“SO, WHAT’S UP?” Hunter says as he throws the ball in my direction. “You’re together now?”
I catch the ball in my glove and fire it back to him. With me in left field, Hunter takes center, and Levine, a senior with nice accuracy, handles right field. We work well as a unit of three, honed over a couple seasons playing together. Communication is important for every position, but the outfield is its own space, and we need to be aware of each other to make plays, back each other up when necessary, and avoid stepping on each other’s toes.
My very first game at McKee, I chased a fly ball but forgot to call it, and Hunter and I—both wide-eyed freshmen—went down in a heap. The sting didn’t come from the three runs scored or the accidental elbow to the stomach that Hunter gave me, but the exasperated look the pitcher, a senior who was clearly already done with that year’s crop of freshmen, gave us.
Haven’t made that mistake again, but I still think about it way too often. I had a dream about it once, but then it morphed into my run-of-the-mill nightmare.
Hunter takes a couple steps back, lengthening the distance between the two of us. Coach Martin decided to use today’s double practice to simulate a game first, then wrap things up by analyzing film. We’ve been tossing the ball back and forth, waiting for the pitcher to warm up so we can start the game.
We talk a lot when we’re playing catch, but the further away he gets, the louder our voices will need to be to keep the conversation going. It’s one thing to tell Hunter about what’s going on with Mia, but I’d rather not broadcast it to the whole team. Plenty of the guys don’t know who she is and, honestly, don’t care much, but her name will make Rafael, at third base, perk up. Julio, too, from where he’s stretched out at first.
I watch as he fields a ground ball, fires it across the diamond to Raf, and then scoops up a nice toss by the pitcher. Coach Martin is seeing if one of the rookie pitchers, back from injury, has his stuff again. If not—well, this might be a rough half inning, once we get going.
I catch the pop up that Hunter lobs my way. The sun is bright in the middle of the sky, but my sunglasses keep away the glare. “It’s complicated.”
“What is this, Facebook circa 2013?”
I shrug. “It’s accurate.”
Hunter spits, readjusting his cap. I wait until he’s finished before throwing the ball back to him. He catches it neatly, then jogs over to me. His hand settles on my shoulder. “You know you don’t have to go along with what she wants.”
“It’s what I want.”
“What you wanted was a nice dinner. Candles and shit.”
I pluck the ball from his glove. “Come on. Coach sees us slacking off, he’ll give us the look.”
Hunter doesn’t step back, though. He glances at the diamond, then at me, squinting despite the baseball cap. “How did it even happen?”
“She’s been staying with me.” I toss the ball into the air and catch it bare-handed, since Hunter refuses to step back for a proper game of catch. “She’ll keep staying with me, now. It’s a quiet place for her to work.”
“It’s not your responsibility to give her that.”
“I want to.”
He shakes his head. “Be careful, man. That’s all I’m going to say.”
“She’s part of my life.” I want to smile at my own words, but I manage to rein it in. Weeks of rain and gloom, and now the sun is back in my life. It might not be exactly how I want it, but it’s enough. If Hunter doesn’t understand, I can’t make him. “She’d be in it either way, and I like this better.”
“Kirby! Callahan! Stop your chatting!”
I give Hunter a look. “Nice going.”
“Understood, Coach!” As he jogs back into position, he snorts. “A quiet place to work, my ass.”
I settle my cap on my head, adjust my glove, and smack my fist into the center twice. I’d like to keep thinking about Mia, but the pitcher is ready to go.
It’s easy to slip into the rhythm of the game. People have asked me, on occasion, if it gets boring in the outfield, but I never felt that way, even as a little kid. Baseball isn’t continuous motion. It involves lying in wait, ready to strike at precisely the right moment—and that anticipation never fails to keep me on my toes.
TWO AND A HALF HOURS LATER, I leave the field with grass stains on my knees, a sunburn on the back of my neck, and a scowl on my face.
A photographer.
At practice.
For me.
It’s beyond ridiculous, because we were just playing a simulated game, and anyway, it’s not like I’m a celebrity. There’s no reason to photograph me anywhere, much less at a random midweek practice. He slunk around the fence and took a bunch of photographs, and while at first, we were confused, it quickly became obvious who he was targeting. Coach went out and spoke to him, but he was standing just far enough away from campus property that he couldn’t force him to leave.
I refused to look at him, but I felt the gaze of the camera the entire time. It reminded me of the photographers who came to my parents’ funeral.
I risk a glance over my shoulder as I reach the dugout. He’s gone, off to send the photographs to whatever publication will have them.
Fucking asshole.
“Sebastian,” Coach says. My ears prick up at the use of my first name. “Stay back a moment, okay?”
