Epilogue part II: draft night

I’m sitting on the couch in something of a daze. What a day . . .

First off, we actually beat Astor. Teo did pitch the game of his life—and maybe more importantly, Conor Gray, our center fielder, played the game of his life. He climbed the fence to turn a two-run homer into the last out of the fourth, and he ran about three hundred miles to catch a ball that would have been a leadoff double (at least) in the sixth. Amazingly, those were the only two hard-hit balls Teo gave up all day.

In one sense, Shades was even better—he only gave up one. In fact, he one-hit us, walking none (Teo walked two). The difference is, he got unlucky. He made one mistake to me, I guessed right, and I just kept it fair, wrapping it around the foul pole for a solo homer. It was a pretty cheap shot as they come, but I wasn’t about to give it back. Teo made it stand up, and when he started to flag, Butch sent Kit Kelly out to close things down. Kit’s been nails all year, and he went out there with his hair on fire; Teo had given up a cheap squib and his second walk, and neither runner so much as moved. Four batters faced, four Ks, goodnight and thank you, Emilio.

*******

I was still in emotional overload when I left the clubhouse. Heather wrapped her arms around me and I stood there holding her tight, feeling her love and regaining my equilibrium. We broke apart and kissed, then I took her hand and we turned to go. A young woman came walking up, looking extremely nervous, and asked, “Are you Andrew Lane?”

Puzzled, I said, “Yes, and this is my girlfriend, Heather Innis-Jones. Can I help you?” I had no idea what she wanted, so I figured I should make it clear that I’m taken.

The young woman whispered, “Thank you,” then gulped, burst into tears, and hugged me, weeping into my shirt. I looked at Heather, at a loss for what to do. She shifted her grip and pushed my hand, gesturing with the other one, telling me to return the hug. I did, and Heather put her hand on the woman’s back. She cried for a while, then started to calm down; suddenly she stiffened and pulled away. I let her go, and she backed up a couple steps, looking shy.

At Heather’s suggestion, we sat down, the two of us on either side of the young woman—close enough to be supportive, but not crowding her. “Tell us about it,” my girlfriend coaxed.

“My name is Laura Reiss,” the young woman said, staring into her lap. “When I was a freshman at Astor, Rick Wood **** me.”

Heather stiffened, her face going blank and cold.

“I had gone out with him a few times, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to sleep with him,” Laura continued. “When I wouldn’t give him what he wanted . . . he took it.”

“That sounds like him,” Heather murmured.

Laura looked up for a moment and shot her a questioning glance, but relaxed a little. “I told a few people, but nobody wanted to believe me. I gave up. And then suddenly, someone came to see me. He said his name was Karl Addair, that he was a senior in the psych department, and he wanted to ask me about Rick Wood. I was afraid to talk to him, but he told me he believed Rick was a **** and wanted to hear my story. I told him Rick was a baseball player and nobody else would believe me; he told me he was one of Rick’s teammates, that he’d already talked to the coaches, and they were all prepared to believe me. Even with that, I’m still not sure how he got me to trust him, but I did, and I told him everything.”

With a wry grin, I said quietly, “That sounds like him.” Heather looked at me, startled.

“They did believe me,” Laura said intensely. “And there were two other girls . . . Rick was expelled, he went to jail.” Heather nods; we’d known about that, of course. It had been big news at home and had stirred up a #MeToo movement at the high school—and something of a scandal. It turned out Heather’s experience with Rick hadn’t been unique there, either, but when two other girls had complained, they’d found themselves quietly squashed by the administration. (Have I mentioned that our high school hired a new principal, vice principal, and athletic director all at the same time a few years ago?)

“I never knew why,” Laura went on. “I never knew why people suddenly believed me—why they were suddenly asking me to tell them what happened. I didn’t ask for a long time, either; it was hard . . . I had to learn to trust again . . .

“I kept talking to Karl. He told me he couldn’t be my counselor—he wasn’t certified or whatever; I told him he could be my friend.” A small smile, oddly smug, abruptly bloomed on Laura’s face. “After a while, I was glad he couldn’t be my counselor—I wanted more from him. It took me a while, but I got it.” The smugness intensified. “He proposed to me last week.” Heather and I grinned.

