“Oh, and Swindell needs to cut his hair. Our team policy mandates that. He looks sloppy out there. I don’t care who these people think the Callahans are, we still run a tight ship.”
Leave it to Uncle Daniel to focus on trivial things like team hygiene and grooming at a time like this.
Great, now I’m going to give Hayes, or Mr. Swindell as he prefers, one more reason to loathe me.
6
Hayes
Fingering the ends of my dirty blond hair, I give a mental middle finger to the Pistons organization.
Which I’ve done about fifty times in the past six months, but this time, they’ve gone too far.
When Terry Grude, our head coach, pulled me into his office after practice yesterday and had a talk with me about the team’s guidelines for personal grooming, I about threw a chair across the room. Who the hell did these people think they were? Their own blood slash general manager was in prison for making a joke out of our sport, and they were worried that my hair fell down to my shoulders?
Give me a fucking break. I’m not cutting it, not even coming close. This is who I am, I’ve gone my entire adult life looking the way I want, and no one is going to tell me to change that. Especially not a club that I shouldn’t even be a part of in the first place. On the contrary, if this is the thing that gets them to let me out of my contract, I’m all for growing this hair down to my ass.
On this rare off day, where the weather in Pennsylvania actually is going to get above sixty, I decided I couldn’t sit in my house any longer. Not only is the rented four-bedroom house on the outskirts of Packton too hotel-like and corporate, but it just isn’t home. I’ve barely had any of my personal effects shipped out here, not intending to stay through playoff season.
None of my friends are here. And though dinner with Walker hadn’t been half as bad, in both food and conversation, as I assumed it would be, I don’t have any intention of becoming close with my teammates. I can do my job just fine without connecting on a deeper level, seeing as I’m out of here the minute the November negotiation window opens up.
Packton is bustling as I stroll through Central Street. Even for a random Tuesday afternoon, there are people occupying benches, patio sidewalk seating at some of the restaurants is full, and so much talking that I have to put my headphones in. I scroll through my phone, selecting a Radiohead song, and play it through my Bluetooth.
Maybe if I keep these in while going to get a coffee, Joe, the owner of Buzz Coffee & Tea, won’t ask me any questions. I push inside the shop, which has a Pistons logo in one of its front windows, to see a line of about five people waiting for their order to be taken.
The song in my headphones plays on, but it’s low, low enough that I hear the jingle of the bell as I enter. A couple people in line or sitting at tables look around to see who just entered, and though I see some wide eyes, no one approaches me.
That’s the thing about this town that I actually like; even though these people clearly know who I am, they are used to major league players sharing their streets and shops. I’m never asked for autographs, or having my picture stealthily taken, and I can go about my life as a normal human … for the most part. Packton’s residents are used to the circus of having a ball team in their town and don’t let it overrule their small town community.
When I make it up to the counter, I nod at Joe, who gives me a bright smile through his dark black mustache.
“Slugger! Good to see you!” he greets me. “That game the other day was brilliant, how you feeling in your first season as a Piston?”
That’s the other thing; people here don’t acknowledge that players like me were signed illegally. Joe assumes that I’ll have another year here, which I won’t. “Feeling good, just glad to be on the ball field.”
I want to keep this conversation short, because I’d just like to get my coffee and go walk alone. But Joe keeps at it, not even trying to ring me up.
“Tough loss to Boston, though. That road game was a shame.”
We’re three and one, not a bad start to the season, but with a very long way to go. Our one loss comes courtesy of Boston, who is the American League team projected to make the World Series, if not win it. They’re fucking good, better than our disjointed team, even if we can pull out a few runs. It was a hard loss, with them handing us our asses as they scored five runs in the first two innings. It didn’t get prettier after that.
“It was.” I nod. “Can I just have a large coffee, with a splash of whole milk?”
It might be rude of me to just request my order and not indulge him in more shop talk, but this is my day off. The day where I don’t have to talk about baseball. I love the sport, but even I need a break.
He rings me up, grabs me my coffee, and I thank him with a salute of my cup and an extra ten-dollar bill in his tip jar.
As I exit Buzz, I nearly bump into someone on the sidewalk.
“Oh, excuse me—”
“I’m sorry—” someone says at the same time as I reach out an arm to steady them.
A jolt of awareness shoots up my arm, settling somewhere in my gut, because a bunch of honey-brown waves swirl over blushed cheeks.
“I didn’t see you there.” Colleen smiles, as if I haven’t scowled in her directions every time our eyes met over a press conference table or in a hallway of the facilities.
“Come to make sure that I abide by the grooming policies?” My voice is filled with snark.
Colleen blinks, those big, amber doe eyes surprised. “I was actually just going for a walk around town on my day off. I didn’t want to send word to Terry about that, unfortunately, but it’s my job.”
“Ah, so it was you. I figured.” I nod, confirming my suspicions.
I’d thrown the first punch, and Colleen was firing back about the comments I’d made to her that night after the weight room.
“I’ll take responsibility, though it’s a policy I’m working to change. I think it’s good for player morale, and baseball superstition, if you can exercise freedom over personal appearance, jewelry, things of the like.”
“What next, we’re all going to get matching Pistons tattoos? How revolutionary of you.” I roll my eyes at her courtesy.
The sun shines down on me, and I realize I forgot my sunglasses when a car drives by and I’m blinded by a reflection in the windshield. Funny, that she’s out on a walk on her day off as well. Looking down, I see her tight black workout pants paired with a dark indigo sweatshirt, and for some reason the color brings out her eyes. She’s dressed down, her hair loose and catching in the wind. It makes her look younger than the fierce suits and severe ponytails she wears to the office.
Colleen bites on her full lower lip, which is the color of cherries, and it does something sinister to my balls. It doesn’t help my attitude that this woman is so damn gorgeous.
“Can we please lay our weapons down? I think we really got off on the wrong foot. Listen, I’ve been an admirer of yours for a long time. I love how you play the game, and I think you’re a great ally taking the world of baseball to the community and those in need. Truly, Hayes, I apologize for the way you got here. Maybe no one has said that to you yet, but I’m saying it now. It was shady, it was wrong, and I don’t condone any of it. If I could overrule the league’s decision and let you and these other players choose to leave, I would. I’m a baseball purist, so it hurts my heart, too. But I am not the enemy. I am not my father. And if you’ll stop hurling insults at me, I may be able to help, or make things marginally better during your time here in Packton.”