“What’s Miller got to mope about?” Ozzy mutters as he passes by. “He knows where he’s fucking going.”
“Come on, man,” Hunter says.
“What?” says Ozzy. “He probably paid the photographer himself.”
I glare at him. He just smiles, giving me a cheeky little wave. I barely refrain from rolling my eyes.
It’s not that ‘Miller’ is derogatory, exactly, but the guys know that I go by ‘Callahan.’ It’s like if I insisted on calling Ozzy ‘Oswaldo’ even though I know he hates his full name. His draft capital isn’t nearly as strong as mine, and since the start of the season, that’s been bothering him. The MLB draft is more fluid than, say, the NFL’s—with James, it was a big fucking deal that he went high in the first round. It’s an honor to know that teams think I’m worth a big upfront investment, but the way things go, Ozzy and I might end up in the majors at the same time, a couple years down the line. Everyone, even the most talented college players, spends their fair share of time in the minors. Learning to hit that major league curveball is no joke.
“Why don’t you give us his name, so we have the heads up for next time?” he says.
“Perrin,” Coach warns. “Keep it up and you’ll do laps around the bases.”
Ozzy falls silent, but I feel his irritation throughout the post-game debrief. When Coach releases everyone else to the locker room to clean up and take a break before part two of our double practice, I stay in the dugout, staring at the empty field. Hunter stays, too. He gives me a slap on the back with enough force it stings.
“Ouch,” I say flatly.
“Ignore him,” he says. “He’s always been an idiot.”
“That had nothing to do with the interview?” Coach Martin asks.
I look over my shoulder at him. “No, sir. That’s not happening until we play Binghamton here at home.”
“Shit.” He rubs his beard as he lets out a sigh. “I’ll talk to the school, see what they suggest doing.”
Even though Richard is one of the most recognizable men in America, he and Sandra have worked hard to keep that separate from their private lives with us. I didn’t realize just how normal everything about my life was—intense training schedule aside—until I came to college. I got rid of all my social media within a month of starting at McKee. Izzy eventually wore me down and made me a public Instagram, which has exactly two pictures on it, both of me in uniform on the field. I never use it, so I have no idea why it has thousands of followers. The thought of being anything like James, who has already had to file a couple of restraining orders to protect him and Bex, is terrifying. I don’t want that kind of future.
I’m just a left fielder with a nice swing. I’m not worthy of a feature on an online sports gossip site, or wherever these photographs are going to end up. That photographer only wanted my picture, not Ozzy’s, or Hunter’s, or anyone else’s, because my father was Jacob Miller, and my adoptive father is Richard Callahan.
Richard is going to be pissed when he hears about this.
“Thanks, sir,” I tell Coach. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to apologize for.” He takes a step closer, squeezing my arm reassuringly. “You understand? They should know better than to try to pull this shit. The athletic department won’t let it stand.”
“Will it get worse?”
I blurt the words before I can think better of them, my face burning. I stare at the dusty floor of the dugout. It’s ridiculous to complain about. No wonder the whole situation annoyed Ozzy. Boo for me, so talented and privileged that people are acting like I’m already playing in the majors.
At least I still have one more season of college ball after this. One more season of playing with the teammates I’ve come to love in a place I feel comfortable. The draft’s been screwing with my mind, but my future isn’t quite here yet.
“I don’t know,” Coach Martin says slowly. “That would be a better question for Richard. I do know that talent comes with scrutiny, and you have talent in spades.”
“I love baseball, but all the other shit—I can’t do it.”
“Sure, you can,” he says. “You can do anything you set your mind to—that’s never going to be the issue for you. I know you, Sebastian. You’re someone who sticks around. You keep your head down and grind. Focus on what’s important—preparing for the next game.”
It should be that easy. Richard certainly makes it seem so, and my brothers and sister, too. When Izzy is in the middle of the volleyball season, she never dwells on the mistakes or missed points.
It used to be easier to tune out the noise. But what about when it’s right on the edge of the fence, pointing a camera in your face? What about teammates calling you by the last name you should, by all rights, still be using, even when you’ve been part of a different family for years? What if when you look in the mirror, you see your father staring back at you?
And what if you’re dreaming of something else all the while?
I’ve wished so many times over the years for more time with my parents. I used to play a game with myself, bargaining for it silently. I’d never talk to Cooper again if it meant another conversation with my father. I’d never accept another hug from Sandra if it meant breathing in my mother’s perfume one more time. I’d grow up with my mother’s estranged relatives instead of the Callahans, if only I had five more minutes with my parents first.
Right now, I want more than anything to talk to my dad again.
But since I don’t have that option, once Coach sends me and Hunter to the locker room to wash up before the second half of practice, I call Richard.
