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The Price You Pay by Synchronik |
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There's a certain amount of shit you have to take as
a young guy on a baseball team. Rookies get it the worst, of course, unless
they're the Second Coming of the Lord Our God (aka Buster Posey), and even
Buster had to wear a milkmaid's outfit to the bus that one time. Brandon's
seen pictures. The shit is just part of it, the price you pay for the
privilege of getting to be a professional athlete, the coin you throw into
the fountain to make up for taking the job of the guy in front of you. Brandon doesn't mind paying. His first
call-up had been because Posey went down, so no one lost their job because of
him. And this year he's earned a spot fair and square, 25 man from the get
go, so the shit- talking--about his hair, about his hitting, about the lucky
gloves he keeps in his back pockets--usually rolls right off him, water off
the back of the proverbial duck. Not today, though. Not on the day after yesterday. Yesterday,
the day he committed two errors in the first and struck out looking three
times (fucking ump) and the team lost 6-5, sending Lincecum's ERA into the
stratosphere. It had been all he could do to get out of bed in time for the
bus to the park, and he's slumped in a folding chair staring blankly at the
freshly-cleaned travel greys in his locker when it starts up. "Hey, Crawbaby," Theriot says.
"What's the over-under on the number of errors you're gonna make
tonight?" Theriot's from Louisiana, so his Rs get
swallowed up--ovah/under--but his anger does not. He's been sitting, on the
DL, while the younger guys get to play. Crawford chuckles weakly. "Ha
ha," he says. "C'mon, Riot, don't be a dick,"
Huff says. "You know Crawford's in the line up for his bat. Oh!"
Huff claps a hand over his mouth. "Sorry!" It's gonna be like that, then, Brandon
thinks. They've been on the road too long, played too many close games, and
the veterans are dying to unleash some shit. Brandon hunches his shoulders
and says nothing. If you don't react, sometimes they go away, like bears who
wander off if you play dead. But then Belt opens his mouth. "Hey, y'all, cool it," Belt says,
pulling up his socks. It's a mistake. Belt, a sophomore same as
Crawford, has stepped into the spot in the line up that had belonged to Huff
until Huff took unauthorized leave. That's bad enough, and Huff's not blaming
anyone but himself for that. Worse, though, is that Belt isn't hitting. He's
taking a few walks, and his ABs are good, and his D is fine, but his average
is in the low two hundreds and, unlike Crawford, Belt hasn't been called up
for his glove. One quick glance at Huff's face confirms Brandon's
gut feeling: fellow first baseman, fellow Texan or not, Belt's gonna get it. "You're just jealous," Crawford
says, loud, like his words are a red flag in front of a bull. "You wish
you were..." His sentence stops in the middle. He
doesn't have a comeback. "You wish you were pretty as me!"
he blurts. Huff roars laughter, but it's real, not
angry. "Angelface, I am
pretty as you," he bellows. "And I'm sure as shit prettier than
this goofy motherfucker over here." He claps Belt on the back. "But
y'all can't hit for shit. What's up with that?" "What genius thought we should promote
guys who couldn't hit?" Theriot asks the room at large. "Except
pitchers, a course. No offense, V." Vogelsong has been a silent presence in the
room, working on a stubborn knot in his shoelace. It's pretty much understood
that, as a pitcher, he doesn't have a dog in this fight. Crawford didn't make
two errors on him yesterday.
Vogelsong looks up from the shoe in his lap. "None taken," he says.
"You know what I'm sayin', though,
right V?" Theriot says. "Be nice to have some runs up on the board
for a change." Vogelsong shrugs. The knot has come loose
and he bends down to pull his shoe on. "See that?" Theriot says.
"Pitchers want some runs, boy. Maybe put something on a board for a
change." Crawford wants to say something, make a
smart remark, but there's no smart response to the truth. He should be
hitting more. All that work in Fall League, for apparently nothing.