“We made love—well, to be honest, we fucked like bunnies,” Laura blushed. “We were cuddling afterward, and I thanked Karl again for all he’s done for me; and I asked him something I’d never had the courage to ask him before: why? Why did he come looking for me? Why did he believe me?

“He told me about his conversation with you.” Heather looked at me wide-eyed; I’d never told her the story. “He said he talked to the coaches and decided to ask around about Rick. He said he wanted to make sure if the prick was guilty, nobody could sweep it under the rug. He said it wasn’t too hard to track down the stories, because the little prick—that’s his words, by the way—hadn’t even bothered to cover anything up.”

“Why are you grinning?” Heather asked suspiciously.

“I’ll tell you later,” I replied, trying and failing to wipe the grin back off my face.

“Will you tell me too?” Laura asked timidly, looking up at me.

“Sure,” I responded, “but it won’t be news to you.”

Laura smiled softly. “It was all you,” she continued. “You started everything. Because of you I got free of Rick—if it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have found Karl. When I found out you’d be playing Astor, I had to take the chance to say—thank you.”

“My pleasure,” I said.

I recounted my conversation with Karl Addair to the two of them. When I told them what I’d said about Rick—Woody—actually having a little prick, Laura giggled and Heather blushed. Heather got very quiet as I talked. After I finished, Laura gave her a big hug, and Heather shook a little in her embrace. “We’re survivors, Heather,” Laura said softly. “More than that. Our men”—her voice proud, possessive—“gave us the belief and support we needed, and he’s gone away, and we’re still here. We’ve survived him, we’ve overcome him. He lost. We won.”

*******

Our little apartment is crowded—that’s part of the reason I’m feeling dazed, too. Honestly, I’d rather have peace and quiet and Heather naked, but we have friends and family who figure there’s reason for a party and they want to join in, and how do you say no to that without sounding churlish and ungrateful? So, they’re here and it’s very unpeaceful and unquiet and Heather is very clothed, and if I weren’t so spent I’d probably be rather disgruntled by now.

They are, of course, tracking the draft online. Several people were gratified when Ben Shades didn’t go first overall but slid all the way to Seattle. I tried to tell them that had nothing to do with me homering off him today, but they don’t want to hear it, so they don’t. I’m a little nervous about how they’ll react if I slide . . .

The Mariners are on the clock, and my phone rings: it’s a 206 area code. I answer it and hear, “Hey, Andrew, this is Jerry Dipoto.” My jaw drops—it’s the GM himself, not one of his scouts. “I understand you’ve talked with our guys and you’re good with what we’d like to offer you?”

“Yes, sir,” I answer, proud that I manage to get it out without stumbling.

“Good,” he responds with satisfaction. “We’ll put your name in. I’m very pleased to welcome you to the Seattle Mariners organization. I’ve been hoping you’d still be on the board for us here.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say, hearing the emotion in my voice. “I’ll be very glad to have Ben Shades on my team from now on.”

Dipoto laughs delightedly. “I’ll tell him you said that. I expect he’ll say the same thing. That was quite a battle royale you two had this afternoon.”

“I was lucky on that homer, sir.”

“You weren’t lucky to have survived nine pitches into that at-bat,” Dipoto retorts dryly. “Give even the best pitcher enough opportunities to make a mistake, he will. You’re all about what we’re trying to build in this organization.”

“Thank you, sir,” I tell him. “I hope you have room for me up there when I’m ready.”

He laughs again. “ ‘When,’ ” he says. “Damn straight. That’s the way to go about it. Tell you what. I’m confident you’ll **** the issue for us. When you do, we’ll have a place for you. Deal?”

“Deal,” I answer firmly.

“Good. Now I should get off the phone so we can get you picked. I look forward to seeing you soon at the office.” With that he hangs up, and the room goes wild.

*******

“I know you didn’t really want everybody here,” Heather says, “but thank you for being a gracious host anyway. I know it was more like work than celebration for you, which is ironic, but they appreciated it, and so did I.” She gives me a kiss. “Ready for bed?”

“Not quite,” I respond, earning myself a quizzical look. I drop to my knees and take a box out of my pocket, thumbing it open as I lift it up. “Heather Marie Innis-Jones, will you marry me?”