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  “There’s enough padding, right?”

  “Of course. I set the large mat down last week and put about eight inches of sawdust down myself three days ago, with a fresh layer this morning. The calf will be fine, Ainsley, don’t worry.”

  “I know. I can’t help it, though. Jambo is a first-time mom, and I want everything to be perfect for her.”

  Bruce doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He knows what I’m thinking. We’ve all been so worried that something would go wrong after a calf at another zoo was delivered stillborn a few months ago. Since then, that giraffe has had trouble integrating back into the yard with the others. Even animals suffer from depression, and it can be hard to treat them properly.

  “Bruce, look.” I point toward Jambo as hooves start to appear. Bruce mutters the time, and I know he’s writing it on his clipboard because that is what I’d be doing if this were still my job. Tears well in my eyes as I watch an animal I love dearly bring her first child into this world.

  Watching her give birth is in complete contrast to how I spent my day, sitting beside my mom while she received her chemo with her eyes closed and her hand pressed tightly into mine. I spent most of my day re-reading over the same pages of the magazine I brought because it was the only thing that could keep my attention long enough.

  My mother is dying, while Jambo is giving birth. It seems like an odd form of irony when I think about it. Shortly after the news broke about Jambo’s pregnancy, my mom was diagnosed with stage-four gastric cancer. I have yet to come to terms with her prognosis: I’m still waiting for a drug to miraculously become available that wipes out every nasty cancer cell ever discovered, but I know deep in my heart that it won’t happen.

  The chaplain always seems to come around when my mother is receiving her treatments. At first, it didn’t bother me, but now it does. He says to pray, and I question: for what? Do I pray that this is all a dream and that, when I wake up, everything is back to normal?

  Or do I forgo praying and instead pinch myself to wake up from this nightmare? Neither option right now seems to be the right answer.

  My mother, she’s all I have. My father bailed before I was born, and she raised me by herself. My grandparents are around, but they can’t help. They try, but they’re old and frail, and watching their only daughter die isn’t something they’re taking very well.

  So I’m there for her with no questions asked. It’s where I want to be. It’s where I need to be. She didn’t have to keep me, but she did. So I’m there with a smile on my face, tending to her while her body is pumped full of drugs that are going to make her puke her guts out later, make her hair fall out and cause her to cry each time she looks in the mirror, and make her weak, even though she’s the strongest woman I know, because she was always there for me.

  In the past year, so much has changed. My mom has gone from a healthy, active woman to a frail, sickly shell of who she used to be. Retirement was supposed to be her time to shine. Her plans were to travel, play golf, and enjoy life, all while trying to find me a rich doctor to marry. She can pretty much guarantee I won’t be marrying a doctor, not unless he’s the one who finds the cure to keep her in my life another forty years or more.

  Not a week after she retired, she called me complaining of a stomachache. I brushed it off. I mean, how many have I had one that went away hours later? A month after that phone call, she showed up at my apartment with the news. I was so excited to tell her about Jambo, but I could see by the look in her eyes that she had something important to tell me. I cried in her arms; she was consoling me, promising me that everything was going to be okay.

  It’s not.

  Her last scan showed that the cancer is growing. The last round of chemo didn’t work so they’re trying a new kind. Who knew there were different kinds? It’s like a vending machine full of drugs, and your selection is B-15. Only to find out you chose wrong.

  The staff and I are on a first-name basis. I tried to keep a wall up, not wanting to get to know any of them, but after you spend days, even weeks in there, you can’t help but ask personal questions and answer theirs in return. My favorite nurse is Lois. She’s very caring when it comes to my mother, making sure that she’s always comfortable. When I’m running late, Lois steps in and reads to my mom for me. With our many hospital stays and chemo visits, we’ve sailed through an array of romance novels, and while my mother loves the stories, some of them make me blush.

  “Ainsley, are you watching?”

