“I NEED YOU TO HOLD STILL,” the wardrobe assistant, a tall, laser-focused woman named Kat, says. “Just—still, okay? Let me adjust the pants.”
I chew the inside of my mouth as I try to convince myself I’m a statue. Easier said than done. Being at the baseball field brings out a desire to move; ever since we arrived an hour ago, I’ve wanted to take a couple laps around the diamond. I’d sprint from home plate to the warning track in center field, over and over, if it meant avoiding the camera setup I see out of the corner of my eye. One time, around the anniversary of the accident, I was feeling so fucking pissed about it that I mouthed off to my coach, and he made me do sprints from one end of the outfield to the other until I puked. I hated him for it, but the activity helped clear out the thoughts racing through my mind.
I wonder if those are the kinds of stories that Zoe Anders is hoping to get out of me with this interview. If she wants to talk about stats or my game, that’s great, but the rest of it? It’s hard to think to myself, much less say aloud to another person. And that’s without bringing a camera into the mix.
Before I headed out today, Richard called me to check in, and he reminded me of the one thing I need to hold close, above all: this is about my father’s legacy as much as it is about my future. His people have been keeping an eye on all the articles and social media posts and remembrances that have cropped up, especially in the past few months. This interview is an opportunity to put my own words into the world.
“That’s better,” Kat says, taking a step back to confirm. “And you’ll hold the bat over your shoulder in the first shots, that’s perfect.”
Her assistant hands me a baseball bat. The weight of it surprises me; it’s a little longer and heavier than the one I usually use. Like most ball players, I’m particular about my equipment. A bat that doesn’t feel right in my hands will just lead to strikeouts.
“This isn’t my bat,” I say.
“Oh, I know,” Kat says. “We wanted the contrast of the black against the rest of your outfit.”
I glance at Zoe, who glances up from her tablet. “Does that work, Sebastian?”
Zoe Anders looks as put together as she did during our video call; she’s wearing a pair of tailored cream linen pants, a hot pink blouse that flows in all the right places, and—even though we’re standing right next to home plate—expensive, cherry-colored loafers. Apparently, The Sportsman pays their people well. She’s wearing a necklace as well, chunky, gold, and impossible to ignore. I’m going to have to work to look her in the eyes when we talk.
I want to get Mia a piece of jewelry. I know I’ve given her gifts before, but it would mean something different now that we’re dating. She’d never be caught wearing the monstrosity around Zoe’s neck, but I saw a delicate gold chain with a star pendant the other day, and it reminded me of her.
When I get home later, I’ll order it. I like the thought of her wearing a necklace I gave her. It’ll look pretty with those gold hoops she loves.
“Sebastian?”
“Huh?”
“I said, we’d prefer you to use that bat for these photographs, but if you want your own equipment when we photograph you in the McKee uniform, we can do that.”
“Oh,” I say. “Um, sorry. Sure, whatever.”
“You good?” she says. “There’s a lot to get through today, but let me know if you need a breather.”
I try for a smile as I swing the bat over my shoulder. “I’m fine.”
“Good.” She tilts her head to the side, considering me. “I think he looks great, Kat, but let’s get Eddie’s opinion.”
After a few more minutes of fussing, the photographer, Eddie, officially approves, so we start the shoot. I feel so fucking awkward standing at home plate with the bat over my shoulder that I almost burst out laughing, but I manage to rein it in. It’s mid-morning now, with sunshine drenching everything. I wish I had sunglasses on, but that wouldn’t go with the ‘look.’
The look, by the way, is just how I normally dress. Sneakers, jeans, a t-shirt. Maybe a little nicer than usual, but nothing too fancy. Thank God Cooper decided to visit his teammate Evan instead of tagging along; he’d be losing it trying to hold back laughter. Probably less successfully, too. Part of me does wish that Mia was here. Even if she was in the background, feeling her presence would be enough to take the edge off my nerves. When there’s a lull in the photographing, I send her a selfie, but she doesn’t reply right away.
Eventually, we move to the dugout, and they take a couple more pictures there before Kat sends me off to change into my uniform. Even though it’s what I wear to every home game, the deep purple of the jersey with ‘McKee’ written in white script over the front, she takes her time fussing with it before the next set of photographs.
“One more set,” Eddie promises. “Elbows on your knees, hands over the bat holding it straight down… Perfect.”
When we’re finally done, I desperately want to crawl into a hole, but we haven’t even gotten to the hard part yet. I follow Zoe to the training center, where Coach Martin meets us. The Sportsman and the university had to coordinate to make the interview happen on campus, but Zoe fought for it, to get a full sense of where I train and play.
I respect her; she seems good at her job. I’m just dreading the conversation entirely.
“It’s so nice to meet you in person,” she says, reaching her hand out to shake Coach Martin’s. “Your comments about Sebastian were very insightful.”
“Seb’s a hard worker,” he says. “One of the best players I’ve ever had the privilege of coaching.”
“How could he be anything else, with Jacob’s genes?” she quips.
My heart stutter-steps when I hear my father’s name come out of her mouth. I follow them down the hallway, past the staff offices. There’s a room we use when we break into position-specific meetings, and Coach takes us there.
“This will be perfect,” she says. “Thank you so much.”
“Take your time.” Coach squeezes my shoulder. “Make us proud, kid.”
I muster another smile. This morning has already been filled with a ton of smiling, but sure, I’ll keep doing it. I’ll smile all day, if it means Zoe won’t pry too deeply into the details of my life.
“Want to take a seat?” she says. She sets her phone on top of the table, along with a notebook and a pen. As I sit, she starts an audio recording. “Thank you again for offering to work with me on this interview. I’m sure it’s been a busy time for you.”
Did the interview start already? I settle in the chair across from her, trying to stop myself from gripping the arms too tightly. I feel like I have one of Mia’s masks on my face, the pleasantness working overtime to hide my true feelings.
I tug at my collar. “This late stretch in the season is always intense.”
“Doesn’t seem like you’re going to make the playoffs for America East,” she says, a perfect note of sympathy in her voice.
“It’s a great group of teams,” I say. “Super strong, all at once. We knew we had to keep the pressure on to have a shot, and it just hasn’t been coming together, particularly at the plate.”
“Does that weigh on you? Your batting average is lower than in previous seasons at McKee.”
“Yeah, definitely.” I yank my collar again. “My fielding is strong, of course, but I’ve always prided myself on my swing.”
“Lefty, same as your father.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you try it both ways?”
“I started swinging a bat before I even had the concept of righties versus lefties,” I say. “I think my dad just set me up the way he did it, and it worked out.”
“Your swing is very similar to his. I’ve spoken to a lot of your former coaches, and of course Coach Martin, and they’ve all said that you emulate your father on the field. Your leg kick is even the same.”
“Like I said, he taught me.”
“When did you start? How young?”
“Three or so.”
“So it’s what you’ve always known.” She taps her pen against the edge of the table. “Was there ever a thought in your mind that you’d consider a different sport?”
“I played a couple other sports when I was younger,” I say. “Everyone does, it’s good for building up skills across the board. But I never thought I’d play football long term, or soccer, or any of that. I’ve loved baseball since the beginning.”
She picks up her pen and poises it against her notebook. “Why?”
