about something, Shane. Everyone is impressed by you. You accomplished so much on your own. You should be proud,” Jody said. She placed her arm on the table like she was reaching for him. She paused, letting Shane absorb her words, the gesture. He pursed his lips, and his mouth moved strangely because he did not know if he wanted to frown or smile.
“Okay… cool,” he said. He shrugged. Her words seemed like pity. He didn’t want it.
“We’re going to try to do our best to support you. We won’t always get it right, but we’re here to help. You'll need to meet us halfway, of course.”
“And we believe in you,” Zimmerman interjected. “The talent is there. We just need to get you right. We’re putting everything we can into it.”
Jody shot Zimmerman a look. It was pointed, as if she was telling him to be quiet. The moment would have been so funny if Shane hadn't caught the message underneath Jody’s and Zimmerman’s words. Meet us halfway. Do what we say. We're investing in you. Investments pay dividends.
“What are your thoughts so far?” Jody asked.
Shane chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. He was mostly wary of saying something that would trigger more alarm. There were things wrong with him they couldn’t dream of.
“Um… I think. I get the impression you guys are trying to help me more than Houston ever did. They knew about the bipolar but just sort of let me deal with it on my own. Yeah.” That was the best way he could put it, and yet he thought he sounded rather dumb.
“Some changes might feel hard or won’t work. But there’s no place for shame. You’re sitting in front of me because what you were doing worked. You figured out so much on your own. I want you to hold in mind that you’re not running away from old habits. You’re choosing new ones. Okay? How’re you feeling about this?”
Shane nodded. The muscles in his neck were still throbbing with tension, but he could finally breathe a little. He didn’t want to hear about how he should be proud, but at least they hadn’t dragged him in here to—it wasn’t going to hurt. “Yeah, I understand. And—uh, this feels better than whatever I was doing before. No one told me to be proud of—”
The room went quiet. They were waiting for him but he couldn't make himself speak. He didn’t want to finish his sentence, but he also didn’t know how to pivot. Zimmerman and Jody made brief eye contact. Only someone outside baseball would give Jacob Zimmerman that look. Twice. He would have loved Jody’s boldness if it weren't about him.
“For managing, Shane. You should be proud,” Jody said. She wouldn’t give up that damn word. Her smooth therapist-speak shouldn’t work on him. Shane could see through it. But what she was saying soothed something inside him. He let himself hear it.
“Thank you,” he remembered to say, and he was relieved that he did. “I’m open to changes. This is good.” Maybe that was the truth.
Ilya:
Ilya popped out to shallow right field in the first inning. He checked the footage on the dugout tablets anyway to confirm what he had known in his body. His swings were good, but the pitcher had a deceptive release he had not yet adjusted for. It was frustrating, but he would adjust. The crowd had chanted his name as he walked up, something that started because he didn’t have a walk-up song. He didn’t want to commit to a song to be known by. It was too revealing—he didn’t connect to music that way, anyway.
It was out of character, what he did before the game. He had looked up Formula 31, from Shane’s shirt, on his phone. It turned out they were a band. He listened to a few songs, looked up where they were going on tour. He didn’t know that much about rock music. He didn’t dislike it.
As the second inning began, Ilya watched his teammates idly from the dugout. The dugout thinned to the bench players, the coaches and Price, and the starting pitchers, including Shane. Shane was staring into the field while fiddling with a baseball, gripping it as if he was about to throw a curveball, then releasing it, over and over.
Ilya kept glancing over. He tried to focus on other things. It was a nice evening in Los Angeles. It was cool enough that he was wearing long sleeves under his uniform. There was a breeze on his face. The sensation was a pleasant distraction but Shane existed in his peripheral vision, sitting alone on the end of a bench. Remembering what the relievers said left Ilya with a knot in his throat. He sighed. He had to do something. He had to make him feel welcome. No one else was going to do it. He had failed morally earlier today. He owed Shane.
He drifted toward the raised bench where Shane sat, trying to appear as if it was some half-conscious thing.
“Hey,” Ilya said.“How are you settling in?”
Shane looked startled. “Uh–me? Okay. Thanks.” He went rigid, suddenly alert—where a moment ago he had seemed distant, almost relaxed. Ilya regretted the tension his presence caused. He searched his mind for how to put him at ease.
“I thought your shirt was interesting. I looked up Formula 31. I had no idea what it meant.”
“You did?” Shane paused, eyes wandering from the game to Ilya for a few moments. “Yeah, they’re a band.” He turned back toward the game.
“I listened to some of the music.”
“Really? That’s–sorry. It’s bad music.”
“What? It’s not bad music.”
Shane shook his head. “It’s childish. It’s simple music.”
“Simple isn’t always bad. I liked some of the songs.” It was maybe a slight overstatement. He found the music interesting. He hadn’t processed his preference for it.
“Which songs?”
“Remember Me. The singer usually has such a rough voice, but in this one it’s—kind of pretty. He sings like he misses someone.”
For the first time, Shane turned toward and met Ilya’s gaze fully. Ilya suddenly became aware of his own mouth parting. He had to look back at the game.