  “I’m sorry, what?” I shake my head, clearing myself from my daydream. Only it’s not a dream, but the stark reality in which I live at the moment. My eyes focus back on Jambo as the face of her calf appears. More tears of happiness emerge, and I can’t help but start to clap for her. The calf moves slowly out of its mother until the six-foot baby is on the ground with the padding cushioning its fall.

  “Oh my,” I say, covering my mouth. “We have a baby, Bruce.” You would think that I had given birth myself with how emotional I am at the moment.

  “That we do. From start to finish, Jambo did this in under an hour. Not bad for a first-time mom.” Everyone around us is cheering.

  “Now we wait and see if she nurses or if we have to guide them to each other.” My hands clasp together with my thumbs resting against my lips. I study Jambo as she looks at her calf warily.

  He or she is covered in sawdust, and the sight is comical and adorable. Jambo takes tentative steps as she nears her calf. She nudges her baby a few times and then starts cleaning.

  “She’s a natural,” I say. “And the calf is beautiful.”

  “She is,” Bruce says, standing next to me. “I’ll be right back. I want to check the temperature in the room.”

  My mother is always cold. It’s a side effect from the chemo. We live in Florida and are likely the only people who don’t use our air conditioner. In the hospital, they provide warming blankets, and I looked into having one of the machines in our house. The dryer doesn’t warm them enough, and I’m afraid an electric blanket will burn her if she keeps it on too long. It’s a no-win battle sometimes. Our condo is stifling, and sleep often evades me, especially when it’s hot.

  On good days, my mom will get dressed, put on makeup, and go to lunch with friends, but those days are few and far between lately. I feel like her lack of motivation is being caused by some form of depression, and I’ve asked her to see a doctor, but she refuses. She’s stubborn and determined not to be a burden. I can’t get it through to her that she’s not a burden and I only want what’s best for her.

  I gasp again when the calf stands, and Bruce hollers “woohoo” from around the corner. Over the next few days, this calf is going to be mischievous and will test Jambo as a mother. I already know that I’ll try to be down here as much as possible, even if it means giving up my lunch hour to spend time with mama and her baby.

  “Yes, move toward your baby, Jambo,” I say, trying to encourage her to let the calf nurse. “Oh, Bruce, look.” I point as the baby latches on, much to the delight of all our staff. There’s a collective sigh among us, knowing that the first steps of motherhood have been taken by Jambo and were done so easily.

  I choose to sit on the floor and rest my head against the wall, not ready to leave. Right now, I don’t care if I’m lacking sleep or my alarm will sound in a few hours. Everything I witnessed in the past couple of hours is giving me enough adrenaline to conquer whatever tasks lie ahead. Including the fact that, once the sun rises, the Boston Renegades will be here for media day, along with a hundred or so underprivileged third-graders from various schools in the area.

  That alone should scare me into leaving, but it doesn’t. Sitting here, watching Jambo nurse her calf, is the most calm and peaceful I have felt in a long time, and right now I could use this heavy dose of this type of happy to get through everything I’m facing with my mother.

  Chapter 3

  Cooper

  I dive into the swimming pool and stay under as long as I ca
n before I begin to stroke. Swimming is my way of loosening up my sore muscles and keeping them from getting strained. I can’t afford to get injured during spring training or not to be in the best shape of my career. Everyone is watching me. They’re waiting for me to come out and hit the shit out of the ball, or to fuck up. The critics out there are wagering on whether I can make it in the majors or not. They say Stone kept me in the minors for a reason, and now I have to prove them wrong. Their opinions shouldn’t matter, but they do.

  With each lap I complete, my mind becomes clearer. My body cuts through the lukewarm water, creating a path so I can glide easily into my next stroke. This is the only time I have to myself before I’m “on.” Before I’m officially Cooper Bailey, Boston Renegade. I know it’s going to be different, with a lot more expectations, and for that I’m ready. I’m ready for what today is going to bring, with a whirlwind of activities, and I want to be my best. I want to stand out among my peers.

