The sight before me when I walked into the visitor’s locker room shouldn’t have been a surprise. Until I rounded the corner and saw Eric standing in front of his locker, I’d almost managed to convince myself that the deal would fall through in the eleventh hour. I wanted management to realize that Eric was an asset to the team. Then again, neither of us were foolish enough to believe that’d happen. Seattle had a weak outfield and the Mavericks needed strength in the batting order. That’s why we said our own goodbyes last night after we all went out for one last dinner together.

“I hear the weather’s always nice in Seattle,” Eric said as he emptied his locker. He was the type of guy who never let anything get to him, yet he looked about ready to break down. When he glanced up at me, his eyes were dull and rimmed with dark circles. He shrugged as he rifled through his bag. “Maybe this will be a good move for me. It’ll be nice to not worry that Ackerman’s going to tell me to pack my shit every time I see him walk down the hall.”

He was trying to put on a brave face, but I imagined he saw the announcement that he was no longer a Maverick as a sign of his inability to perform up to standards. Like myself, he’d grown up watching the Mavericks play and dreamed of stepping onto the field as a player someday. When he’d gotten the call, it only took him a few days to buy a house right on Lake Michigan. He’d hoped to stay in Milwaukee until he decided to hang it up. Unfortunately, ball players understand from the time they sign their first contract that there are times when their best may not be enough. Without notice, the club has the right to trade them to another team without even asking if they’re interested in the deal. It’s all part of the game.

Eric sat on the bench running down the center of the aisle, slumped forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he’d worn Mavericks’ gray and blue uniform for the last time. I wanted to give him some reassurance that this was a good career move for him. Seattle had different strengths and he’d be more of an asset to their team. I sat next to him and draped my arm over his shoulder. He scanned the room to make sure we were alone before leaning into my touch. I shook my head and let out a long breath, trying to figure out what to say.

“This is one of the few things I hate about the game,” I grumbled. “You’re a great guy and an even better player. It’s going to suck not having you around.”

Not having Eric jogging to catch up to me as we walked to the dugout at the end of the inning was only one reason I was going to miss him. When Eric first joined the team, I’d been the only player who didn’t have a roommate on the road. We developed a friendship that wound up reaping great benefits for both of us once we got to know one another well enough. Unlike most of the guys, we weren’t free to troll the nightclubs looking for packs of groupies eager to spend a night sweaty and naked with a major league baseball player. That wasn’t a bad thing because we also didn’t worry about girls sneaking compromising pictures to share with a thousand of their closest friends on social media. We needed to be much more discreet because loose lips would spell the end of a gay athlete’s career if it was a giddy fanboy snapping selfies.

Faint voices in the distance warned us that our time alone was almost up. When I hugged Eric goodbye, I buried my face in his neck, inhaling his scent to commit every possible detail to memory. I wasn’t in love with Eric, but I suppose my feelings for him were somewhat akin to love on some level. He was one of very few people I trusted with my secrets and we worked well together in every aspect of our lives. Looking back, I wondered why we never tried to have more than a casual relationship. I suppose it was at least partly because a day like today was probable.

“Don’t be a stranger,” I whispered as I pressed my lips to his neck. I pulled away from him a split-second before the door opened. I had to get out of the locker room and into the bullpen before I lost the tentative hold I had on my emotions.

Jason Klein followed me to the bullpen and I almost felt bad for the guy. With the mood I was in, he’d either be chasing balls when they fell short of the plate or he’d have a bruised hand from the force behind my arm. In the seven years I’d been in Milwaukee, I’d never been this bitter over having to say goodbye to a friend. I appreciated that he knew me well enough to realize today was a day I needed him in the bullpen with me, not one of our other catchers. We needed the time to get in sync with one another before facing the Bulldogs on the field.

Get it together, I scolded myself as I tapped the chain link three times before stepping up to the pitching rubber for warm-up. I had less than an hour to leave my personal feelings behind and pitch as if my life depended on it. And just like every other day, it did, because Eric’s hasty departure was a reminder that none of us had job security.

I rolled the ball around in my hands as I struggled to push everything but this pitch out of my mind. My shoulder ached as I released the first pitch, so I took a step back and stretched a bit more. Angel Johnson, the pitching coach, watched me closely, more than likely nervous that I’d strained something and wouldn’t be able to make the start.

“You okay, Tucker?” he asked, never getting too close to me. He knew my little quirks better than anyone, and short of me lying on the ground clutching my throwing arm, I needed people to stay out of my personal space before the game.

“I’ll be fine,” I assured him as I got back into position. I stuffed in my earbuds, cranking up volume to block out the fans in the first row hollering back and forth about which bar to hit after the game, Angel’s commentary, everything.

