Chapter Text
Andy Lamb returned to the soft sectional in his sunny living room. He shifted the pink piece of gum to his lips, pushing his tongue gently against the wad and blew a bubble with mindless repetition.
Behind him a picture window displayed a panoramic view of the golf course that his home was attached to. The diminutive one and half level bungalow of tan and burnt orange looked like every other house in the twisting neighbourhood. The exclusive private neighbourhood was on the older side of the course's residential developments. The houses sandwiched neatly between a small pond on the ninth hole and a ribbon of white sand off the Gulf of Mexico.
Andy landed the exclusive property, which undeniably was the senior side of the course, a few years ago with the pull of his friends and now new neighbours, the Rosses. Across the road from the club the latest addition of new square glass luxury homes had just been completed. The brand-new roads with big shiny new houses were catered to by the latest club amenities. A state-of-the-art fitness centre and spa with a Gorp health food market had spiked the club's fees and chased some of the long-standing residents away. The construction was finally completed last summer with a ribbon cutting ceremony. Replacing the pictures of the owners scraping gold shovels against the hard ground when the project was first announced.
All of it Andy had been avoiding. This off season he had kept to himself as much as possible. He rarely ventured past the club house. Most mornings he took an old putter to the practice greens and worked on his short game, or if it was a busy day he travelled along the dunes with a wedge. Afternoons he spent watching seniors rip around in their golf carts from his porch. He avoided invitations and bad habits calling to him by scheduling his work outs and training sessions in the evening. His night ending with a return to the porch with a beer.
"Andrew." Hearing his name, one of his favourite words, his attention returned to the laptop balancing on the coffee table across from him. A therapist assigned to him by the team tapped his pen from across North America impatiently. "I can't tell if you're processing or just blocking out the idea." Andy hadn't bothered to learn the spectacled man's name. The opposing figure in the box on the screen ran a hand over his shining bald head. His remaining silver hair cropped on the side. His hair made him look older than he was.
"What?" Andy snapped. He shifted the quickly hardening gum to the inside of his cheek. He was hungry, he was thinking about lunch and wishing it was something more interesting. His off-season diet was regimented. He had to be careful to put on only good weight, good muscle, he had to show up to camp looking unaged, looking younger if possible. He saw his face in the small box in the corner of the screen. The crow's feet growing deeper, his brow lines stronger, flakes of silver in his dark stubble expanding into new territories everyday. He touched his own thick hair self consciously.
"Self-sabotage," he heard from the laptop speakers. Andy shook his head and heard the sigh crackle. "It's the off season, tell me something you like to do."
Andy shifted on the couch, feeling his body sinking slowly into it and suddenly he was horizontal, his bare feet dangling over the edge of the couch.
"Winning." He finally said. The silence built between them. He stared at the wooden beams crossing the arched ceiling. "I take chances, but they're not risks. It's a cerebral game. Cracking codes, finding rhythms. Battling and creating a moment when the opposition is at their weakest and they let me into the zone. Exploiting. Getting that extra step, taking that extra bag. Cool nights under the lights in August. Day games when the sun beats onto the back of my neck. October ball." His voice was soft and thoughtful.
"Poetic and perfect for your gratitude journal, but what about off the field?" The therapist asked. Andy heard his stomach growl. He was going to have to move these appointments. His afternoons were freer since couples therapy had finally ended. For some reason it had lasted longer than the marriage.
The house was now officially the Andrew Lamb museum. Jerseys from his first minor league team, his first major league game, and a few All-star games over various leagues were framed and hung in the corner. Shelves of his early accolades and triumphs gleamed next to his first glove. On top of the cabinet a variety of ball caps next to game-used balls marking supposed milestones. The timeline going farther back than he would like it to. First hit, RBI, homerun. The bobbleheads and his image on various team giveaways spooked him the most. His brow always creased darkly with concentration. They peaked out at him. He'd nudge the small figures behind other relics, and they seemed to always return to his vision. If they started speaking to him then he'd really have to become concerned. He looked away when his eyes hit his first team photo. Just twelve years old and surrounded by similar aged boys in a variety of heights and sizes in matching uniforms. Their cheeks covered in melting eye black. Their fingers extended into their air as they celebrated first place. Mouths open in yells of victory. Frozen in time.