  After the first day of conditioning I thought the guys like Davenport, Meyers, and Cross wouldn't talk to me again; however, they have and we continue to go through our workouts together. They’re making me feel welcomed, and I’ve even been razzed by Kidd with some off-the-cuff one-liners that had me bent over gasping for air because I was laughing so hard. But there are still some guys in the clubhouse that give me sideways glances. I get it. I just hope they know I have no control over who gets the starting spot—that is all determined by the performances of Bainbridge and myself, and in the hands of Cal Diamond.

  I know in a semi-perfect world, Bainbridge and I would split the spot, but that doesn’t work for me. There are goals I want to achieve, accolades that I want to receive, and you can’t earn those if you’re sitting the bench for half the season. Part-time players don’t earn batting titles or the Gold Glove. And if I’m sitting the bench, I can kiss my Rookie of the Year nomination goodbye. I’m sure Bainbridge feels like he’s in a similar boat, perform or get benched. The difference is he’s been there before. He’s received the awards. It’s time to let the young ones take over.

  I finish my laps and head back to the apartment. I’m sharing it with a couple of the other rookies, both of whom are just out of college. Technically this is my second year, but it’s my first in the majors. The guys I’m living with are straight out of college trying to make the forty-man roster. Last year I wasn’t even invited to spring training due to a late-season muscle tear that left me sidelined. My arm is good to go now. I’ve been working my tail off to make sure something like that doesn’t happen again.

  As I climb the steps back to my place, I pause and look around the courtyard. This place is nice, nothing fancy, and it’s cheap. It’s what we can afford. We each get signing bonuses; mine was received last year, but that doesn’t means we’re rolling in the cash like the other guys, so we live on the inexpensive side. There used to be a time when the organization paid for the players’ housing and transportation. Athletes didn’t have to worry, unlike now. If it weren’t for me, the other two living with me would be catching the city bus or asking one of the other guys to pick them up. Luckily, I drove my car down here, but I won’t be it driving back. Once spring training ends here, we have a few games up north to play and we’ll be flying directly there.

  After I get ready, the guys, Brock Wilder and Frankie Guerra, all pile into my car and we head to our training facility. There’s a coach bus waiting for us when we arrive. The other Renegades are all dressed similarly with khaki shorts, our red polo shirts, and ball caps. We don’t look much like baseball players, more like golfers.

  I take a seat next to the window and pretend I’m interested in something in the parking lot. From my experience on team buses when I was a freshman in college, it’s best not to make eye contact with anyone. The last thing I want to see on anyone’s face is a look of disgust when I’m still trying to find my footing.

  The seat next to me is taken, and a quick glance sends me into a partial panic attack. I shouldn’t be scared or even nervous to sit next to Steve Bainbridge, but I am. When it comes down to my love for the game, he is one of the best. I’ve modeled some of my skills after him, and here I am gunning for his job.

  “I thought I’d introduce myself,” he says, extending his hand to shake mine. His grip is firm, strong, really, and meant to send me a message. Message received, but not processed. What’s that saying—keep your friends close, but your enemies closer? I’ll be his best damn friend if that’s what I have to do. I’m not afraid of being underhanded in order to get what I want.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say to him with pure honesty. Two years ago, I’d have been lining up for his autograph. By the end of spring training, he’ll be asking for mine.

  If I was expecting a conversation on the way to the zoo, I’m sorely mistaken. Bainbridge stands with a huff and moves to the back of the bus; his seat is filled immediately by Travis Kidd.

  “His bark is worse than his bite.”

  “Okay?”

  I shake my head and focus on the scenery outside. Everything here is green and lush, unlike Boston. In New England it’s cold, dreary, gray, and gross. I long for the dry heat of Arizona where I can play ball every day of the year unless it’s raining.

  “It means he’s really a nice guy once you get to know him.”

  “I’m sure he is.”

