Page 47 of Run Home

My grin is gone when I respond. “Do I have more history with some of the other guys? Yeah. But you are my closest teammate, Hendricks. Shortstop and third base work more closely than any other two on the field—except the pitcher and catcher, I guess. We need to be more in sync if we’re going to take the Crowns to the Series this year.”

Carson stares at me, hands on hips, as his breathing slows.

“You don’t want to have fun out there with me? Fine. I still think you’re missing out and ruining the experience for yourself,” I begin.

His entire head rolls as he mutters, “This again.”

“But,” I emphasize, “if you’re determined to be a stick-in-the-mud always working harder instead of smarter, then I can work harder too. I’ll meet you on your turf if that’s what it takes to get us on the same playing field.”

His eyes narrow like he’s going to make some snide remark, but he doesn’t say anything. After a beat, he reaches over and punches buttons on my treadmill, then his, and presses both start buttons at the same time. I recognize the difficulty level he set on this sprint program and groan. “Why are we doing sprints?” I whine, forced into matching my pace to his.

“Because maybe I wouldn’t have gotten tagged out at third yesterday if I’d sprinted a little faster,” he replies.

Exhaling hard as the pace skyrockets, I say, “You punish yourself more than anyone I’ve ever met. Maybe I don’t want to be . . . on your . . . turf, loco.” The words cut off altogether as I focus on breathing.

It could be that a lack of oxygen is causing hallucinations, but I’d swear Carson cracks a smile.

With one out, a runner on first, and an above-average hitter at the plate with a three-and-two count, I’m hyperaware of the likelihood of seeing some sort of action on this play. Glancing over my shoulder, I catch Carson’s eye and give him a short nod. All eyes are on the pitcher, waiting for this final throw.

When the ball cracks against the bat, it flies low through the air right toward the space between me and Carson. Since there’s no runner coming my way from second base, I sprint a few steps toward the ball’s trajectory, raising my mitt in the air.

I realize that I’m going to be a couple inches short from securely catching the ball, and I yell, “Hendricks!” as I tap the ball with my closed mitt, hoping to bop it in his direction. The ball bounces to the ground toward him, and he snaps it up and throws to second, quick as lightning. Luke immediately throws to first, and Drew is practically doing the splits as he manages to catch the ball, his foot stretched on base for a second out.

The home crowd groans as our entire infield celebrates, all of us having touched the ball on the double play. Even Carson is grinning and joins in a group mosh pit of jumping celebration. “Good play, kid,” I tease as I slap his arm with my glove.

He’s still smiling when he says, “Not a bad move for such an old man, Ortiz. I guess we’re on the same turf now.”

“Next up, dance moves,” I joke.

For once, Carson doesn’t argue. He does roll his eyes.

But I’m taking the win.

“That five-six-four-three play was outrageous!” Sam exclaims, her smiling face filling my phone screen with light. “Are you sure you guys didn’t practice that?”

Bending my arm behind my head, I lean against it on the hotel bed. “I’d like to say that was pure skill on my part, but there was an element of dumb luck involved. Made for a pretty cool highlight, though.”

Sam props her phone against something on her kitchen table, placing a bowl in front of the camera as she sits down. She pulls her feet up to the chair and props her knees against the table as she takes the bowl in her hands.

“How can you sit like that?” I wonder. “I think I’d tear every muscle in my hamstrings.”

She smiles as she twirls a fork in the bowl of spaghetti. “Pilates. You should try it with me sometime. In case you ever need to pull a full-splits move like Drew did today.”

We both laugh, and I ask Sam how her practice clients were. She covers her mouth with one hand as she chews and answers, “I’m glad tomorrow is the weekend, but today was good! I think I may have done some of my best work.”

“Were sombrés involved?” I ask, relishing the simplicity of a “catch up on our days” conversation with Sam.

The smile she fights gives away her answer before she admits, “Yes, I did get to do a sombré. That turned out amazing. My instructor even said so, which was a huge boost of confidence before I finish school next week.”

My brows knit together as I frown. “You graduate next week? How did I not know this?”

Sam shrugs, not looking directly at the phone. “Well, there’s not any kind of official graduation ceremony or anything since it’s all based on hours. So there’s nothing to mention.”

“Cielo. These are the kinds of things you should tell your boyfriend,” I chide, still savoring every opportunity to acknowledge my status.

She fights a smile and replies, “Menso. You weren’t my boyfriend until, like, two days ago.”

“True, but I was your friend before that. We’ve been friends for six years. That’s the kind of thing you tell your friends too,” I say.