"Any hobbies?" He heard from the computer. He looked back at the screen. "Oh, good I thought you had frozen. Reading? Fishing? Golf? Wine club? What will you fill your day with when this is all over?"
"When this is all over, I'll be dead," he told the screen.
"Your career, not your life we don't have time for that right now," the therapist replied and started writing notes again. Andy knew his sullen glibness would be reported as a red flag. "Let's come up with a hobby. Something that might make you happy."
At twelve he was given a uniform, a glove and a directive and he hadn't known much of anything outside of that since. He wasn't supposed to find his home on the field, but he never felt comfortable anywhere else. For over twenty years he had only one real interest and it had been his everything.
A notification popped up. The lunch courier was making their final stop.
"I like food," he said.
"Food?" was echoed back to him and the incredulousness could be heard from thousands of miles away.
"My lunch is almost here," he explained unable to shake the baseness he felt when he had to explain his uncomplicated tastes.
"For our next meeting let's get off the field of the field," he could tell the therapist really liked that one. Andy wasn't giving him enough to be invested in. The man on the screen took his small glasses off and wiped them on his sweater. Snow was falling outside his office window. "Let's find some other things that might make Andy Lamb feel joy or feel at least connected."
"Least connected..." Andy hummed back as the call ended and Andy saw his face frozen on the screen. He faced his own look of bewilderment. He hoped he looked bewildered, at least, more so than defeated. He knew he felt lost.
His phone buzzed but disappointingly it wasn't a confirmation of the lunch drop off. An incoming video call appeared followed by the invasion of Eden Aldean's giant pink face.
"Where are you?" Eden's voice was gruff and direct to the point of sounding impatient
"Home? Where am I supposed to be?" Andy returned the sharp interrogative energy. He knew he sounded annoyed because that was usually how he sounded. Eden's demanding tone always made his teeth clamp together. The former ball player turned podcaster didn't have to be so loud on top of all of his grating behaviours.
"We're in town next week," Eden told him. "We're doing some episodes from Spring Training."
"Ok," Andy moved into his kitchen and stood in the sunlight. The soft daylight erased a few years from his face. From the kitchen window he could see the boardwalk that disappeared between the dunes of the beachfront. In less than two minutes he could be on the white sandy beach. He could just keep walking until he was unreachable. The reception or his phone giving way to the waves. He shook his head, catching the fatalist fantasy that was too dark. He was being too dramatic. He just needed his lunch.
He ducked away from the window as the Rosses strolled along the sandy planks and turned down the path to the club house. He wasn't sure how they could even stand. He had heard them at their fire pit late last night. They always extended an invite, but he had been limiting encounters with them since their Christmas party. Ona Ross had pressed him to break his anti-socialization ban. Overwhelmed and over served he woke up in a room, the party over, the house dark. He wasn't sure what happened, which made it worse. After a few missteps and misdirects, cursing how all the houses looked the same, he finally found his way home and fell asleep again on his front steps. Nothing happened that he could remember, but Sarah had always hated his party trick so in a way something did happen, and the grand opening of the Andy Lamb Museum was unveiled on a lonely New Year's Eve. No resolutions were made. No answered calls. He sat on the beach and stared at the ocean as fireworks stirred behind him.. Some new kid on the team Alex Mittman texted to say Happy New Year. He ignored it.
"I know you don't want to be on the show, but you should come out for the night," Eden told him. Somehow breezing past his sudden drop to the floor and staying on message.
"I can't be on the show, I'm on a media ban," Andy reminded him. His legs extended in front of him. He had a tan line from his golf shorts across his thighs and a small sock tan just over his ankles. He couldn't believe he was wallowing while tanned and living on a golf course in Florida. "Maybe talk to the comms team. Charm them..."
"If you can't charm them who can? We have some mock ups of a free Andy Lamb t-shirt. Crazy that merch pays most of our salaries," Eden told him. "But we do owe you one. We didn't really expect such a fall out. Lots of guys say a lot worse."