"Yeah," he says. "Sorry, Vogey." "Nah," Vogelsong says, making the
second loop of a double knot. "It's cool." "Fuck that!" Theriot laughs.
"Let him apologize!" "Doesn't need to," Vogey says,
straightening up, tugging his shorts into place. "I'd want him out there
if he never hit another ball. And so would the others." Theriot doesn't have a response to that,
and neither does Crawford. He just watches as Vogelsong grabs a towel off the
stack of clean ones and throws it over his shoulder and heads to the training
room. His stomach feels funny, uncertain somehow, like the aftershock of an
earthquake, the world shifting under his feet. It has, though, in some way:
Vogelsong is on his side. It's not, like, he didn't know that
Vogelsong was a good guy; everyone knew that. Everyone knew that the minute
he showed up at camp last year, when he kept his head down and didn't say
anything about where he'd been. They found out from the beat reporters that
he'd turned down more money from the Dodgers to be a Giant. More money! A guy
who had been playing in Japan.
That was the kind of guy Vogelsong was. Brandon hadn't played with Vogey at
Fresno--he'd been down in single A rehabbing his hand--but Burris and the
other guys all raved about him in their emails and calls. "He's a machine, man," Burris
said once. "I don't know what he's doing playing with us jokers." "That good, huh?" Burris had laughed. "Zito better watch
his back." Now, knowing Vogelsong, Brandon knows
nothing could be further from the truth. Not that Vogelsong didn't want to
move up, not that he wasn't hungry
for it just like a rookie, but he wouldn't do or say anything against a
teammate, not even the guy standing in his way. So, of course Vogelsong will
stick up for Brandon. Of course. That's just who he is. Still, Brandon can't help but say something
the next time he finds himself near the guy. They're in the dugout watching
Zito try to hit in the rubber match against Oakland. Vogey is standing at the
rail, glaring at the Oakland pitcher and spitting sunflower seeds into the
dirt. "Hey, man," Brandon says, hooking
his elbows over the padded rail. Vogelsong grunts, spits. His eyes are
narrow, his nostrils flared, like he sees something he doesn't like, but when
Brandon looks at the field, all he sees is Zito taking a walk to first with
no outs. No reason not to like that. "I just wanted to say thanks,"
Brandon says. "For the other day." Vogelsong glances over at him.
"Welcome," he says, and spits. Seeds spray into the dirt. "Those guys, they, I don't know,
they--" "Crawford," Vogelsong says. His
eyes are locked on the Oakland pitcher, who is down 3-1 in the count against
Blanco. "Go sit down." "Sure, I just--" Vogelsong flicks his eyes over to Brandon.
"Now," he says. Brandon goes and sits down. His face feels
warm. "You okay?" someone asks. Pagan,
his bat balanced between his knees. "Yeah," Brandon says.
"Um...yeah." "You can't take what he says to heart,
man," Pagan says, standing up. With Posey DHing, he's batting fifth.
