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The memory of an easy smile and twinkling eyes burst into his mind.

Trying to smile, Ted said, “Well, do you have your passport?”Īn iron band constricted Jake’s lungs. The word raked through Jake’s mind, all sharp edges. I guess business is business and money is money, and a man’s word don’t mean shit anymore.” Ted grimaced and looked like he wanted to spit. He promised if anything changed, he’d warn me. “He knew I wanted to finish out my career here. “But Norwalk said he’d give me a heads up if there were talks with other teams. I can’t believe it’s going down like this, but here we are.”Ī bark of laughter scraped Jake’s dry throat as the relief that his mom was okay butted up against incredulity. Nothing like that.” Ted shook his head and took off his cap, scrubbing a hand over his buzzed black hair, his wrinkled face even more creased. The office smelled faintly of lemony disinfectant, and he thought of the hospital where his father had died. “What is it? My mom?” Jake’s voice came out hoarse. When he raised his head, his eyes glistened, and an electric jolt of terror seized Jake. Ted took a deep breath and blew it out, his gaze still on the floor. Black and white prints of baseball greats watched from behind glass frames on the beige walls. They stood there on the faded carpet by the desk, a small fridge humming with a slight rattle beside a brown couch and fluorescent lights harsh overhead. No, something was up, and as he followed Ted into the visiting manager’s office and closed the door, nausea churned his gut. Sure, his left knee ached with every step, but that was nothing new, and he sure as hell hadn’t complained about it. Jake had just been scratched from the lineup near the end of the game even though he wasn’t injured. Gruff and unsmiling was Ted’s usual MO, but a different tension hunched his shoulders. Their footsteps echoed dully in the dank tunnel leading to the visitors’ clubhouse in Boston, cleats scratching on concrete. It rocketed over the field, his pulse zooming as he followed his manager down the stairs from the dugout in the top of the ninth. Jake Fitzgerald wasn’t even in the room when his carefully contained life was smashed right out of the park.