Page 2 of Switch Pitching

I freeze up, not even blinking as Priya reaches for a stack of papers and places them in front of me.

They want you.

Reality comes rushing back as Priya uncaps a pen and puts it next to the sheets on her desk.

“They sent over a contract. Normally, you’d have about a week to decide, but seeing as spring training is already well underway, they want a response by the end of today, if you can.” Priya leans forward on her elbows, placing her head on her clasped hands. “If I were you, I’d take what they’re offering. It’s great, especially for a first-year contract.”

Even though my agent said that he negotiated a good deal for me, I leaf through the pages to read the contract for myself. Slowly, I reach for the pen, ready to sign. Getting a chance to play in the majors is a complete no-brainer. I don’t even search for the pay, knowing that they’re going to offer the league minimum, which is already a lot for someone like me.

But when I reach the last page, my eyes lock on a bold number eight. Then another five numbers. I blink and refocus. I’m being offered $817,000. That’s not the league minimum.

It’s more.

Priya seems to read my mind and smiles as I look up at her in shock. “They’re paying you what you’re worth, Ethan.”

I know I’ve put up good numbers, but it’s still a lot to process. Bringing myself back to reality, I make a mental note to research what kind of rare Scotch to buy my agent as a thank-you gift.

Priya goes on. “You’re one of the most exceptional players I’ve had the chance to work with.” She stands up and walks around the table to sit in the chair next to me. “Put yourself out there and kick ass.”

I sign in the bold black ink of her fountain pen, the nib scratching as I finish the last loop of what might be the most important signature of my life.

Priya carefully withdraws the contract from my hands, walks over to her fax machine, dusts it off, and punches in a number. As the old machine scans page after page, Priya turns back to face me.

“We’ll be sad to see you go, Ethan, but the team is proud of you.” She fixes her gaze on the darkening sky outside. “Under normal circumstances, the Falcons would book a flight for you to join them in Tampa, but the Portland Jetport is grounding all flights for at least the next two days.”

“When am I expected to report for spring training?”

“As soon as possible, which in your case, is dependent on when the storm stops.”

I rise to my feet. “The storm isn’t a problem. I’ll drive down.”

Priya raises an eyebrow before letting out a quiet laugh. “Always so independent, this one. Be careful on the roads.”

We shake hands before I walk out of her office, clutching a photocopy of my contract, not fully believing thatI’ve been promoted. To themajor league. To play for the team I’ve supported since I could remember.

I remember my dad saying that he made sure my first word was Falcons. Or rather, he says it was more like “fah-cunz”. I smile, then wince and shove the memory aside, not wanting to put a damper on my day. Even after four years, even thinking about either of my parents puts me in a sour mood. It’s time to pack and then drive for two days. I can’t wait.

My back is stiff, my legs are cramping, and my ass is numb, but I’m here. I kill the engine of my truck, letting the silence settle. My hands rest on the steering wheel as I take a deep breath, trying to tamp down the excitement brewing in my chest. This is it.

I gaze over at the hotel that I just pulled up to, a sleek, glass-clad building that’s reflecting the sunset. I reach for my phone on the dash, triple-checking the address that one of the team managers sent me. After grabbing my duffel bag from the passenger seat, I step out, my legs protesting as they stretch for the first time in hours.

Immediately, I’m blanketed in the pleasant embrace of Florida’s heat, a stark contrast to the frigid winter chill I leftbehind. I awkwardly sling my jacket over my shoulder, trying to stave off nervous jitters as I walk toward the entrance.

The sliding doors to the lobby glide open, and I’m met with a blast of icy air conditioning that smells like disinfectant and laundry. My footsteps echo over the shiny marble floor as I approach the front desk. A couple of staff members are chatting, but otherwise, the whole place is quiet and empty.

As I round a corner, I catch sight of Damien Miller, one of the Falcons’ coaches. He’s talking to another guy in an admin uniform, but when he spots me, his face breaks into a grin. “Sullivan! You made it!”

“Yeah, long drive,” I manage to get out, trying to eliminate any trace of rookie nerves from my voice. Before I can say anything else, he’s already in motion, handing me a room key and shoving another duffel bag into my arms.

“I’ve got your starter kit here: uniform, cap, the whole package. Training starts at 9 a.m. sharp tomorrow. Get some rest, and good luck out there.” He slaps me hard on the shoulder and then turns back to whatever he was doing before I showed up.

“Thanks.” I look up, but he’s already gone. I’m left standing there clutching my things and trying to process everything.

My pulse pounds in my ears as I head for the elevators, the weight of the duffel bags a reminder of what lies ahead. When I reach my floor, I step out and walk down the hall, scanning the doors until I find mine. The key clicks as it slides in, and I step into the room. I drop my bags and collapse onto one of the beds, the mattress swallowing me up like it’s been waiting for me. Staring up at the ceiling, I let the tension from the drive fade.

Unpacking and grabbing a shower can wait. Right now, I need to rest. Tomorrow is a big day.

The harsh beep of my phone rips me from a deep sleep. I toss the covers off and swing my legs over the side of the bed, stretching until my shoulders make a satisfying crack. My body is still sore from the drive, but I push past it. It’s time to get moving.

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