Page 13

The biggest benefit was I’d be able to swing by the University of Calgary to take Brooke to dinner. She might be only an hour away, but her studies were so time consuming she rarely got home. I missed my baby girl. Her first year had been hard on both of us, but now she was nearing the end of her second year. Brooke had matured, and I’d adjusted to her being gone.

I still couldn’t imagine how empty the house would feel when Ethan left. With him entering his final year of high school, he would be gone before I knew it. What would I do all alone in that big house? My adult life had revolved around Chad and the kids, then the kids and my business. While the business was growing and would keep me busy, not having either of my kids around all the time would leave a hole in my life. I was feeling lonely already, and Ethan wasn’t even gone yet.

Maybe I could get a pet. I shook off my melancholy as I added the final swirl of whipped ganache on the last cake. I stepped back, surveying for any imperfection, but there were none. Satisfied, I boxed them and put them into the cooler until it was time to deliver them.

Chapter 8

Carter

My quads were screaming as I held the long stretch that was part of my new warm-up routine. I’d always taken pregame and practice warm-ups seriously, but before the accident I could skip them if I was rushed and still survive practice. Now my extra-long routine was necessary. Making sure my newly healed muscles were warmed up and stretched out was the only way I could play to anywhere near the level I once had. I’d added both yoga and Pilates to my routines for strength and flexibility, and the burn in my muscles today felt good.

The locker room was filling quickly now, as the rest of the team had trickled in one by one over the past hour. I’d arrived well before practice was scheduled to ensure I had time to complete my exercises without slowing anyone else down. Bennie was there, chatting with another relief pitcher I recognized from my pro days. They were surrounded by five young men who didn’t look a day over twenty. Hell, they probably weren’t. Vancouver was an expansion team, and their Triple-A team was staffed with a lot of young, inexperienced players who should still be in the lower leagues.

A quick glance around the locker room told me the whole team looked just like the pitching staff—a few older guys like me, trying to get back to the bigs, and a whole lot of young guys battling to get their major league debut. It was going to be a tough year.

My delayed signing meant I hadn’t played with everyone in spring training, hadn’t even met most of the guys in the room. Everyone else here had been playing with each other for several weeks and had developed a camaraderie. I was an interloper, and while I had been an all-star, now I was an unknown quantity. Could I still play?

None of them had seen me yet, seen how my rehab had affected my performance. Most of the time, the players on a minor league team would bond over a shared desire to get called up, and everyone would celebrate when someone got their call-up. As a former star, these guys would be wondering if my name was what had gotten me this spot. I would have to earn their respect by proving I still had the skills to be there.

If Skip wanted me to mentor the rookie players, I would do that too. There was a lot more to being a big-league player than just playing. You had to learn what to say and not to say when talking to the media; what type of stuff to keep off socials; who you could usually trust and who you should never trust. And to never, ever drop an f-bomb during a live interview on network television. More than one player had been fined for that kind of stupid mistake.

I released the band I was using to stretch my legs and shook my muscles out, ready to hit the field. It was time to see what this team could do. I picked up my glove and jogged up the ramp, doing a mental inventory as I went. My body felt good. No pain in my legs except the residual soreness from stretching, and my back felt great. I still needed to work on my muscle mass in my upper body, but I was in the best shape I’d been in since the accident. I was as ready as I could be.

When we reached the field, we were divided by position into groups to run drills with our respective coaches. As an outfielder I was clustered with a large collection of young players. Aside from me, the only guy who looked close to my age was someone I didn’t recognize. He was in his late twenties, I’d guess, so not our outfield coach, but I didn’t think I’d ever seen him in the majors. Our jerseys didn’t have names on them either. I moved to stand beside him, and he nodded at me, his eyes widening with recognition.

“Carter Cook. I didn’t know Vancouver signed you.”

I shrugged. “It was a last-minute signing. I haven’t met everyone yet—were you with the guys in Arizona?”

He nodded vigorously, his long, shaggy black hair flying as he did. “I was. I’m Raine Hunter. Vancouver signed me over the winter after I was released by Cincinnati. I’ve been playing in their minor league system since college, so when Vancouver called, I said yes right away. It’s still the minors, but at least it’s Triple-A.”

I understood that sentiment. Triple-A was only one small step from the majors, and with an expansion club like Vancouver, the odds of being called up were far higher than in an established club.

“How did the team do in spring training? I know what the record was, but how was the vibe?” Win-loss stats and video replays told me only part of the story. What I wanted to know was how much leadership this club truly required to build the team up. And for that matter, what Raine had learned about the players who were already playing in Vancouver.

Raine’s look was appraising, which told me as much about him as he was trying to learn about me. He had spent enough time in the minors to have learned not to trust easily, and to choose his words carefully. “It’s my first experience with an expansion club. I’m used to the St. Louis system, and this was different. Not bad, just different. It seems like most of the guys are happy to be here, especially in Triple-A.”

Nothing he said was negative, it was what he didn’t say that spoke volumes. No mention of the Vancouver players, which told me that there might be problems at the big club. No shock there. The expansion draft meant that players who weren’t part of a club’s core strategy were up for grabs, and many of them were unhappy at being scooped up by a new club with next to no playoff prospects.

As much as I liked the idea of playing for a Canadian team, not all players did. The team’s immigration lawyers would handle all the legal complications, but moving to a new country, with different taxes, health care, and school systems if you had kids? Lots of players didn’t want the hassle. While Toronto had a reputation of treating their players well, Vancouver was an unknown quantity. Unhappy players didn’t make for a winning team.

The biggest upside of what Raine wasn’t saying was the potential that the Vanquish wouldn’t jell, and players would be traded. That would open up spots for minor league players to move up. I had to admit, I wasn’t unhappy at that prospect. It made me even more determined to prove my worth here, in whatever capacity the club needed.

“Count me in as one of those guys,” I said. “No one else was willing to gamble on me, so I’m all in here.”

Raine tipped his head, then turned to the outfield coach making his way over to our group. Michael “Mick” Tate was only about ten years older than I was, and he had been an award-winning right fielder at his peak. Unfortunately a dislocated shoulder had led to an addiction to painkillers. Even after he’d been to rehab and cleaned up his life, no club had been willing to take him back on as either a player or a coach.

I was happy to see that the Fliers had hired him. I’d seen him give a talk to some high school players about addiction in sport, and had been impressed. Mick had played with joy and commitment when he’d been on the field, and if he could infuse that into some of these rookie players, the team would benefit.

“What are you standing around waiting for? You know the drill!” Mick yelled.

The rookies scrambled and started playing catch. I moved to throw to Raine, stopping when Mick called my name.

“Cook, today’s your first day. Here’s the routine. We warm up with a little catch; then we do live batting practice where we field balls. After the infield has their turn, we do our hitting practice.” He paused, taking the time to survey my stance and gauge how I was holding myself.

I waited silently, trying to hide any nervousness. I had been medically cleared to play, but I wasn’t the player I had been before the accident. I wanted Mick to see the potential that the Vancouver GM had seen when he offered me this contract. As the outfield coach, Mick would influence Wally’s decisions. If Mick said I wasn’t fit to play, I wouldn’t play.

Eventually, he nodded. “You look healthy enough. Let’s see if you’ve still got what it takes to play center field.”