She places a hand on my shoulder. “And you’re still young. Hell, I’m still young. We have all the time in the world to prove people wrong. Look at what you’ve accomplished in the past year, Sin. I don’t have to tell you that a lot of people thought you’d relapse. And you proved them wrong.”
Colleen makes it sound so easy. This last year has been hell on earth. I’ve wanted to drink every day, multiple times a day. You know how they say men think about sex every two seconds? Yeah, I do. But I also think about having a drink every two seconds. I’m a fucking textbook addict.
And she has been able to prove everyone wrong because she’s worked like a dog to do so. She never quits, doesn’t fall back on our money, keeps her personal life tidy and private. Well, except for the whole dating one of her players thing.
But me? I’ve quit so many times, I can’t even count them on two hands. I’ve let down so many people, especially my family. But it’s not like Nick and his crew of guys even know how badly I’ve fucked up. They just judged me from the onset because I’m a Callahan.
Plus, Colleen doesn’t have to compete with her own mind turning against her. She doesn’t know what it’s like living with something that automatically puts you a leg back every time.
“Yeah, well. Anyway, how long are you down here?”
She and Walker had come in on the family plane last night. The players were all here, too, since the first spring training game is next week. The video production team has been working overtime, and like I told Colleen, I rather liked my new job. Especially the interview segments.
“I’ll be here until next week. I’m staying in one of the guest houses. We should have dinner.”
“That sounds good.” I rise, checking my watch. “I have a video shoot in ten. Clark is being interviewed.”
I’m referring to one of my brother’s best friends and the team’s best reliever, Clark.
“All right, tell him I say hi. Talk to you later.” She stands too, moving back around the other side of the desk and picking up a stack of papers.
Five minutes later, I’m down in the bullpen, a flurry of activity swirling around Clark. He sits there, looking smug as usual and comfortable in his practice uniform.
“Dammit Sinclair, you gave me the wrong cable!” Nick yells.
“No, that’s the twelve foot …” I swear I gave him the right one.
“No, this is the twenty-one foot. I’m going to be tripping over this if I take it around this bullpen.” He looks at me like I’m some kind of moron.
My stomach drops, my eyes fall to my feet, and I do … I feel like the biggest moron in the world. It’s all I can do to bend down, retrieve the other cable, hand it to Nick, and then not run in the other direction. When I look up to meet his eyes, I’m faced with the look I’ve been getting all my life.
One of confusion, mixed with disdain, as if to say, are you a complete idiot? At least, that’s how anyone who doesn’t know what I suffer from looks at me.
Dyslexia.
I remember the day my parents came in to talk to me about that funny sounding word, the one my teacher had used with them. Basically, it means I can’t read numbers straight, or I mix them up. With letters, I seem to do fine, but numbers? I was hopeless for a very long time. I still have a lot of slips, mostly because I never put the work in to be better about it. My parents spared no expense with tutors and lessons on how to combat my dyslexia. You name it, they paid for it.
But when you already feel dumb as a brick, you might as well own it. It’s fitting that I am the one with the learning handicap. The second brother, the overlooked child, never the heir to the family throne. I was saddled with the problems Walker never had to struggle against.
It’s why I’ve spent so much of my life falling back on my trust fund. Why even start the rat race when you can’t read the goddamn street signs? I was born with a boot on my tire, for all intents and purposes, and there was no use trying to overcome it. I had money; I had mansions; I had parties. What more could I ask for?
Now that I am really dedicating myself, now that I’ve exhausted that lackadaisical way of life, I could see how wrong I’d been. And how much those years of being useless set me back. It’s almost too late for me, especially now if Nick decides I’m too dumb to put over not pissing off the owner of the team.
But there’s a spark of hope inside me that had never burned there before. Just a little kindling of determination, I could stoke it and really make something of myself.
Like Colleen had said, I could prove them wrong.
If I could just swallow the knot of embarrassment, of feeling like the dimmest bulb in the room, I could really make something of myself.
8
Frankie
“It’s so nice to see you again.”
Colleen Callahan is the picture of grace, wealth, and professionalism. She looks like a badass bitch sitting in her stark white high back office chair, with her cowl neck sleeveless sweater and red-bottomed heels.
I may not want to wear the expensive clothes and have to sit in boring meetings all day, but this woman embodies everything I want to be. She is a female in a position of authority, everyone listens to her, she calls the shots.
I’ve been doing really well here in my new position, but I want to take it further. I don’t want to just be a strength coach with minor league players or during spring training. I want to be the head coach at a major league ballpark, at the very top.
“So nice to see you, too. I can’t thank you enough for offering me the job.” I let go of her hand, the one I just shook.
She’s been here for about a week now, and when she called me up for a meeting in her office, I was nervous. Is this just a formality? Is it a performance review? I guess I’m going to find out.
“Well, you don’t need to thank me. Your work is speaking for itself. The guys have been reporting just how much stronger they feel, how well you work with them. I’ve never regretted my decision for a second. And it’s not because you are a female that you got the job, but it does make me happy to have another strong female in a power position here.”
Internally, I breathe a sigh of relief and shoot her straight.
“Well, a lot of others have passed me over. I truly thank you for thinking that way,” I say again because it’s true.
“Are you enjoying it? The position?” Colleen asks, walking around her desk.
“Immensely.” I nod. “Especially working with the major league guys who flew in this week. It feels like, excuse my pun, a whole other ball game.”
Colleen chuckles lightly, her perfectly coiffed hair falling over one shoulder. She’s the type of pretty every female wants to be. The slim, girl-next-door type who looks catalog-perfect in Ann Taylor sweaters or jeans and a pair of white Keds.
Not to say that I’m unattractive, because I know the effect I have on men, but I possess a different kind of beauty. I’ve always had curves, having grown into my boobs in the fifth grade way before most of my classmates. I have an ass I’ve honed in the gym. My features are more in-your-face, more obvious than Colleen’s pretty, tasteful bone structure. I’ve got the wild hair and the exotic eyes. I can rock with what my mama gave me, but sometimes I envy the classic beauty that the woman sitting in front of me was blessed with.