"Free me? The messaging might be too prophetic," Andy felt that wasn't the compliment Eden thought it was. From the floor could see the top of Bear Ross's head bobbing into the distance then he went back to thinking about lunch.
"It was profit-tic," Eden sounded out slowly with an entertained guffaw. "One of our best rated shows. Lets get you back in front of the camera. It loves you. Also I love this no shirt look. I should only video call you. Got anything else on?" Eden was making fun of him but it boarded on hitting on him, which is the way a lot of chirps went with the boys. "You look jacked though seriously."
"Off season, locked in," Andy shrugged his rounding traps, intentionally flexing. The small chain flashed around his neck at the movement.
"Yes, brother! The boys when they retire think they'll slide into some on camera gig but most of them can't order from a drive thru let alone read a prompter. You're smart but also you got the looks so no one will care what comes out of your pretty little mouth, you mopey son of a bitch," Eden continued. Andy was used to this sort of twisted homoerotic banter from his tenure in clubhouses. The guarded compliment masked in flirtation for some reason was the least gay way to tell someone you loved them.
"Thanks, I'm not really thinking about retiring," Andy told him. He felt himself fall back into wallowing. His head resting against the cupboards. His neck extended. His chest clearly defined. Both of them knew he not looking at Eden's bald head as he flexed again caught for a moment in his own vanity.
"Neither was I and then one day I just didn't have a job," Eden brought him back to earth. "To be blunt," he added, as a late warning, "It's the last year of your contract, your stats are dropping, and even if you do have one big season left in you, well, they're not putting money into vets like they used to. A cheap show me and then you're DFA'd for someone even cheaper in the minors."
"It's going to be a big year for me," Andy told him, feeling a lump in his throat. He watched his Adam's apple bobbing in his four o'clock shadow. He needed lunch. His blood sugar was dropping.
Eden cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably at his sudden feeling of pathos.. His voice was still too loud but he was aware of the sensitive nerve he hit. "Do you wanna just talk? As friends, former teammates... I just, I've been where you are," Eden told him. "I was reading..."
"Congrats," Andy chirped, weakly pulling himself together.
"Shut up," Eden continued. "I was reading today that they call January "Divorce Month".
"Lunch is here," Andy announced as a notification popped up on his phone. He hoped it didn't sound as shaky as it felt.
"I'm serious, this isn't easy, especially alone..." Eden's large dome disappeared and a picture of the lunch on his front step replaced it.
Andy placed the large cardboard take away container on the kitchen counter. A Gorp Market sticker keeping the tabs enclosed. The smoothie was an odd coral colour but promised rejuvenation and cost almost forty dollars.
He slipped the biodegradable disposable knife through the sticker and a waft of steam released from the container of sweet potatoes, green beans, and undrugged chicken. An advantage to the on property Gorp Market. He left lunch and took the smoothie to the porch to watch the golf carts.
As he stepped out of the temperature-controlled house the Florida humidity immediately raised a sweat on his neck. Spring training was a week away. He was supposed to check in soon. A sign of life at minimum. The coaches were settled into their offices. The pitchers and catchers were in the first days of their work outs. The over-excited rookies trying to make a splash had unpacked as they packed as many of them as they could into their rentals. He suddenly remembered Alex Mittman, a young outfielder traded to the Yorkies in the off seasons, had texted him again. He was supposed to reach out to the new kids, not the other way around.
It had been a lonely off season where he had promised everyone and himself he'd figure it out, but days away from reporting he had no answers. He couldn't imagine the new season bringing him anything more. The idea of walking into the facility froze him. The car was packed but every next day seemed better than today.
His phone buzzed, triggering a Pavlovian twitch for the meal left on his table before he realized he just would never be full from protein bowls and smoothies. He read a headline about their new pitcher, Logan Cullen, and his impressive contract. He opened the article. He had news notifications set up for himself, the Yorkies and now Logan, their big off-season acquisition. He leaned back in his deck chair grimacing as he scrolled through pages of Logan's new outlook, new house, his off-season, and strategies for the upcoming season on top of the piles of money showing up at his door over the next five years.