“I like that one, too. It reminds me of being a little kid. It reminds me—I mean—yeah. It’s good.”
Shane appeared slightly more relaxed now, like naming one song confirmed Ilya’s sincerity. Ilya looked back at Shane, who was still staring at him, gaze unwavering. Ilya’s eyes wandered to Shane's full lips for a moment, then back at Shane’s very intense eyes. Shane did have that actor-model look. Ilya swallowed hard. He made himself stop staring. There was a scraped out feeling in his chest.
“Do you want some water? I’m going to get some water,” Ilya said.
“Sure.” Shane shrugged. As he walked away, Shane called after him. “Oh, thank you, by the way.”
Ilya walked to the cooler and grabbed a paper cup. He pressed the button for water, watching the stream attentively, as if water and asking about a band could make up for letting the relievers gossip about Shane. He rolled his eyes, disgusted with himself for not standing up for Shane earlier. This, now, was better than nothing. He returned with two water cups.
“Thank you,” Shane said again. As he placed the paper cup in Shane’s hand, Shane stared, unblinking, like he was still trying to figure him out. Ilya took a sip of water, then faced the action of the game. Shane copied him. Julio was racking up a high pitch count this inning. He walked a batter after a long 3-2 count battle.
“Formula 31 is going to play in Los Angeles at a festival in November, I saw. If you’re in town, we should go.” When he started playing for the Blues, a veteran pitcher took Ilya and his wife to a musical in town. It made him feel welcomed. Ilya figured that the invitation was far off enough to not feel like pressure but that the offer could help Shane feel included. Still, Shane looked uncomfortable.
“Uh—maybe. I’ll think about it. I don’t know if I’ll be in town. I have-–stuff in Houston to take care of.”
“Yeah, that’s a long way off. But I’ll go if you do.” Ilya smiled. He didn't know if it was a real one or just a reflex. A lot of his life was fake smiles.
“Cool. I’ll remember that.” Shane fiddled with the ball in his hands again.
“You have surprisingly long fingers,” Ilya said, registering surprise. “They might be longer than mine.”
Shane seemed genuinely amused. “Yeah?” Shane held out his right hand, palm open. Instinctively, Ilya hovered his hand over Shane’s for the comparison. Ilya let himself linger close, close enough to feel heat radiating from Shane’s skin. His forearm twitched from trying to impose stillness. All around, Shane’s fingers seemed the same length as Ilya’s. Surprising, given that Shane was at least a few inches shorter than Ilya. Shane’s warmth became unbearable. Ilya pulled his hand away jerkily, like he had touched a glowing coil. Shane’s palm stayed open, holding nothing for a moment.
“Wow, you’ve got long fingers.” Ilya’s mouth went dry. He needed another sip of water.
“Yeah.” Shane shrugged. He shifted in his seat, looking uneasy. The amusement dissipated. Ilya latched onto the first thing he could think of to try and restore the conversation.
“How are you handling the Los Angeles traffic? I hate it.”
“Yeah, it sucks. Houston had bad traffic, too, but not this bad. I almost prefer it here already, though, because I haven’t had to drive. I just take one of those self-driving rideshares. It’s peaceful. I get to relax in the back. And I researched it. It’s safer than a human driver. I don’t know if I’ll get a car here if I’m using those.”
“Self-driving? As in there’s no driver? It drives itself?”
“Yeah. It’s awesome. I hate driving.”
“Me, too. Maybe I’ll use it, too.”
“It sucks for the people who—I don’t know…” Shane trailed off. He went silent. Ilya turned his head to look at Shane. He was staring in a blank way. Ilya tilted his head, curious.
“So… you don’t know—?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was just—I was just saying I feel for the people who aren’t getting work because they’re being automated out of a job—yeah.”
“You’re fine. I was curious how you were intending to finish that thought,” Ilya said. Maybe he was being too friendly, trying to force something. He smiled again, hoping to put Shane at ease. Guilt settled low in his stomach, collecting with the cold water. Shane seemed on edge now.
“I'm sorry. I do that—not finishing sentences. My dad hates it. Anyway.” Shane stood up abruptly. “I’m going to throw this away.” He held his empty cup close to his chest and walked away stiffly, slightly hunched, looking at the ground. Ilya turned his attention to the game. It took a minute for him to realize Shane hadn’t come back from throwing the cup away. Ilya looked around, mystified. Then, he saw him. Shane was on a bench on the opposite end of the dugout.
For the rest of the game, Ilya remained hyper-aware of Shane’s presence. Every time he ended up within a few feet of Shane, Shane found a reason to go to another part of the dugout. By the seventh inning, he was gone.
Ilya replayed their short conversation. The water. The hand comparison. Was it a selfish act in the first place to hope that socializing would dampen the memory of the relievers’ laughter? Maybe Shane sensed something about him that unnerved him. The back of his neck prickled, like he was being watched.
Or maybe Shane just left early, like Skip said he would. Maybe it had nothing to do with Ilya at all. That thought was worse somehow.