Settle the Score
𝑅𝑜𝓇𝓎
Every time I saw Dorian Mathers’s stupid face, I wanted to take the stupid bat from his stupid hands and smack his stupid head with it.
I’m not a violent person, but what can I say? He brings out the worst in me.
It’s a shame really, because I love the Angels. But every time they face the Rangers at home, I have to see his stupid face and the cocky shit-eating grin so many other girls swoon over.
Except I fucking know better.
Most people might just change the channel or turn off the TV entirely. 162 games in a season, what’s missing a dozen a year?
I, unfortunately, don’t have that luxury.
Trying to ignore the blazing Jumbotron screen over the field featuring stupid-face taking his stance in the batter’s box, I focused on the panel beneath my hands. Seventh-inning stretch was coming up, and I had to be ready to switch on mics and monitor feedback as whoever we had lined up belts out “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” I worked too hard and too long for this job to let Dorian fucking Mathers ruin it.
A crack every baseball fan knows echoed from the field and I couldn’t help but look up, adrenaline surging. The crowd collectively held its breath as Mathers’s hit sailed into the stands just foul of the pole, and the stadium erupted again. I risked a glance at the Jumbotron and caught a glimpse of the frustrated smile on his face as he took a practice swing before stepping back into the box. I looked back down at the sound board. I shouldn’t still know how to read his moods after six years.
Our pitcher was up to eighty pitches and we were down 3-1—he wouldn’t see another inning. Not with the division on the line. The series was tied: whoever won tonight would advance and I wouldn’t have to see Dorian’s face again for a blissful six months.
Another crack of the bat, this time fouled straight back. Dorian was down on strikes with two outs. Just one more pitch and the stretch would be on—
He didn’t miss the third time.
I swore, and the crowd groaned as the ball headed between right and center. Nick Yoast, our rookie right-fielder, and Carter Sampson, our veteran All-Star center, sprinted for the ball. Mathers was about to round first.
“Come on come on, get there get there,” I chanted under my breath.
I saw the train wreck before they registered it was coming. Carter was trying to wave Nick off, his yelling drowned out by the crowd. But Nick’s eyes were focused completely on the ball, not paying attention to the oncoming collision.
“No, Nick, don’t—” I couldn’t help shouting.
The rookie glanced down, trying at the last possible second to avoid the center-fielder.
A direct hit might have been less catastrophic.
My gasp was echoed by the stadium as Nick’s momentum propelled him into Carter. Lost his balance. Slipped. Carter tried to avoid him too late. His cleat caught in the grass. The ball dropped just in front of the two of them. Dorian rounded second.
Nick scrambled to his feet, trying to get his bearings. He snatched up the ball and slung it to the infield.
Carter rolled onto his stomach, pressing his forehead into the grass in a prone position I recognized all too well. Nausea rose in my stomach and I pressed my hands over my mouth.
Oh no. Oh no no no…
“Fucking hell,” one of the other sound booth engineers gasped.
The Angels managed to stop Dorian at third, but all eyes were on the outfield where Carter was still laid out, his ungloved hand gripping the earth as if it would somehow fortify him.
The medical staff was already on their way. It’s eerie when a crowd of nearly fifty thousand suddenly goes silent.
I could see the panic in Nick’s eyes from the booth. He had fucked up. Badly. He was on one knee with a hand to Carter’s shoulder. The medical team and coaches waved him away as they circled the center-fielder. This time, he paid attention and moved.
The announcers were silent. The crowd was silent. I tried to think of something, anything to put over the sound system to break the deathly quiet but came up empty.
I knew our season was over when they brought out the stretcher.
𝓓𝓸𝓻𝓲𝓪𝓷
The ball hurtled straight for my face. At the last possible second, I caught it bare-handed, hefting its weight, then tossed it in the air again from my prone position on my couch.
So close. So fucking close.
After breezing past the Angels—though I still felt sorry for their center fielder—we faced the Kansas City Royals in the ALCS. We should have won.
It was my fault.
Game seven, bottom of the ninth, two outs. Up one run, two guys on. All we had to do was get that final out. It should have been an easy play. Pop up into right center. It was a training exercise. Me and Gio both headed for it. Then all I could remember was that catastrophic collision on the Angels’ field—the one that would probably end Carter Sampson’s phenomenal career—and I froze.
Gio thought I had it. The ball dropped between us. The Royals walked off. My social media was a dumpster fire.
#doriandeepthroat trended for nearly the entire weekend. My agent had a conniption. Demanded I change my username. Doing that would only fuel the fire, which I told her when I also said it would die down. It did eventually. Every player makes a mistake that haunts them the rest of their career. That one would be mine.