"Pitchers." He shakes his head. "Son loco." No kidding, Brandon thinks. No kidding. It takes two days for Brandon to figure it
out. Two whole days. Sometimes he's a fucking idiot. The first day involves traveling to
Colorado and kicking the asses of the Rockies 16-4. Brandon scores two of
those runs himself and bats in two more. He avoids Vogelsong in the dugout,
but that's not hard: everyone avoids the starter unless he does something
that indicates he doesn't want to be avoided, as a matter of course. That's
just common courtesy. The second day is Lincecum's day up, his
first time at Coors Field since the disastrous two and a half innings in
April. Brandon's out of the line up--the Rockies are heavy on left-handers
and if Brandon's average could get worse it would be against a left handed
pitcher--so he stands at the rail, watching carefully. He aches for Lincecum,
who is having a mystifyingly bad season for no discernible reason, pitching
like a blind man groping in a bright room. "How's it going?" someone says,
coming up next to him. Vogelsong, who folds his arms on the rail
and props his chin on them, his eyes on Tim. "Okay, I think," Crawford says
carefully. "You tell me." Vogelsong watches Tim, and Brandon watches
him, cautious. He's not sure why Vogelsong is talking to him now, of all
days, but he's not about to ask. "Yeah," he says after Lincecum
gets a guy swinging. "Okay." For now, anyway, Brandon thinks, but no one is stupid enough to say
that out loud, not even him. "He's the same in the clubhouse,"
Vogelsong says, so softly that at first Brandon isn't sure that they're still
talking, that he was meant to hear. "Yeah," Brandon says. He doesn't
know what else to say. Lincecum is
the same: goofy, funny, sort of quiet. "I don't know how," Vogelsong
says. "I can't even talk the day before. I don't know how he stays so
loose." Brandon makes some noise of assent, he's
not sure what, because it's just clicked into focus for him, the mistake he
made. Trying to talk to Vogelsong the night before he started. Vogelsong's angry silence leading up to his
pitching days is legendary--they've written articles about it. He stops
talking, he stops laughing, he never signs autographs not even for kids...he
basically stops everything except studying game film and working out. It's
crazy intense, especially in a clubhouse used to guys like Cain, who is good
natured and polite even during
games, and Lincecum, who doesn't put his game face on until he's throwing his
warm up pitches. Vogelsong is an anomaly, a throwback to the days of Randy
Johnson or Rob Dibble, and Brandon had run up to him like a puppy tugging on
the hem of his pants. Thinking about it now, and about how butt hurt he was
when Vogey blew him off, Brandon feels like a tool. "What're you doing after?" Vogelsong
asks. Brandon shrugs. If Vogelsong is cool, so is
he. "A couple of us are going to dinner, I think." Vogelsong nods. His eyes are still fixed on
Lincecum, who's worked up the count against the Rockies number three hitter.
"Cool." "You, um." Brandon swallows.
"You wanna come? I don't know where we're going, but, um--" "Sure," Vogelsong says and pushes
back from the rail as Lincecum gets a strike three. "Lemme know." On a ballclub, guys break up into cliques,
just like they did in junior high. There are the veterans, and the Hispanic
guys, and the rookies and what Huff calls "rookie-adjacent" meaning
guys like Brandon and Belt, guys who the newness hasn't rubbed off on, and
pitchers, who are also broken into sub-cliques of starters and relievers, and
the family guys, and the single ones. They're all jocks, of course, and
they're all on the same team, so the cliques are pretty fluid, and some guys,
like Lincecum, seem to fit into almost all of them, but they are definitely
there, and it's definitely weird when someone from one of the other cliques
shows up to something. Like when Ryan Vogelsong shows up at the
restaurant where Brandon is hanging with the rookies and rookie-adjacent:
Belt, Kontos, Blanco, and Sanchez. "Vogelsong esta aqui," Blanco
says, nodding over Brandon's shoulder, and sure enough, there he is in front
of the hostess stand, looking strangely out of place in an ugly striped shirt
and no baseball cap. For a second, he considers not speaking up, but
Vogelsong seems lost, like he's not sure he's in the right place, and Brandon
hates that feeling of meeting people and not knowing whether they're going to
show or not, so he lifts his hand. "Hey, V!" he shouts. "Over
here!" Vogelsong nods at him and heads over,
weaving between the tables like a delicate bull. The place had been billed as
a "gastropub" on the website, but it's really more of a tourist pub
plus endive, and Brandon finds himself suddenly embarrassed by the cheesy
fake road-sign-and-license-plate d_cor, like he's the one responsible for it.
