Page 67 of Fastball Fever
Davis releases a long sigh, then presses a button that brings the video to life.
The recording plays, and there he is—Jared Morris in our equipment room at two a.m., methodically working on our bats.He has a bottle of marijuana oil in his hand.Well, I assume that's what it is.The jerk methodically applies the oil to every bat, every ball, every glove—as if to ensure not one player would be unaffected by his tampering.
But Jared isn't alone.He has a friend with him, though it's not who I expected.
I lean forward, my body tense as I strain to make out the other figure in the shadows.The grainy security footage plays on, and I feel my stomach drop as the individual steps into the light.Then a name tumbles from my lips."Coach Rivera?"
Amy gasps beside me, her hand finding mine under the table and squeezing hard.My heart pounds like a bass drum in a marching band.
"I'm afraid it's true," Commissioner Davis confirms, his expression grim."Shawn Rivera has been working with Morris for the past season and a half.Morris had blackmail material that he'd been holding over Rivera, something to do with him unknowingly hiring underage prostitutes.That's no excuse for what he helped Morris do.But only during the playoffs did they come up with a workable plan to foul up the Admirals chances at reaching the World Series."
The video continues playing.Rivera is carefully applying the marijuana oil to the gloves while Jared applies the substance to the bats.They work with practiced efficiency, as if they've done this many times before.
"Son of a bitch," I mutter, anger rising inside me, as hot as molten metal."He was in the dugout with us, celebrating tonight.Patting me on the back, telling me how proud he was."I shake my head, disgust and betrayal warring within me."But the whole time, he must've been laughing on the inside."
"Both Morris and Rivera have been taken into custody," Davis explains."The evidence is overwhelming.Not just this video, but text messages, bank transfers showing payments from Morris to Rivera, and testimony from an equipment manager who became suspicious."
Amy leans forward, her coach's instincts kicking in."What about the game tonight?Does this invalidate our win?"
"No," Davis confirms."Your victory stands.In fact, it makes what you accomplished even more impressive.You were playing against a stacked deck and still came out on top."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding."And the marijuana oil?That's why half of our guys were acting so strangely during practices?"
"Precisely.Slow reflexes, decreased coordination, impaired judgment—all symptoms your team was experiencing," Davis pinches the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes for a few seconds.Then he looks at us."The oil was absorbed through the skin.They were essentially drugging you without your knowledge."
I push a hand through my hair, which is still damp with sweat from the game."Damn, I can't believe it.Coach Rivera was always so helpful and…nice."
Amy rests her cheek on my shoulder."He fooled us all, Charlie.It isn't your fault."
I scratch my neck, still trying to process this information."No wonder I couldn't connect properly in our last series against the Altitude."I shake my head."All the missed opportunities, the frustration, the self-doubt that plagued me.I thought I was just in a slump."
But no, my game wasn't off.Jared Morris and Adrian Rivera conspired against me and the whole Admirals team.
Shit.At least it's over now.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Off Season
After a few days of rest, Amy and I get a visit from Phil and Ray that might end our mini vacation.They've both decided that I "absolutely must" go on a publicity tour to promote my record-setting fastball pitch—and also to promote the team's World Series win.I hoped it might be a low-key thing.But no, Ray and Phil insist on a whirlwind event complete with photographers, reporters, and magazine write-ups.
The crazy train is about to leave the station.
"It'll be a three-city tour," Phil explains as we sit in my living room."Jacksonville, New York, and Los Angeles.Maximum exposure."
I rub my temples, already feeling a headache forming."How long will this tour be?"
"Two weeks," Ray says, checking his phone."We've already booked everything.The team's PR department has set up interviews with ESPN,Sports Illustrated,and a dozen local stations in all three venues."
Amy, sitting beside me on the couch, places her hand on my knee.The subtle gesture is comforting."Let's not overwork our star player.He might reinjure his arm.After all, you did mention having him replicate his record-setting fastball multiple times in different venues."
"Charlie's arm will be fine," Ray interrupts, glancing up from his phone."The doctors cleared him.Besides, he won't be pitching—just talking.Smiling for cameras.Signing some baseballs."
I glance at Amy, whose nostrils are flaring.I know that look well.It's her I'm-about-to-say-something-that-might-cost-me-my-job expression."With all due respect, Ray, Charlie's recovery has been miraculous, but he's not invincible.We need to be strategic about his public appearances."
Ray lifts his brows."Are you suggesting we cancel the tour, Coach Keller?"
"No," she replies evenly."I'm suggesting we modify it.Cut it to one week, focus on quality over quantity, and make sure Charlie has adequate rest between events."
