Fire Season (Unwritten Rules) Read online

  This part is familiar. Fans mostly want to talk about him rather than to him, the way people comment on unexpected geography. Can you believe how big he is? I wasn’t expecting that! Usually, he doesn’t mind since it saves him from having to talk.

  “Do you have a Sharpie?” he offers. “I could go get one. And something to sign.” She hands him a pen, then digs in her purse before unearthing a mostly blank receipt. He scrawls his signature. Charlie, like he’s a whole different person from the Charles she came looking for.

  She pins the receipt under the clamp of the clipboard. “My grandson loves watching you pitch.”

  “What’s your grandson’s name?”

  “Emerson.”

  “Do you want me to record a video saying hi?”

  She smiles at that. “That’d be wonderful.”

  He slides the camera on her phone to video, then hits Record. “Emerson, thank you for being a fan.” He doesn’t bother to review it before handing her back her phone. She might post it to social media, Charlie unwashed and ragged in the harsh morning light. At a house that’s definitely not in Marin County. No fixing that now.

  The process server’s smile fades as she adjusts her clipboard, like she’s remembering why she’s there.

  “Is that all you need from me?” he asks.

  “Sure is. You have a blessed day.” And she sounds enough like his mother that he feels a wash of embarrassment at having come out here, barely awake. At having to admit he failed in his marriage, even to a stranger.

  “It was lovely to meet you, ma’am.” And he retreats back into the house before she can ask for anything else.

  The packet of papers is lighter than he was expecting, even if he saw them less than a week ago when Christine and he filled them out together, in the house he bought, the one that was theirs until he asked if she wanted to keep it.

  The papers didn’t take that long to complete. But they worked slowly, getting day-drunk out on their patio, watching the dry hills around their manicured yard. And he was tipsy enough to ask if he needed to lie and say he slept around on her.

  “California’s a no-fault state,” Christine said. “We just have to check the ‘irreconcilable differences’ box and that’ll be that.”

  But standing here now, in this underdecorated house, it doesn’t really feel that way.

  His phone buzzes. A text from Christine, a set of question marks.

  It takes five minutes for him to summon the energy to type: Got the papers. What else is there to say? He doesn’t get a reply. She might already be in her pottery studio. A bowl she made sits on the counter, bright blue with splashes of yellow glaze; he’s been hesitant to put fruit in even though she swears it’s food safe. He picks it up, examining it for cracks, admiring the care she takes with all her work—the time throwing, firing, and glazing—only for it to sit empty on the counter.

  He’s almost late in leaving for the ballpark. His phone chimes its alert, telling him to get a move on; he silences it before getting into his truck, which is more lived-in than the house. He tosses an empty Gatorade bottle into the accumulating pile in the back, then sits and waits out of habit. Waiting for Christine to come say goodbye to him, demanding he roll down the window, holding her clayed-up hands away from him like a freshly scrubbed surgeon.

  Finally he puts the engine in gear and drives. Around him the brightly painted houses lining the steep San Francisco streets contrast with the browning hills across the Bay. Midmorning the neighborhood has a chatter to it, different from the gated quiet of his former house, a strip of bars and bakeries that remind him that he’s just one person among many. Even in late June, it’s chilly in San Francisco, foggy in a way that makes it easy to forget the perpetual drought. He rehearses the conversation he’s about to have and is momentarily grateful for the traffic slithering toward the ballpark that delays it for almost an hour.

  At the clubhouse, guys mill around with the kind of do-nothing busyness particular to ballplayers before a game. There’s not a lot for Charlie to do. He could look over the scouting reports sitting on his tablet in preparation for their upcoming series against Houston. Games that should be his biggest problem right now. Except of course he can’t think of anything other than those papers and the six-month clock that begins counting down from today: the required time between filing for divorce and it being finalized.

  So he slumps on one of the big leather couches like he’s had all the air let out of him.

  Gordon comes over. He eyes Charlie lying there, like Charlie should get up and do something, even if it’s just playing cards.

