“OF COURSE, we’ll make you aware ahead of time what we choose to publish. We’re interested in your story. What you’ve been up to all this time, living with the Callahans, preparing for your future career.”
The reporter, a woman named Zoe Anders, has barely stopped talking throughout the conversation. I thought that a video meeting would be less awkward than a phone call, but I’ve mostly been silent, nodding my head when necessary and chiming in with one-word answers. It seems like she knows enough about me to write the profile right now, honestly. She has her angle all worked out; she’s going to write about how the memory of my father’s career has affected my game.
She pauses, finally, giving me a wide smile. “So, what do you think?”
I feel a little nauseous, honestly, but I don’t tell her that. I’m exhausted after this afternoon’s game—fortunately a win—and this all sounds overwhelming. “Seems… intense.”
She laughs shortly. “Sebastian, this is just a small taste of what you’ll experience in your career. They’re predicting you’ll spend maybe two years in the minors before being called up.”
I wish I could shut my laptop. When I was a teenager, it was easy not to think about the future, not to give any mind to the scouts in the stands during certain tournaments, or the handshakes from men who looked at me and saw Jake Miller, not his son.
Now, it’s almost here, and even if I’m protected by one more year of undergrad, my obligations to whatever club picks me up will start soon. I’ll start to be someone, a version of Sebastian that has a public persona. There’s the version of James I know—my brother, my friend—and the one that’s on people’s fantasy football teams. Even if I could shut out all the noise, Zoe is right: this is the beginning of more press coverage, more interest, more expectations. If I get to the majors and do badly, I’ll disappoint everyone. If I do well, they’ll show my stats alongside my father’s. If I do exceedingly well, then the attention might be all mine, but that could make me into a national name, a Mike Trout or Aaron Judge, rather than just someone known in baseball circles.
Judging by the gleam in Zoe’s eyes, she’s trying to get me to that last option as quickly as possible. A story that involves Richard Callahan is one that always gets read, after all.
I don’t want to run from it, even if it makes my skin crawl. I don’t want to call Richard and ask him to kill the story, because someone else will just write something that doesn’t involve me at all, and Richard is right, my father’s legacy is mine to protect.
“Perhaps,” I admit. “I’m not too concerned about when I get to the majors.”
She shifts in her chair. “But your plans haven’t changed?”
I wonder what she would say if I told her they did. She’d probably realize, instantly, that she’s sitting on a much bigger story than the one she’s envisioning now. A son following in his father’s footsteps after a tragic loss is good, but renouncing that path and going down a different one?
Not that that’s happening, anyway. I’d be a fool to turn away from the only thing I’ve ever been good at. And I don’t have another path to consider. Cooking isn’t a real path. It’s not like I would become the next Gordon Ramsey, and everyone expects great things from me.
“No,” I say. “Of course not.”
“If this works for your schedule, I can be in Moorbridge for the Binghamton series. I’ll conduct other interviews over the phone, but I want to hear from you in person. I’ll bring along my team and we’ll do a shoot.”
I keep the smile on my face, even if internally I’m wilting. “Different from the video segment?”
“We’ll do that later, if you can come to our studio a little closer to the draft.”
Just fantastic.
“Sounds great,” I say.
“Wonderful. I’ll have my assistant send over the details to confirm.”
When I hang up, I immediately scrub my hands over my face. Interview. Photoshoot. Video segment. Individually, they sound terrible, but together? What a torture fest. I’m not good at talking about myself, anyway. She’d be better off just airing some footage from a game.
At least I have something else to focus on—my chicken scarpariello.
I got my love of baseball from my father, but my love for cooking came from my mother. I can still remember standing carefully on a step-stool, helping her roll out a pie crust or marinate chicken. She never minded my help, even when I was little. She’d explain how to follow a recipe, and what changes she made to put her unique twist on it. I’ve always admired how you can tweak a recipe even a little and come up with something new. I’m not an artist, but it feels akin to art. And it’s not just art you admire. It’s useful art, the kind of art that nourishes the body and the soul all at once.
I kept it up as a teenager, even as my baseball schedule got more intense. I’d help the chef with dinner preparations after school, or help Sandra, if she was cooking instead. Now in college, living off campus, I do most of the cooking during the semester. Izzy burns everything, and Cooper doesn’t have interest in anything but eating. When Bex was around, we’d cook together, but we haven’t been in the same kitchen since Christmas break.
I give Tangerine, safely curled on the couch, a scratch behind the ears, wash my hands, and take out the ingredients. Chicken scarpariello isn’t hard to make, it just requires a little time. The ingredients are simple, too, which I appreciate. A whole chicken, broken into pieces. Sweet Italian sausage, with fennel, of course. Jarred banana peppers, plus the juice, and fresh peppers. White wine, chicken broth, garlic, and rosemary. The result, when you add fried potatoes, is a delicious one-pan meal, with a tangy sauce I could happily drink on its own.
I dare Mia to eat it and still insist we’re not friends. I don’t break out the good recipes for just anyone.
I thought it would be more palatable to her to pretend it’s just for Cooper and Penny, but that didn’t help things. Buying her replacement boots probably didn’t help either, but I couldn’t help myself. She was wearing those boots the first time I saw her. They feel like an extension of her, and I want to see her in them. I hoped she smiled when she read the note, and that she’s going to come home in time for dinner.
If not, I’ll save her a plate in the fridge, but I want to see her. To talk to her. To remind her that even if she doesn’t want to be with me, we have a connection. I’d rather be her friend than have nothing at all. The past few days have been a warm luxury compared to the frozen tundra I’ve been living in, hoping for a text from her, or for a hint of her smile when we crossed paths, or even a scowl. I’d rather a scowl from her than a smile from anyone else.
She looked cute this morning, pinning me down. Cuter still when I flipped us over. I wish she’d said something about her fear of heights, because I would never have made her get on the ladder, but if there’s one thing I know about Mia di Angelo, it’s that she’d rather chew off her own arm than admit weakness.
I prep all the ingredients and set out what I need next to the stove. Potatoes first, cubed and browned on the stove so they’ll be crispy, and then the chicken and sausage pieces. They’ll finish in the oven, but a good sear is important for the taste and the sauce. I turn on some music, too; my favorite classic rock playlist.
I’m humming along to Van Halen when the front door slams.