My phone rang, and I nearly missed catching the baseball I tossed. Grimacing, I pulled it out.
Speak of the devil, and Sheila will appear.
“What up.”
“We really need to work on your phone etiquette.”
I grinned. Sheila was a ball-buster: one of the reasons I liked her as my agent. She didn’t put up with my shit, and sometimes I needed that, even if she did threaten to quit once or twice a week.
“You’d rather I answer with ’hey baby?’”
I could practically hear her wrinkling her nose. “You ever answer the phone like that, I’ll quit on the spot.”
“Nah, you love me too much.”
“I make good money off you: there’s a difference.”
“Make any money today?”
“Maybe. It’s why I’m calling.”
I sat up. “I was sorta kidding.”
“I wasn’t.”
I frowned. “I’m not going to arbitration this year. You get me a bonus or something I don’t know about?”
“Define ‘bonus.’”
She was acting deliberately cagey, and that set my teeth on edge. “Spill it, Sheila.”
Unfazed by my sudden irritation, she continued. “You’re being traded.”
My mouth dropped. “Traded? What? Why?”
I loved the Rangers. Dreamt of playing for them since I was old enough to hold a ball. I would always be grateful my dad lived long enough to see them draft me straight out of high school.
When Sheila didn’t answer right away, I growled. “This is because of that moment during the playoffs, right? It was one mistake, Sheel. They can’t trade me because of one dropped ball!”
“Honestly, Dorian, I don’t think it’s about you,” Sheila replied. “Ted just announced he’s retiring.”
The fuck?
I rose to pace the living room of my bachelor pad penthouse. “I didn’t know Coach wanted to retire.”
“Don’t think that was his choice either. A lot’s happened the last week. New management’s coming in. They’re calling this a rebuild year.”
“We nearly made the World Series last year!”
“Yeah, and I think they want to make sure they definitely get there in the next five. Most of your teammates are veterans. They need fresh blood. A new bullpen. Some guys with better than average stats…”
“A center fielder who doesn’t choke in the ALCS?” I snarked.
“I told you, it’s not about you. The club’s been headed for trouble the last couple years. Contracts are expiring, and Ted, great as he is, hasn’t delivered any rings. The contention window is closed.”
“That’s hardly his fault!”
“You’d rather it be yours?”
“Don’t I get any say in this? You’re my fucking agent, aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”
She sighed, exasperated and over my bullshit. “I am on your side. And your side is telling you the Rangers aren’t moving up any time soon. You’re in your prime. Hell, you might be up for a Gold Glove, if you can avoid another mistake like the ALCS. You need to be on a stable team that isn’t about to go through a top-down shakeup, not wasting your prime years on a team going through a rebuild.”
“The Rangers were all I ever wanted,” I rasped, gripping the phone.
“I know they were your childhood dream, but you’ve been here five years and you were going to be a free agent next year anyway.”
“And probably would have signed with them again, if they wanted me!”
“Dorian,” Sheila said with forced patience. “This is a good thing. Ted asked for you to get traded to a good team, and not to put you through a rebuild.”
“Coach wanted this?”
“He believes in you, kid. We all do. And I’m telling you, your talent is wasted on the Rangers. You’re headed to a team of younger guys with good numbers, respected coaches, and an even better salary. They probably would have won it all last year if they hadn’t had a bad injury at the end of the season.”
I stilled. “A bad injury? You don’t mean the Angels?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. With Sampson out, they need a new center-fielder who can fill his shoes. They wanted you specifically, Dorian; an extension’s maybe on the table, but I don’t have concrete details yet.”
“Well don’t I feel special,” I snarked. “I’m not an L.A. surfer boy, Sheila.”
“No, you’re a Texas cowboy, which means they’ll eat you up. You done arguing with me yet? I’ve got three other contracts I’m fighting right now, and I don’t have time to stroke your ego today.”
I was too rattled to make a joke about her stroking something else. “This is a done thing?”
“It’s a done thing. Come spring training, you’ll be wearing Angels’ red. I gotta go, okay? I’ll send you over the details in a few minutes.”
I hung up, disoriented. It was February now. Two months to completely reorient my life. I blew out a harsh breath. The Rangers had been my whole life. It kept me close to my mom and sister in Dallas.
Fuck, my mom was going to have a conniption next.
Knowing better than to put it off, I dialed her number and flopped back on my couch, staring at the ceiling as I waited for her to pick up.
The Los Angeles Angels.
The “The Angels’” Angels.
What a stupid name.
I couldn’t argue with Sheila’s cowboy assessment, but I was definitely no angel.