  “You good?” Gordon asks.

  “Sure.”

  Gordon gives him another look, a slight rise of one eyebrow on his unweathered face. From any other player, it’d be insubordination. A reversal of the clubhouse pecking order that puts Charlie, as Oakland’s highest paid player, somewhere near the top. Except for Gordon, who’s been here for his whole storied career. Whose Hall of Fame case is good but would be better if the Elephants managed to win a championship. Which they haven’t. Another thing for Charlie to worry about. “Really,” he says. “I’m fine.”

  Gordon doesn’t question that or ask him about the divorce. Mostly because Charlie hasn’t told him.

  He has to tell Stephanie. He tries to envision the fiasco if she finds out about it from the press—or worse, Christine.

  He definitely doesn’t drag his feet down the hallway to her office. He studies the banners and plaques hanging along the walls celebrating the Elephants’ recent successes—if losing the Wild Card Game three years in a row can be considered a success—and resolutely doesn’t think about the conversation they’re probably about to have.

  Stephanie’s office door is propped open. He reaches for the doorstop after she waves him in, sealing them from the rest of the front-office staff.

  “This must be serious,” she jokes. Her smile fades when she sees his expression. She points to the chair opposite her desk. He sits, running his hands over the fabric of his joggers. For a second, the only sound is the shush of the fabric.

  “Christine and I are splitting up,” he says.

  Stephanie’s eyebrows make their way to her bangs. “You’re separating?”

  “We’ve been separated since November. But, uh, I got the papers this morning. They’ll be filed soon.”

  “You know some people stalk court records for this kind of thing.” She drums her fingernails, which are short and painted fluorescent orange to match her lipstick, across a notebook on her desk. “If something’s going to come out, I’d rather be prepared than not.”

  “There’s nothing to come out. I didn’t—Christine didn’t—” All his words are stuck somewhere behind his tongue. “It’s just one of those things that happens.”

  But he knows how that sounds. Like marriage is an accident he fell into. And out of. He’s grateful that no one really expects him to talk, so he doesn’t need to add anything.

  “I know how much you love doing press. Let’s assume news about this is going to get out at some point. We probably want a plan B.” She taps a finger against her chin in thought. “You ever consider adopting a dog?”

  “A dog?”

  “You know, it’d be good to get some footage of you rescuing puppies. Doing a PSA for the Alameda Animal Shelter. That kind of thing.”

  “And that’s gonna make people not ask questions about my divorce?”

  “Guys split from their partners,” she says. “That happens a lot. But usually not guys like you, and usually not without rumors about, well, some reason for that.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  Stephanie lays a sympathetic palm on his hand, though removes it when he glances down. “If not for you, then for Christine. Usually how these things go is that she gets painted as the villain.”

  “I don’t want peo
ple to blame her. It’s not her fault.”

  “So let me put together something. It doesn’t just have to be you. If we can get other guys from the team on it, that’s better. That way, it looks less like we’re trying to distract people and more like genuine community outreach. Gordon usually says yes.”

  The tightness in his chest relaxes a little. It’d be easier with other guys there, ones who liked being on camera, who the camera liked. “Um, sure.”

  “You do like dogs, right?”

  It’s enough to make him look up from where he’s studying his knuckles. “Who doesn’t like dogs?”

  “Some people are cat people. I’m a ‘both’ person—really all pets. But some people are, you know, particular.”

  “Dogs are fine.”

  “Great. I’ll let you know what I come up with. More seriously, though, we’ll probably need to figure out a way to discuss this. So, as a friend”—which she is, more with Christine than with him—“what happened?”

  Charlie shrugs. “Marriages end. I don’t really know.”

  Her expression softens. She fiddles with the cross pendant that’s caught at the neck of her shirt. “You look like you could use some sleep.” A charitable way of saying that he looks like dirt.

  “It’s been a long day.”

  She doesn’t point out that it’s barely noon.

