Page 11 of Leave It On The Field (Grand Slam 3)
ChapterFour
SEB
October 29, 2022
“Damn. Tell me again how this is supposed to help us focus better than staying at our own quiet homes.”
When we arrive at the hotel, the Miami police have the street blocked off with concrete barricades. Their armored vehicles—with lights flashing—are surrounding the perimeter, and there are at least ten cops patrolling the only entrance into the fortress.
“I don’t know, man,” Joe says, rolling down his window as three cops approach our car. “Let’s just make the best of it.”
“Was the hotel Drew’s idea?”
“I don’t know whose idea it was. And it doesn’t matter.” Joe points toward the hotel. “Drew’s the general manager. If he says you have to stay in that hotel the night before the games, then that’s where you’re staying.”
“This street’s closed,” one of the cops says. “Turn around.”
Joe points at me. “I have Seb Miller.”
“Oh. Hey, Seb,” the cop says, leaning into Joe’s window. “I thought all of the players were already inside.”
“What’s up, man?” I nod at him. “Kind of a circus down here. You expecting the president or something?”
“Yep, and he just arrived. Bring us home that championship, Mr. President.”
“I’ll try my best,” I say as Joe rolls up the window. “No pressure or anything.”
Joe laughs. “You seem to think since this isn’t a big deal for you that everyone feels that way. This town is hungry for a championship.”
“It’s a big deal. I’ve wanted to play in the World Series since I first picked up a baseball.” I wave at the other cops as they remove the ropes across the parking lot entrance. “It’s just not the biggest deal. You know how I work. My family, especially Sophie, is way more important to me than any baseball game.”
“As they should be,” Joe says, pulling into the parking spot with my name on it, “but I also know when you get on the field, you’ll bring your best stuff like you always do.”
“Well, yeah. You know how much I hate losing. Like I really fucking hate it.”
“Yep. That’s what makes you a great player.”
Joe waves to Drew, who’s bounding down the steps from the hotel lobby. He’s taking them two at a time—his short, little legs just barely landing each leap.
“You’re late,” Drew yells before I even get my door open.
“We left an hour ago,” Joe says, patting Drew’s back. “Almost an hour and a half. Have you been out lately? South Beach is crazy. Everyone’s so excited about this series. Good work, man.”
Drew’s face turns a little less sour. He loves being complimented. “Yeah, it does seem like it’s going to be epic. Just get inside before everyone loses their minds.”
Drew heads back up the steps—taking them one by one this time. When he gets to the top, he turns around and surveys the pandemonium. He looks like Scar in The Lion King when he called forth the army of hyenas.
“He’s such a tool,” I say, turning to Joe. “Please teach me how to lie to his face like that. It’s a thing of beauty how you turn it on that easily.”
“You would never pull it off, man.” He shoos a porter away who’s trying to grab my bag. “You have absolutely no filter. Or patience. Or really anything that’s required for successful diplomacy.”
“Bryan, Mr. Miller doesn’t want help with his bags.” The hotel owner, Roman, points the porter away from us and shakes my outstretched hand. “What’s up, Seb?”
“Hey, Roman. It’s good of you to shut down your entire hotel for the team.”
His deep laugh rumbles through the lobby. “Good, my ass. The team’s paying twice my rate for this time of the year.”
“Glad to hear it,” I say, nodding. “Always look out for number one.”
