Page 10 of Run Home

“Menso?” I repeat, trying it out. Narrowing my eyes, I demand, “You swear you’re not tricking me into saying something extremely offensive that’s going to get me in trouble?”

Adrian leans across the table, his voice low when he replies, “I don’t know. Am I?”

“That’s it—I’m googling it,” I say, turning to pull out my phone.

He swats the phone away with a laugh and says, “I swear it’s not offensive. But if you’re talking to a woman, you’d have to change it to mensa instead of menso. That could get you in trouble.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’m reserving this as my special nickname for only you,” I say, pointing the chopsticks in my hand at Adrian. I’m surprised when he looks down and purses his lips together like he’s stifling a smile.

His expression is thoughtful when he looks back up to me. “Okay, cielo, I’ll let you call me that. But only if you swear not to google any Spanish words. Just ask me.”

Eyeing him suspiciously, I say, “Fine. Deal. What does cielo mean?”

His playful smile returns as he leans back in the booth and says, “You’re gonna have to wait for that translation. I’ll tell you when I think you’ve earned it.”

I move to kick him again, but he’s ready this time and catches my ankle with his hand.

“Tsk tsk. The training staff would not appreciate your repeated assault of a star player,” Adrian says.

My foot shakes free as goose bumps shoot up my leg, and I smile. “Whatever, menso.”

Chapter four

Adrian

Even though I know it’s coming, even though I see in the reporter’s eyes that it’s coming now, there’s no adequate preparation for a wave of cold Gatorade sloshing over you. Shuffling around and shaking the excess liquid out of my uniform, I yell over my shoulder, “Muchas gracias, Diaz.” Our catcher and our second baseman, Luke Powers, laugh as they carry the empty jug back to the dugout.

I turn back to the reporter. “Sorry if you got wet.”

“Hazard of the trade,” she replies, perfect TV smile in place. “As I was saying, you had two home runs plus an incredible defensive play to end the game. Was there something extra motivating you tonight?”

I swallow down the truthful response—knowing Sam’s here provided extra incentive to do well. I look into the camera and say, “My teammates always motivate me to give my best. We’re serious about making it to the World Series this year, so every series, every game, every at bat is important. I’m as focused as I’ve ever been.”

The stadium lights turn off, leaving us in darkness to fully appreciate the coming show. The news camera pans away from me to the beginning of the fireworks, and I jog toward the entrance to the locker rooms, eager to wash away the sticky Gatorade. When I think about Sam in the stands with Griffin, Danae, and Jason, I pause to look at the fireworks.

I picture Sam smiling as she watches the bursts of color against the black sky. I picture the light of the explosions reflecting in her eyes, like sparklers in her gaze.

I picture her eyes twinkling when she called me menso last night. Her eyes always blur the line between blue and green, but the seafoam shirt she was wearing tugged them to the green side. Those eyes taunted my dreams all night, knowing that she was coming to the game today—even if I won’t get to talk to her.

One of the giant crackling fireworks splinters high above, filling the night sky with temporary shooting stars. I don’t think these work for wishes, but I make a wish anyway.

The flight to Chicago on the team jet is only an hour long, but half the guys are napping anyway. Thankfully, we have a day off between games—a rare thing in a one-hundred-sixty-two-game season. We’ll be able to settle into our hotel rooms and get a full night’s sleep before the three-game series starts tomorrow afternoon.

I notice Carson gazing thoughtfully out the window, so I take a seat next to him.

“Good game last night, Hendricks,” I say.

He looks at me suspiciously. “Sure, other than the easy throw to first I completely botched.”

Against my will, I wince. It should have been an easy throw for an easy out. Quickly hiding my initial reaction, I wave him off. “We all make errors. That’s why there’s a spot for errors on the scoreboard in baseball. We still won. Shake it off.”

Carson looks back out the window. “Easy for you to say, Mr. MVP of the game.”

“I think you’re taking yourself too seriously, kid,” I say.

His head whips toward me. “I’m not a kid. I’m only five years younger than you. This is my first year in the majors, and I’m gonna prove that they made the right call moving me up. I’m gonna prove I deserve this spot. There are hundreds of guys that would kill to be in this position. So I think I’m taking it just seriously enough.”

I nod, not wanting to dismiss his point. “You’re right. There are a lot of guys who want to be in our shoes. And it’s a lot of hard work to get here and stay here—more than most people understand. But it’s also a game—a fun game—that you should enjoy playing. Loosen up and have more fun out there.”