Page 28 of Presley's Christmas Catch
“The Rays made an offer,” I tell her.
She lets out a tiny squeal that she cuts off, and bounces on her toes. “And?”
I nod at her, and she jumps back into my arms, making me laugh.
“My dad said everyone was going to want you. He said the Rays would make an offer, and I knew you would be so great here.” Her words come a mile a minute, and I laugh again. It doesn’t stop her. “Brock, you’re going to be part of a line that appreciates how good you are.”
“I hope so,” I say. Truth is I love what she’s doing right now. It’s pure and sweet, no playing to my ego or anything. That buzzing has turned into a happy energy, and the whispers that I’m on thin ice no matter where I go dissipate in my head.
She gives a light swat to my chest. “No, seriously, Brock. I saw a tweet fromJett McCombs. He said he was crossing his fingers the Pumas picked you up because you see everything. Jett. McCombs.”
If Jett could hear her now, his head would grow three sizes. Her tone has all the awe that a three-time champion deserves, but it’s still funny since we came onto the Pumas together as rookies.
I chuckle. “Jett and I both knew it was a long shot. The Pumas let me go four years ago. It would be strange for them to pick me up again.” I shrug like it doesn’t mean anything. “Would’ve been cool to play for them with Jett qb-ing.”
She draws in a breath. “Of course you’re buddies with him.” She slides into a seat at the picnic table. “Well, I’m glad it’s the Rays. I’m gonna get you a hoodie right away. And maybe now we can finally beat the Pumas in a playoff game.”
I grin at the way her smile turns competitive and sit down across from her. She nudges a bag of tacos toward me and then opens the one in front of her.
“Obviously we’re going to beat them.” I open my bag and take out a couple of tacos. There are also containers of fresh salsas and veggies. The homemade corn tortillas are stuffed with meat, and it reminds me that Presley gets football life one hundred percent. Even for a lunch out, she’s taking the time to get me extra protein and clean foods. I make a note of the name on the bag and commit it to memory to order from again.
“When is your physical?” she asks.
I’ll have to be cleared by the Rays’ training staff before I can start practice. “Tomorrow morning. They want me ready ASAP.”
Her smile widens into her cheeks. “Of course they do.” She reaches over the table and grabs my hand, clutching it in hers. “I am so happy you’re coming to the Rays, but more than anything, Brock, I’m happy that you’re happy.” She pulls her hand back to take a bite of her taco. It looks like there are only two in her bag.
Her words burrow into me, and warmth spreads through my chest. Iamhappy. The last couple days were stressful and hard, and some of that energy is still bouncing around inside of me. But most of it has been converted to excitement. The way Lincoln talks about his team, the brotherhood they have, the way they all work together—I’ve been jealous of that for a while. The Rays have a few all-stars, like Anthony Hurley and Lincoln. Mark Travis, even though he's getting up there in football years. But for the most part, they’re a group of good players specifically selected for how they would fit on the team. Look at Eli Dash. He came to them after his worst season with the Arizona Cobras, but now he’s playing tight games with the Pumas, the best team in the league.
Lincoln might have put in a good word about me with the coaches, maybe even urged them to take a close look, but in the end, it came down to how I would fit with the specific team they’ve built. That does something for the hurt feelings I’ve been carrying most of my life—working my tail off to get a school like USC to notice me, going undrafted and having to try out for a pro team, getting traded by the Pumas for someone “better.” It’s been adding up, but I need to turn my personal narrative around.
“Thanks, Pres.”
She beams at me, lips closed over a mouth full of food, and I dig into my tacos with more gusto than before. They’re amazing. Denver has some great taco places, but something about being farther south makes these ones taste that much better.
When we’re done eating, we toss our garbage, and I walk Presley back to her apartment. I get a text from Mom while we’re walking, and Presley waves at me to answer it.
“She’s probably worried about you.”
“My mom doesn’t worry. She’s tough. Had to be.”
Presley scoffs. “Sure, she probably told you all the time that she wasn’t worried about stuff, but she’s a mom. She worries, whether you see it or not. She’s probably just better at hiding it than my mom was. Answer her text.”
Mom:Look what Kurtis got us!
It’s accompanied by a picture of her and Kurtis in yellow Rays sweatshirts. Mom is facing the camera so you can see the Rays logo, and Kurtis is turned around to show “Hunter” across the back.
I tilt the phone and show Presley.
“Oh, I love it!”
“You would.” I arch an eyebrow at her.
“Have they been together long?” she asks.
“About a year. He does stuff like this for her all the time.” Ilook at the picture again. I love seeing Mom happy the way she is with him. She’s had a fair number of boyfriends over the years. She was careful, especially when I was young, about when to involve them in my life. But as a teen, I always knew when she was dating someone. Flowers and other gifts would show up, or she’d take advantage of football camp to “go see friends.” Once I was an adult, she never forced relationships between me and her boyfriends, but she talked more freely about them.
“She looks happy.”