"Hey, guys," Vogelsong says, when
he gets to the table. There's not a chair for him--they'd requested a table
for five. "Here," Brandon says, standing
up. "No, that's cool, I can just pick up
something--" "No, sit," Brandon says, and cajoles
an extra chair from a table of women nearby. It's wobbly, one leg shorter
than the others or something, and they're all sort of squished together,
elbow to elbow, and Crawford thinks this was a huge mistake. But instead it's one of the best nights out
he's had in a long time. Normally, when veterans and rookies hangout there's
some low level hazing--teasing and vague threats that never come to
anything--but Vogelsong doesn't pull any of that shit. He never has, now that
Brandon thinks about it. Instead, Vogelsong is sort of quiet, smiling and
listening, with his beer bottle near his mouth. "So what was it like," he asks
Kontos at one point. "Being a Yankee?" Kontos shakes his head. "I never
really was. Six innings total." "No, man, it counts," Vogelsong
says. "Every inning." "Fuck." Kontos grins. "I
shoulda paid more attention." Everyone laughs, including Vogelsong, but
when they're done laughing, he says "seriously, though. It all counts.
Every ball. It's really short, and it doesn't last." "It worked out for you, though,"
Belt says. "Right? After Japan and all?" "Yep." Vogelsong takes a swig of
beer. "After fourteen years, I finally got it figured out." The table falls silent. Vogelsong's a
veteran--they all know that--but Brandon didn't realize how much of a veteran he was. "Fourteen years?" he says. "Yup." Vogelsong drinks. Sanchez and Blanco are whispering to each
other. "Catorce?" Blanco says. "Really?" Brandon does math in his head. "I was eleven," he says. "I was ten," Belt says. He looks
as stunned by the news as Brandon feels. "Fuck you bitches," Kontos says.
"I was thirteen." Blanco laughs. "You are all
babies," he declares. "I was fifteen years old. But this
nino," he elbows Sanchez in the ribs. "He was eight!" They all stare in shocked silence at
Sanchez, who seems like he's thirty years old when he's behind the dish. "For real?" Belt asks, finally. Sanchez nods. "Si. Ocho." "I knew I shouldn't have come,"
Vogelsong says, and signals the waitress for another beer. They stay for maybe another two hours,
until they're way too drunk for a school night. They've got a game tomorrow,
a night game at least, but Brandon and Belt and Blanco are definitely in the
line up, and Kontos and Sanchez are always a possibility. Only Vogelsong is
entirely off the hook. "Dude, not cool," Brandon slurs, after the
check has arrived and he realizes he's too drunk to figure out his share. He
glances around the table, but everyone else looks just as fucked up as he is.
"You fucked us." Vogelsong grins. "Yup." He waves
the waitress over and hands her a credit card. "I dunno," Crawford says and
can't find the words to finish the sentence for a second. He fumbles for his
wallet. "I dunno how much." He's got money, but his fingers feel
puffy and awkward. "Nah, I got it," Vogelsong says. "What? No!" Brandon gropes a
couple of twenties out of his billfold. "C'mon!" "Gracias, man," Sanchez says,
sliding his own wallet back into his pocket. "Yeah, thanks," Belt says.
