Page 44 of Switch Hitter

And then, because I’m greedy and honest and I want to anchor this before doubt can chew it up, I add:

Emiliano

I’m so proud of you.

I stare at the screen like I’m waiting for him to flinch through the phone. He doesn’t respond, which is fine. Mostly.

Leaving the terminal, the air outside hits me, cold and sharp in that New York way. The sky is gray, the streets are wet from a morning rain, and the city smells like exhaust and coffee and possibility.

This is home.

The Mets facility is waiting for me, with training schedules and practice. And somewhere in California, an Irish Catholic man with a mouth that is my absolute kryptonite is trying to figure out how to live his life out loud.

I get into my car and pull out of the airport.

My phone buzzes again, and it looks like a number from the team, so I answer because that’s what you do when you’re a professional athlete and your life is run by people who think they manage your life.

“Guerrero,” I say.

“Hi, Emiliano, it’s Marcy,” a voice says, bright and cheery. “From PR.”

My jaw tightens automatically. “What’s up?”

There’s a pause, the kind that means someone is about to make something sound casual when it’s not.

“So,” she says lightly, “um… quick question. Did you happen to travel to San Jose on your off day?”

I don’t flinch. “Yes.”

Another pause. “And it was for a personal matter?”

“Yes.”

More silence.

Then she tries again, keeping up the politeness, but I can hear the strain in her voice. “We’ve gotten a couple of inquiries,” she says. “Nothing major. Just… a few people might have seen you and have been asking questions.”

I keep my eyes on the road. “Seen where?”

Her breath hitches. “At a restaurant with someone.”

Ah.

New York doesn’t do small stories, and this isn’t even a story yet, but it’s circulating. I can practically see it: some bored fan, some staff member, or some person who recognized my face snapped a photo of us, sent it to a group chat, and now it’s a whisper.

Mets ace in SJ.

Why?

With whom?

I exhale slowly. “Okay.”

Marcy waits for me to sound nervous.

I don’t.

She continues, “It’s nothing right now, but you know how it is. People like to talk.”