  “Really, I’m doing great,” he says. Then flees.

  * * *

  Charlie’s mood hasn’t improved by the time he heads outside for his throwing session. It’s a damp baseball day, more like San Francisco soup than Oakland sunshine. He feels similarly foggy. It must show because Martinez, their bullpen catcher, says, “Hey, Charlie, don’t take this the wrong way, but you doing all right?”

  Martinez is about a foot shorter than he is, built compactly like an old-school catcher. Charlie shrugs and stares beyond him to the seats, in an effort to prune this line of questioning. Normally he doesn’t mind Marti’s catcher-ish habit of checking in with guys. Today it’s too much. He squeezes his eyes shut like he’s trying to ward off a headache, and Marti—who’s used to the tidal nature of Charlie’s anxiety—takes the hint and drops it.

  A pile of towels sits next to the other equipment. Charlie grabs one, beginning his stretches and soft tosses, warmed by the space heater they set up to keep guys’ teeth from chattering with how cold it is even if it is, technically, June. But it’s like eating on a restaurant patio when winter hasn’t quite shaken off, the blast of heat to one side and his other side coming up in gooseflesh.

  “Seriously,” Marti says, when Charlie puts his sweatshirt back on. “You wanna go do this in the indoor ’pen?”

  “I’m fine.” Though he still feels that particular kind of hollowness that always follows an anxiety attack.

  Music interrupts them. Giordano comes in, holding a set of portable speakers. “It’s too quiet around here,” he shouts.

  A few other bullpen guys follow him, seemingly unbothered by whatever Giordano’s playing. They begin getting all the stuff they need to work out, talking about what bullpen guys talk about: the game the night before, the game that night, the unsolvable problems of the world that they have easy solutions to. None of them ask Charlie for his opinions, and he doesn’t volunteer any.

  In his career, Charlie’s thrown hundreds of practice sessions to keep his arm fresh between starts. This one is routine. Or should be. Sixty feet away, Martinez pounds his mitt, signaling he’s ready for Charlie’s fastball. Charlie’s focus narrows to the leather of his glove, to visualizing the arc and trajectory of his next pitch.

  Except Giordano sets up near Charlie and begins stretching, speaker buzzing on a metal folding chair. Giordano isn’t wearing a ball cap. His hair is clipped close on the sides, but it’s longer on the top and beginning to wave. Most ballplayers look better with their hats on, but he somehow doesn’t—a thought that siphons off enough of Charlie’s attention that he almost misses Martinez’s glove on the next pitch.

  The music is distracting. Or not distracting. Different. If Charlie’s unfocused, that must be why.

  Giordano’s seated on a padded mat, legs open in a butterfly stretch. He beats a rhythm on his thighs in time with the music, like he can’t bear to be still. He stops when he sees Charlie looking at him. “Shit, sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” Charlie says.

  “Is this better?” Giordano fiddles with the buttons at the top of the speaker. But he increases the volume rather than decreasing it, grinning with deliberate provocation.

  And Martinez is up out of his crouch, mask tipped up on his head like he’ll intercede if they come to blows.

  “No,” Charlie says. “You can turn it up more.”

  Giordano laughs. “I told you that you were funny.” Something Charlie can’t remember ever being called. Giordano dials the volume even louder, so much that the speaker begins to rattle against the metal of the chair.

  Charlie tosses another pitch. It drops reassuringly where it’s supposed to. A nice enough pitch that Giordano actually whistles.

  Charlie’s warmed up enough that he has a light sweat at his arms and hairline. If his cheeks go involuntarily pink, it’s from exertion.

  “You gonna throw that curve?” Giordano says, like he’s the one running the session. From sixty feet away, it’s impossible to tell if Martinez is rolling his eyes, but he probably is.

  Charlie’s curveball is his best pitch—an old friend, a reassurance even when he’s otherwise fraying at the edges. He adjusts his index and middle fingers to ride the raised red seams of the ball, then throws. The ball does what it’s supposed to, arcing into Martinez’s glove.

