But this woman, with her striking features and unique nickname, has no idea who I am.
And I kind of love it.
“I’m new on the video crew, I’m supposed to report to the field to shoot some packages today.” I flash her a winning smile.
“I guess you better get to the field then. Nick doesn’t like when his employees are late.”
My eyes flit down to the Apple Watch on my wrist. I still have five minutes to spare, and I’d like to spend it talking to her.
“I’ve got five. When did you start working here, Francesca?”
Those amethyst eyes flash in annoyance yet again at me calling her by her full name. “If you’re not ten minutes early, you’re already late. That’s how I run my department, anyway. I’m pretty sure Nick is the same.”
And with that, she marches past me toward the weight rooms and training wing of the building. I turn, a shocked but genuine smirk on my face, as I get a full view of that spectacular ass. I was right; it is sacrosanct.
“Guess I’ll see you around then, Francesca,” I call after her.
Just like that, I feel like I have my mojo back.
Maybe Florida won’t be so bad after all.
3
Sinclair
Frankie, the hot strength coach, is right; my boss, Nick, does not appreciate anyone being anything other than ten minutes early.
In fact, make that fifteen, which is why I’ve been waking before the sun is even up most mornings to get to work on time.
That first day with my new boss was brutal at best. Nick is the Video Production Manager for spring training; his team shoots all of the marketing and promo packages of the team to get our season ticket holders and regular fans pumped for the upcoming season. They shoot player interviews about where each guy came from, his favorite legendary player, the thing that makes him passionate about baseball. They put together packages of each player’s batting stance or document the science of a reliever’s best pitches. This spring training, there will be a series of short documentaries released on the entire bullpen and how they work together to create a cohesive defensive unit.
From top to bottom, Nick’s team is shooting video and clips all day to sew together some really great looking and sounding material for the fans. The better the videos, the more it attracts people. The more the marketing attracts people, the more tickets and merchandise they buy.
And now, his team includes me. Or should I say I’m now his number two?
My first day, I nearly dropped a ten-thousand-dollar camera, got dirty looks from my three underlings who have way more experience than I do, fucked up an interview with a minor league shortstop that was so off-center we had to reshoot it, and did about twenty other things that royally pissed my boss off.
In the last four days, I’ve managed to learn a little bit more, fuck up a little bit less, and show up early. But I’m still not living up to Nick’s very high expectations.
“Sinclair!” Nick barks in frustration. “I needed that mic pack yesterday!”
He’s testing the white balance on a shot of the newest Pistons superstar. Garrett Chester was just called up from the minors, where he was a high school phenom recruited at the age of eighteen. He’s only twenty-two now, having done his rounds and growing up in triple A, he’s finally getting his shot at the big show this season, and that starts with spring training. The kid has an arm like a rocket, and he’s cocky as fuck.
Honestly, he reminds me of me at that age. Or maybe he reminds me of me just a year ago, before I got sober.
I finally retrieve the mic pack from the audio duffel bag, and jog it over to my boss.
“About time,” he grumbles.
The guy hates me, mostly because he was forced to bring me on as his number two. Jeffrey, Trevor, or Patrick, the three guys who have worked for him for nearly two years, are a hell of a lot more qualified. We all know it. They also all know my last name and can’t say a thing against me for fear of me running to my daddy.
They don’t realize I’d never do that, but there is that underlying fear and pressure just the same.
“Hey, can I shadow you today? I really want to know how to do that better.” I nod at the boom microphone Trevor is holding above Garrett’s head.
“Sure.” Trevor’s expression is unreadable, not happy to help but also contains no malice.
The conversations they’ve had with me are short and always instructive, but it’s clear they have no intentions of making me their friend. When we break for lunch, the three of them head for the dugout with their homemade brown bags. I’ve never been invited. Yesterday, Thursday, I heard them talking about their plans for that night. Hit up a local seafood joint that had two for one drinks. I wasn’t invited.
That’s okay. I’m used to being the odd one out. I’m used to not having close friends. I’m used to being tolerated.
A part of me thought this might be different, being here as an employee and really being on the ground, doing the work. I’m trying to show interest; I’m trying to learn. But it feels like the more I try, the less anyone actually wants to get to know me.
“And I’d love to help put together some interview sets, if possible.” I direct this one to Patrick, the resident journalist on our squad.
Not only do we tape all the promo and marketing campaigns, but these guys are the ones interviewing the subjects.
I find myself being drawn to that, the interview side of this. Yes, the technical video work is more interesting than I thought it would be, but the documentary-style work that we do is what I’m taking to. I’ve always been good at talking to people. My brother Walker likes to say I could talk to a wall for hours and both of us would find it stimulating.
Watching Patrick field questions to the players, trying to suss out information, it … I find myself actually watching as if the program was on my TV and not inches in front of my face.
“The question lineup is typically done by me.” I sense Patrick’s territorial tone.
“No, I know that, man. You’re so good at it. I just thought maybe I could take a crack. It seems …”
I don’t want to say fun but I can’t think of another word. I don’t need to give these guys any more reminders that I’m just here as a spring training project my father assigned me to. I can already see it is in their eyes, the hostility and jealousy. We are all aware that I don’t even remotely need this job to survive.
“If you want.” He dismisses me with a couple of words, all hinting at distaste.
I watch as Nick and the three guys work as a well-oiled unit, moving around Garrett as the rookie turns his undeniable shine and charm on. They check the cameras, hold steady shots, get angles that will work well during cuts of the interview, and operate the equipment like the professionals they are.
It leaves me on the outskirts, feeling useless—as usual.
They shoot everything they need to get and then duck their heads together, talking about how they’ll edit it all. I’m left to pack up the equipment.
“You’re a Callahan, right? Walker Callahan’s brother?”
I look up to see Garrett watching me. The way Garrett says it, I can tell he idolizes my brother just like the rest of the world. It’s not a leap that he picked me out as the spare heir, Walker and I look pretty much alike.