Page 4 of Stolen Bases

This is it.

Taking a seat, I distract myself and my spiraling thoughts by checking out the newspaper clippings and awards that cover the wall behind him, some of which are from his own baseball career with the Chicago Antiochs.

When my eyes meet his, I already know how this conversation is going to go. My spidey senses are never wrong.

Anson gets straight to business. “Upper management has signed Romero to take Thompson’s spot.” He stares at me, waiting for a reaction.

There is none. I’m shocked but also not shocked.

“You know,” he states with a knowing chin lift.

“I had an idea.” Thank fuck I called Eli before heading in today.

“Should I be worried?” He rubs his fingers over the mustache above his thick lips.

What is it with old guys and mustaches?

“Not with me, sir. Romero, on the other hand…” I tip my hands like scales and shrug. “He might be a problem.”

“Explain to me how this started?”

I can’t stop my laugh from sounding like a scoff. “I’d love an answer for that myself. Let’s just say since I’ve known him.”

“From what I understand, you both played baseball at SCU together?”

“We did. To say we didn’t mesh is an understatement, and not for the lack of trying on my part. He just doesn’t like me. Never has.”

Anson hums. He looks off into space, deep in thought, working the problem out in his head. He lets out a sigh. “Seems like we are going back to elementary school for the season.”

“Um, what does that mean, Coach?”

“It means, from here on out, you and Romero are like peanut butter and jelly. You will room together. You will sit together on all flights. If he shits, you will stand by the stall, waiting for him with a roll of toilet paper. You will be inseparable until you two can work out your shit together. I don’t need you to be best friends off the field, but while you’re here, in my house, you will act like brothers. You will make it work. Do you hear me?”

The fuck?

Anson can’t be serious. Can he?

My mouth bobs like a fish’s as I try to find the words.

His eyes bore into mine, making it clear his decision is final.

I nod my assent. There isn’t a damn thing I can say, and I respect Anson too much to defy him. I want to win, and if that means working withNico, so be it.

“I will have the same conversation with Romero when I meet him later this week. Upper management is aware of my concerns about the signing, and this was my stipulation. They agreed. I better not hear about you going over my head.”

The air in my chest whooshes out, my heart rattling in my chest. His accusation stings, but I understand. Many players have tried and failed to go over their coach’s head by speaking to the front office.

“You don’t have to worry about me.” I would never jeopardize my career by complaining. I’m more of a “work harder and keep my head down” kind of guy. “Is that all, sir?”

Anson stares me down again. “For now.”

With a slap to my knees, I stand and head for the door.

Before I’m out, Anson calls back to me, “One more thing, Miller.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Have fun at your brother’s wedding. But not too much fun. I don’t want to see your ugly mug with another woman in the gossip rags, you hear me?” His jaw twitches as he holds back a smile.

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