  Giordano pauses in his warm-ups, like Charlie’s done something spectacular. “Now that is the money, baby.”

  And Charlie absolutely does not go beet red, except he must, face burning, and that makes Giordano laugh even harder.

  D’Spara blusters in, wearing what looks like four shirts on his already impressive bulk, annoyance at the music pinching his face. “What the fuck is that?” he snaps. “This ain’t a party.”

  Giordano hops up from where he’s stretching, then turns off the speaker. “Sorry, sir.”

  There’s a silence like they’ve been caught misbehaving by an irate principal, Giordano’s mouth a serious line.

  “It’s fine,” Charlie says, “if you want to turn it back on.”

  “Didn’t realize that was your doing, Charlie.” Though D’Spara’s frown hasn’t budged. “Carry on with that racket, I guess.”

  Giordano picks up the now-quieted speaker. “I’ll get going.” His voice is tense, the line of his shoulders hunched.

  “Hey,” Charlie says, and it’s loud without the music, the other guys’ conversations gone from yelling to church-quiet. “Um.”

  Both Giordano and D’Spara are looking at him, each expecting him to say something else. Usually he’s fine at the ballpark, in a space he knows, in a game he can control. But there’s that familiar bubbling sensation, like he’s done the wrong thing.

  D’Spara opens his mouth as if he’s going to finish Charlie’s sentence for him before Charlie shakes his head. “I don’t, uh, mind the speakers. I mean, the music. If you want to bring those around.”

  Giordano raises a dark eyebrow. “Is that right?”

  “I mean, I’ve heard worse.”

  “Noted.” His mouth doesn’t quite recover its smile. “I’m gonna go lift up some heavy shit and put it back down. See you guys later, I guess.”

  And Charlie throws the rest of his session accompanied only by the dimmed chatter of the other pitchers, Martinez’s half-heard instructions, the glare of the Oakland sunshine as it burns off the clouds. Something ringingly quiet, a silence Charlie didn’t notice before and isn’t sure he actually likes.

  Chapter Four: Reid

  There’
s one out in the bottom of the seventh inning when Martinez calls his name. “Giordano, get loose for the eighth.”

  Reid’s half tempted to glance over his shoulder. Because he’s only been in Oakland for a week, and this is a game against Houston. A one-run game against Houston, the Elephants clinging to a lead by their fingernails.

  He does a few obligatory cycles on the stationary bike they have parked on a sideline, though he doesn’t need much to get his heart rate going.

  Another relief pitcher, McCormick, has been hovering near him all game. He comes over, hopping on the exercise bike next to Reid. Even though it’s cool out, McCormick somehow looks perpetually wet, a slick of hair mashed under his hat. “Wow, good luck out there, man.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Wouldn’t want that to be me.” McCormick cycles his legs a little faster, and Reid shifts to match his pace. “You see the odds before the game?”

  “Uh, no.” Because Reid stays off the internet if he can help it, which is still not as much as he should. Some people would criticize the moon for being made of moon rocks and not cheese, his therapist likes to say. You don’t need to look for it. Though the temptation is always there, the throbbing call to see just how poorly the world thinks of him.

  “The odds aren’t great.” McCormick hops off the bike and begins flicking a towel to get his arm loose. “But you know, if it comes to that, I’ll be ready just in case.” He smiles. Or, possibly, shows Reid his teeth.

  The umpire declares the previous inning over, then there’s the boom of the stadium announcer, exaggerating the syllables of Reid’s last name. At least they don’t call him “Michael.” The familiar strains of “I’m on Fire” fill the ballpark; the drum section rumbles its agreement. There’s silence after, leaving Reid all alone on the mound.

  There are tense games and there are tense games. But no game is tenser than a one-run game against a division rival with the heart of the order due to bat. Reid’s heart announces itself in his chest. Sweat traces its way between his shoulder blades, a drip of it at odds with the cool night air.