"Thas, thass, that's real cool of y'all." He hiccups and covers his
mouth. Brandon tries to make a mental note not to get in the same cab with
Belt, but his mental pencil is pretty dull and he can't find his mental
paper. "That's a boss move, dude,"
Kontos said. Vogelsong ducks his head. "Nah, that's
what veterans are for," he says. Brandon doesn't remember walking out of the
restaurant, but the next thing he knows, there's fresh Colorado air in his
face and a yellow cab is pulling up next to the curb, one of the van-sized
ones that they can all fit in. He has enough presence of mind to shove Belt
toward the front door, mumbling "sit up there," so that if Belt
pukes it'll go all over the dash and not all over the guys sitting in front
of him, and climbs in after Vogelsong. Kontos gets in after him so there are three
of them in the middle seat, Brandon in the middle. "Crawford
sandwich!" Brandon announces to the cab at large. "I'm the
meat." "You're meat, all right,"
Vogelsong says, but he sounds amused. Brandon tips his head back against the
seat, his mouth open. The cab rocks pleasantly into traffic, Sanchez and
Blanco mumble comfortingly in Spanish behind him, the shoulders of Vogelsong
and Kontos prop him upright. He can't think of any place he'd rather be at
the moment. Not even at the ballpark on a warm spring day. His stomach is
full, and his head is light. One of the cool things about playing
shortstop, one of the many cool things, is that he has a perfect view of the
pitcher, his motion, his lookback, his form. Normally, it's a pleasure to
watch them work, the pitching staff. They're all so different, their rhythms,
their habits, their tics. Playing middle-in for the Giants, who have
assembled more pitching talent in one place than virtually any other team in
baseball, Brandon has developed an appreciation for each of them. Cain's
steady pace, Lincecum's fluid rhythm, Bumgarner's dynamic sweep, Zito's
creative movement. Vogelsong's angry heat. Behind Vogelsong today, in St. Louis,
Brandon can't stop looking at him. His shoulders, square to the plate. His
eyes, narrow and mean. His mouth, pulled back in a sneer. Vogelsong on the
mound is terrifying. And hot. He doesn't want to think this way about
Vogelsong during the game. He's got to focus. He's the lynchpin of the
infield--when he starts fucking things up, the whole game can turn to
shit--and he shouldn't be considering Ryan Vogelsong's ass. Brandon shifts his jock and looks away. After the game, though (another win, 15-0),
that's a different story. Vogelsong relaxes, becomes the affable guy he
typically is. He does his interviews in an undershirt, caught in the process
of getting dressed, and Crawford finds himself watching from a few lockers
away as Vogelsong lifts one hand to scrub at his hair while answering a
question about locating on either side of the plate. "Well, you
know," Vogelsong says, a smile quirking up one corner of his mouth, and
Brandon doesn't hear the rest of the answer because he's too busy looking at
Vogelsong's smooth shoulder, as it flexes. He ducks away, pulling his shirt over his
head. He's got to stop. He's got to. "Hey, Crawford, you busy?"
Vogelsong asks a few minutes later. Brandon looks up from tying his shoes. He
wishes they could wear trainers on the bus because his dress shoes are stiff
and pinch his feet, but Bochy is old school about the dress code, and it's
collars and dress shoes all the way. "Nah," he says. He's a little
tired and tomorrow is a getaway day, and he hates St. Louis for some reason
he can't quite put finger on -- it seems dirty and small, although the hotel
is just as nice as the ones the team always stays in. Maybe it's because
Cardinals fans are such assholes. "You want to grab dinner?" Brandon blinks. "Um, sure," he
says. "Where?" Vogelsong shrugs. "No idea, man. We'll
figure it out. I'm in room 704; come get me when you're ready." "Okay," Brandon says. He's
suddenly not tired at all. He's on the fifth floor, so he walks up the
exit stairs to Vogelsong's floor instead of taking the elevator. He's changed
clothes maybe three time, pulling everything clean out of his suitcase and
trying to figure out what kind of place Vogelsong would want to go to, but
ultimately, it didn't matter. All of his stuff was the same, vaguely dressy
button-down stuff that everyone but Theriot wore on the road. Theriot brought
three or four suitcases with him wherever he went, full of crazy shit that no
one except him would ever buy. He looked like a peacock. An ugly one. But, sitting in his room, looking at his
boring assortment of striped cotton shirts, Brandon sort of wished he had a
suitcase full of crazy stuff to wear. Maybe that would have made him less
nervous. "It's not a fucking date," he
whispers to himself before he opens the door to Vogelsong's floor. It's just
dinner, probably with a bunch of people; he hadn't thought to ask. No big
deal, just like he was going to dinner with Belt, or Kontos. Vogelsong's room is at the other end of the
hall, and Brandon takes another deep breath before he knocks. "Hey,
man," Vogelsong says, pulling open the door. "Come in." Vogelsong's room faces the ballpark, the
lights still visible through the gauzy curtains. It's a nice park, but
Brandon can't help but compare every park to AT&T, which is the only one
that feels like it's right. "Nice view," he says, flipping the
curtain back. "Yeah," Vogelsong says, from
right behind him. Brandon freezes. He's right there, inches
back. Brandon could lean back into him, if that was-- Vogelsong puts one hand on Brandon's hip
and, with the other, pulls Brandon's hair off his neck and kisses his neck. Brandon gasps. Vogelsong stops for a second. "Is this
okay?" he murmurs. "I thought--" "It's fine," Brandon manages.