  Kidd doesn’t say anything after that, riding next to me in silence. From what I’ve heard, and believe me, rumors travel fast in the clubhouse, Kidd is a major partier in the off-season, and doesn’t hold back much during the season, either. My dad has read articles about him, cautioning me from that type of behavior. He’s reminded me that my image is everything, and once the public sees you doing something stupid, it’s hard to come back from that. Keep my nose clean, that’s what I’m supposed to do.

  “Hey, rook, tonight a bunch of us are hitting the bar. We have late practice tomorrow. You should come.” I’m surprised by the invite from Kidd, but pleasantly happy as well.

  I shake my head slightly. “I don’t do bars during the season.”

  He laughs and slaps his hand down on his leg. “There will be lots of women.”

  “I don’t do women, either.” The second the words are out of my mouth I regret them. His face pales before he starts to nod.

  “I get it—”

  “No, it’s not like that,” I say, interrupting him. “What I mean is, I don’t date or anything like that. I’m focused on my career right now. Shit’s hard enough, and I’m trying to make the roster. I need to keep my priorities straight.”

  “I was that way, too, my rookie year, until about midway through the year and we were in a slump so I had to drown out my sorrows. Once those floodgates open, man, you can’t stop them.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t hit any slumps.” My goal, like everyone else’s on this bus, is to win. Put up high scores, outpitch the other team, run the bases harder, and challenge the opposing players to get us out. Make them work for their victory and hand them nothing.

  Last year the Renegades didn’t even make the wild card race and they were projected to. The season was a letdown, and I half expected to be called up much earlier. Sports analysts have said the Renegades tanked last year because Cal Diamond was supposedly sick and not truly focused on the game. Others say we’re too young and need some veterans. If the latter is true, it explains why guys like Bainbridge are still around, but doesn’t give much explanation as to why I’m here. They could’ve easily traded me and secured future draft picks if they’re looking to keep veterans.

  The guys start hooting and hollering when we pull into the zoo parking lot. Yellow school buses and lines of kids surround us. Kids aren’t my favorite things in the world, but I can smile, sign autographs, and act like I’m having a good time to do my part and make the organization look good.

  As we file off, the kids start pointing. A few scream when Singleton, Davenport, and Bainbridge step off the bus. Steve walks right up to them and st
arts shaking their hands. It takes me a minute to realize what he’s doing. This is why he’s a fan favorite. This is what I need to emulate in order to be successful on both sides of the fence.

  I start shaking hands. Most of the kids don’t know who I am, and I’m okay with that. I answer their quick questions and even ask a few back, letting them know that I’m as interested in them and that I care.

  We’re ushered inside the zoo and met by staff. My eyes immediately fall on the woman who seems to be in charge. She is standing in front of a group of people all dressed in different shades of khaki green. I have never seen someone so poised and self-assured; it’s mesmerizing how she commands the attention of everyone around her. Her smile lights up an already bright day, and I find myself stepping closer so I can get a better look at her.

  “Good morning. My name is Ainsley Burke and I want to thank you all for coming out today. The third graders that you met on your way in are from underprivileged schools, and coming to the zoo is something they usually only have the chance to experience during field trips. At noon, we’ll meet at the cafeteria, where we’ll have lunch before finishing the second half of the tour. There are about one hundred kids here today, and you’ll be in groups of five. That puts two players with each group. You can switch groups at any time, or wait until after lunch.”

  Her name is Ainsley. I say it over and over again in my head as I stand here staring at her. She smiles at me, but her eyes move away quickly as she watches my teammates filter to their locations to meet the children. The activity around me is a vision of blurry bodies while she stays crystal clear. The only thing missing is the epically cheesy music that either signifies a connection or our untimely doom.

  “Bailey!”

  I snap out of the trance I’m in to look for the source of my name being called. Davenport is waving his hand in the air, beckoning me over. With another glance at Ainsley, I step toward him, but not before looking back at her. That’s when I see it. She’s watching me, and when our eyes meet, she blushes and runs her hand over her blond ponytail. Is it an automatic response that her head tilts down as she tries to hide the grin on her face?