Page 5 of Leave It On The Field (Grand Slam 3)
“Don’t touch my wife again,” I say, taking a step toward him. “And never wear my jersey again.”
Joe grabs my arm. “Now, Seb. Move or I’m going to move you.”
I look at the guy for another second, then turn around and walk back down to the field. Jim’s waiting for me.
“Seb,” he says as I climb back over the wall, “you know I have to eject you for leaving the field of play.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I’m leaving.”
I glance back up to see if Sophie has made it to safety. Just as I head into the dugout, her blonde ponytail disappears behind the doors that lead to the private offices.
“What the hell was that?” Our manager, Bud, has his hands in the air like he’s signaling a touchdown. “You know we’re in a playoff run, right?”
I ignore him and start walking up the tunnel to the clubhouse. He follows me.
“I mean, you’re an asshole on your best day, but maybe think about the rest of us before you jump into the stands and punch one of our fans.”
“He grabbed Sophie,” I say without turning around. “No one gets away with that.”
“I’m sure he’s not the first guy to grab her—”
He stops dead in his tracks when I spin around. Joe steps between us.
“Seb,” Bud says, taking a few quick steps away from me, “I’m just saying, you can’t react like that. You’re out of this game, and you’re probably going to be suspended for a few more games, not to mention the hefty fine that’s headed your way. We need you down the stretch. You have to keep your head on the field during the games. If Sophie’s becoming a distraction, maybe she doesn’t need to come to the games anymore.”
“Sophie’s not a fucking distraction,” I say, pushing Joe out of the way. “The guy who grabbed her ass is the problem—not her.”
Bud takes a few more steps back. “We can talk about this later. I have a game to manage. Don’t leave the stadium before the game’s over. You need to be here for your teammates. Not to mention, the media’s going to want to talk about this bullshit. Ken, do you think you can come up with something for Seb to say? Maybe that he went temporarily insane after he got called out on that bullshit pitch.”
I turn around to see our PR guy, Ken, standing right behind me. “I’ll work on it. Come on, Seb. Officially, you have to be in the clubhouse when you get kicked out of a game. No lurking in the tunnels.”
I start back up the tunnel—Ken and Joe following closely behind.
“Will you find Sophie for me, Joe?”
“I checked on her on the way down here from the press box,” Ken says from behind me. “She was already leaving the stadium.”
“Was she okay?”
“Uh,” he says, blocking me from a few television cameras that are shoved in my face as we emerge from the tunnel. “Not now, guys. Seb will talk after the game.”
A few reporters yell questions at me. I walk by without looking over at them.
Our clubhouse guard, Chick, daps me up and whispers, “Glad you got a piece of him, Seb.”
“Not helpful, Chick,” Ken says, pointing at him. Chick shrugs.
“Ken, you didn’t answer my question. Is Sophie okay?”
“She isn’t okay,” he says, looking at his phone as it beeps again. “She was crying. Max said people were yelling crap at her as she left the stands—like it was her fault you got ejected.”
“It wasn’t her fault!”
Ken looks up from his phone. “Damn, Seb. Just the messenger. I know it wasn’t her fault. I need to get back to the press box. You have to stay and face the scrum after the game.”
“I know,” I say, sitting on the chair in front of my locker. “I’m staying, but I won’t talk about Sophie. I don’t talk to the media about my family.”
“You don’t have to,” Ken says, backing toward the door. “I’ll call on some friendlies and only take three or four questions. You know I’ve got you.”