"It's, no, it's really good. " Vogelsong kisses his neck again, sucking
lightly, pulling all the strength out of Brandon's knees. "Jesus." Brandon shivers. Vogelsong slides his arm
around Brandon's waist and pulls him back. Brandon gropes for, and finds,
Vogelsong's thigh with one hand, and closes his eyes. It's like a dream,
Vogelsong's mouth on him, his hands, his body. "Can I kiss you?" Vogelsong
whispers against the damp flesh of his neck. In response, Brandon turns, hooking an arm
around Vogelsong's neck. Brandon's not a small guy, but Vogelsong's bigger
than him, taller and much broader through the shoulders; embracing him is
like hugging a tree. A fucking sexy tree, whose tongue is in his mouth. Vogelsong wraps his arms around Brandon and
squeezes him tight, lifting him just slightly off his feet, as they kiss.
"God, you're hot," he mutters against Brandon's mouth. Brandon laughs: it's exactly what he's
thinking. Vogelsong having sex is a lot like
Vogelsong pitching: intense and smouldering and focused and mostly silent. He
leans over Brandon, who's flat on his back on the bed, and kisses him slowly
as he unbuttons his shirt and unzips his jeans. Then he stands up and pulls
off his own clothes in two or three quick movements, straightforward and
simple. He seems even bigger when he's naked, his chest, his thighs, his arms
all thick with muscles that seem lived in and natural and not like the
sculpted gym muscles that younger guys have. He settles naked between
Brandon's legs and kisses him until Brandon is squirming to get out of his own
pants. Vogelsong eases them down, and off, running
his hands up Brandon's shins and over his knees. "What are you
into?" he asks. Brandon doesn't know what he's into. He
can't say. His encounters with guys have been few and far between and mostly
involved making out with their clothes on until someone cums in his pants.
Vogelsong's taken him by surprise. His silence makes Vogelsong smile.
"We'll go slow," he says, and closes his mouth over Brandon's cock.
Afterwards, after Brandon comes thrusting into
Vogelsong's mouth and hands, and been coaxed through his own inadequate blow
job (an exception to Vogelsong's silence is his throaty encouragement for
Brandon's limited oral skills), Vogelsong hauls him up from where he's
collapsed on Vogelsong's stomach, turning him on his side and folding him in
an embrace, curling around him like a blanket. His voice rumbles down
Brandon's spine. "Can you reach the light?" Brandon can. They lie in the dark for Brandon doesn't
know how long. He feels Vogelsong's breath slow, his body sag, until it's
obvious that Vogelsong's asleep. Brandon doesn't feel tired. He
feels...strangely energetic, like he wants to jump up and dance around the
room. Vogelsong. And the feeling of Vogelsong's hand on his stomach, the
weight of his arm, the recollection of Vogelsong's mouth on his inner
thigh...he also feels horny. And he can't stop thinking his name, Vogelsong,
Vogelsong, Vogelsong, like an incantation. When he wakes up, the bed is empty and the
shower is on. He gets up, reaching for his clothes under the edge of the
mattress. The clock radio next to the bed says 8:33, which is pretty early as
far as baseball player go, although not as early as Brandon would like. He
wonders which floor Zito is staying on, because Zito likes to do yoga first
thing in the morning and is probably the first one up. The shower goes off while he's pulling on
his pants and he has to hurry to get them zipped up before Vogelsong's out of
the bathroom, a towel knotted around his waist. In the daylight, he
looks...his miles and miles of clean skin, water beaded on his stomach, his
hair sticking up like bird feathers on his head...he looks delicious. "You're up," he says, coming
close. "I. Yeah." Vogelsong puts one arm around his waist and
tugs him in. "Hungry?" Brandon is, or he was until his cock
pressed against Vogelsong's strudy thigh. Now he can hardly think of eating.
