Warning Track (Callahan Family #1) - Carrie Aarons Page 0,11
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?”