up from three lockers down.
I think I break a molar with how hard I’m gritting my teeth. Not only is that guy married, but he has daughters. How the fuck is he talking about a woman in that way?
Walker Callahan appears out of nowhere, anger and protective instinct rolling off him in waves.
“Knock that shit off, I’m serious. If I hear any kind of talk like that, I won’t hesitate to start swinging. You all think I have nothing to lose? Maybe I don’t. But I won’t tolerate stuff being said about Colleen. Not only is she your boss, but she’s also an intelligent, fair general manager. And she’s my family, so you can fuck right off if you think I’ll let that shit slide this season.”
Walker’s voice is even, but anyone would be a dumbass not to hear the promised aggression underneath.
The guys shrug it off, a few of them nervously laughing, but no one challenges him.
I wasn’t around long enough last year to really get to know the guy, the Callahan golden child who grew up and made good on his family’s real baseball dreams. He was one of the only players in the league who had ever come from a family connected to professional baseball, and the only one who went on to play for his father, who was the owner.
While a lot of people would discount him for that, think he was some spoiled rich kid given all the best in life in order to easily succeed, I don’t get that vibe when I watch Walker. He’s a leader in this clubhouse, even now, after the whole scandal went down. It’s clear that the guys respect him, and from the short month we played together before the Pistons missed the playoffs, he seemed like a hard worker and all-around great teammate.
It didn’t mean I trusted him, though.
“You let men go around speaking about women like that?” He sits down next to me; our lockers butt up against each other.
This fucker is calling me out, and dammit if he didn’t hit the nail on the head. That’s the thing, I don’t let other guys go around talking about women like that. Not in the clubhouse, not outside the stadium. I’ve been known to lecture about this when guys start intimidating female reporters, and I even restrained a rowdy, drunk asshole at an LA bar a couple years back for getting handsy with a woman who was clearly trying to shrug off his advances.
But there is something about the Callahans that makes me skittish. “I don’t know your cousin.”
“You mean, your general manager. The woman advocating for this team and trying to win us a championship. Someone who works extremely hard and has for years. Don’t pretend to sit there and agree with the way they were talking about her. On a basic human level, putting aside your obvious opinion about my family, it’s not right to allow men to speak about women like they just were.”
Damn, I didn’t think he was going to hand me my ass. His cousin simply towed the party line when I threw accusations in her face, but clearly Walker isn’t going to do that. My own behavior makes me cringe, and I turn to him.
“You’re right. I should have backed you up. You’re going to make it hard to dislike you until I can hightail it out of here at the end of the season, aren’t you?”
He gives me a shit-eating grin. “I’ll grow on you. Don’t count this team out yet, Swindell. We’re going to build something here, something pure. Back to baseball basics. Colleen is going to spearhead it. You’ll see.”
“That’s some poetic shit. All I want to do is bat over five hundred and make some good plays at first.” I roll my eyes.
“Let me take you out for the best steak dinner in Packton after this. Man date.” Walker beats in his glove, then slides it on his hand, flexing it.
I snort. “That’s like saying you’re taking me for pizza at Chuck E. Cheese.”
“If we win, I’ll buy you dinner. My treat.” He raises an eyebrow.
This guy is annoying, but seems genuine. “Fine. Just get out of my space. I need to focus.”
He chuckles as he pushes up, knowing he won, and walks off.
Two hours later, we’re in the bottom of the sixth, tied two to two, and I’m up at the plate.
The game, the afternoon, has been … interesting. A lot of the veteran players and old-timers