Vogelsong makes him dizzy. "Vogey--" Vogelsong laughs and kisses him.
"Dude, you can call me Ryan." They go to breakfast at the hotel
restaurant, Brandon in his clothes from last night, Vogelsong ( "So, um..." Brandon says, once
Ryan comes back to the table from the breakfast buffet. "Did you, um. I
had a good time last night." Vogelsong smiles. "Me too, man." Brandon takes a bite of runny scrambled
eggs. He should know better than to get the scrambled eggs at a breakfast
buffet; they never come out right. "Is that...do you, you know...I mean.
Would you want to do that again? Hang out?" Vogelsong looks at him for a long second,
smiling affectionately. "You're cutest fucking thing I've ever
seen," he says, finally, which isn't really an answer. "Thanks," Brandon says. He
swallows. "Because I would. You know, if you would." Vogelsong's face gets serious, fast. This
is what it must be like to face him,
Brandon thinks. It's terrifying. Brandon gulps ice water and almost chokes. "I'm married," Vogelsong says. "I know!" Brandon says, way too
loud. He lowers his voice to a whisper. "I know that," he repeats.
Vogelsong doesn't say anything. "You were married last night, too,"
Brandon points out. "Just don't..." Vogelsong sighs.
"I just can't have you getting attached is all," he says. "It
was fun, man, and I'm not saying no, but. I can't get involved. " You should have thought of that earlier, Brandon thinks, but does not say. What he does say
is "sure, bro. I get it." Vogelsong gives him a tight smile and
changes the subject to the schedule. He's up against the Nationals in a week
if the rotation holds, and the Nationals are the best team in baseball. It
will be a real test if they can win the series. While Vogelsong talks,
Brandon thinks about how different this Vogelsong is from the one he saw last
night, from the one he sees on game days, from the one he sees in the
clubhouse, from the one who goes home to his wife. How many Vogelsongs are
there, he wonders. And how many Ryans? They separate in the elevator, Vogelsong
fistbumping him on the shoulder when the doors open on Brandon's floor. It's
a relief to hear the ding as they slide closed behind him. He's dressing for the game when he hears
someone come up behind him. "Crawdaddy," someone says, easy and
familiar in a way that means it's Theriot. Only a Louisianan can say
"crawdad" like that, like a sign of affection. "How you
feelin', boy?" he asks. He's still got his plaid sport jacket on,
although he's not wearing pants. Theriot hasn't been in the line up regularly
since Scutaro showed up at the trade deadline, and it's calmed him down some,
made him into a mellower version of himself. That doesn't stop him from
throwing shit around every now and then. "What's up, Riot?" Brandon asks,
pulling on his socks. "Nothin'." Theriot sits down next
to him on the bench. "When you gonna start hitting, crawbaby?" Brandon shrugs. "Maybe never, I
guess," he says. "Why? You want my job?" Theriot laughs, ducking his head to
Brandon's shoulder. "Nah," he says. "Nah, baby." He
stands up. "You tell Marco to watch his back, though." Brandon smiles up at him. "That's all
you came over for?" he says. "To give me shit?" Theriot ruffles his hair. "That's what
rooks are for, baby," he says over his shoulder as he walks away. Brandon glances around. Almost no one has paid
attention to this little exchange, which is typical Theriot, but Vogelsong is
standing at his locker, head up, eyes narrow, watching Theriot's retreating
back. As he turns back, he catches Brandon's eye, gives him a little smile, a
nod. Brandon doesn't nod back, doesn't acknowledge him, just turns back to
his socks. He may still be a rook, or rookie-adjacent, and that comes with
some crap, for sure, but there are certain kinds of shit he's done taking. The End |