The next few pitches were better, but nothing to write home about. I felt more like a prospect at the start of training camp than the team’s leading starter. And given the scowl on Angel’s face, I looked about the same.

It’s okay, you still have time, I reminded myself. Okay, so not much time, but some. There were forty-three minutes until the first pitch. I closed my eyes and tried to count the stitches as I slid my fingers across the horseshoe, blocking out everything but the next pitch. Jason smiled for the first time since we’d started warming up as he threw the ball back to me.

The pitches never got pretty, but by the time we stopped for the “National Anthem,” I had reached a point where I wasn’t worried I was about to have one of the worst outings of my career. Jason patted my shoulder as the final notes echoed through the park and we said a quick prayer before making our way to the infield. I wasn’t a particularly religious man, but Jason was, and this was part of his pre-game routine. Given all the shit he put up with, it wasn’t a hardship for me to bow my head with him. And today, I needed all the help I could get, even from the Man upstairs.

I hated playing games on the road. If this were a home game, I’d be up there on the mound and everything but the next pitch would cease to exist. Instead, I was stuck in the dugout, my leg bouncing so fast it shook the entire bench. By the time the Bulldogs’ Sully Monroe threw a beautiful fastball over the plate to strike out Ricky White, we were up by two. That allowed me to breathe a bit easier as we took the field for the bottom of the first.

The start of the inning was a total nightmare. Cooper Townsend sent my second pitch of the afternoon sailing over the wall into the bleachers behind left field, cutting our lead to one. The next two batters wound up on base with a combined eight pitches and only three strikes between them. I wiped the sweat from my brow and adjusted my cap as Jason jogged out to the mound. It was never a good thing when the catcher had to come out for a pep talk this early.

“Man, I get that it’s a rough day, but you have to leave it behind,” he told me. “Don’t let the first three define you. You’re better than this and we both know it.”

“You’re right,” I responded. I am better. When I looked toward home plate, I cracked a faint smile. Jason glanced over his shoulder and gripped my biceps tightly.

“Strike. Him. Out. If there’s one man in their lineup that you can’t let get past you, it’s Atley. He’s cocky enough, you’ll be hearing about it for the next twenty years.”

I nodded and straightened the bill of my cap. Jason was right, as usual. And the man knew what to say to spur me into action. We’d paired up so many times, I allowed myself to close my eyes for a few seconds, and Jason was crouching behind the plate when I opened them.

Mason settled into the batter’s box, and unless it was a trick of the light, the man winked at me. It wasn’t anything sexual, more of a “Hey buddy, it’s good to see you. I hope you don’t mind that I’m getting ready to send your ERA through the roof,” type of gesture. Cocky son-of-a-bitch. He’d been my best friend for the past seven years. We met when he was a wet-behind-the-ears rookie and I was quickly becoming a staple in the triple-A pitching rotation, but right now, my only objective was to take him down.

Jason signaled the pitch and I shook it off. Mason would be expecting a fastball. He was a closet geek who loved analyzing numbers and statistics for fun. While most players cheered for their teammates, he’d sit back and mentally tally the pitches thrown so he’d have an idea of what he’d be up against when it was his turn at-bat. He used to boast that he could figure out a pitcher’s preferences and pattern within the first inning.

We decided on a sinker and I centered myself before throwing a textbook sinker. I heard Mason’s bat cutting through the air as he swung and missed. He shook his head as he got into position and I knew he knew what I was doing. Jason signaled for another sinker and I nodded. Strike two.

The count was stacked in my favor, with no balls and two strikes. There was no doubt that Mason assumed I’d change it up, which was exactly why I didn’t. It was a gamble, but one desperation made worthwhile. Everything about the pitch felt perfect, right up to the point where Mason connected with it. I scrambled toward first base, ready for Keith Henderson to toss me the ball for the out. He fumbled before scooping the ball and lobbing it to me. The ball connected with my glove at the exact moment Mason’s foot crossed the plate and we both looked to the ump for the call.

“Out,” he hollered as he sliced his hands through the air.

“Getting old and slow, Atley,” I goaded him as he muttered something under his breath.

“I’ve got your old right here,” he responded, cupping his groin crudely. I shook my head as I made my way back to the mound, my spirits slightly raised.

It may not have been what Jason wanted me to do, but keeping Mason from getting on base was a turning point for me. If I didn’t let him get in my head, there was no reason to let anyone else there, either. The rest of our team worked together like a well-oiled machine to get the final two outs of the inning and we made our way back to the dugout.

I watched as Kevin Green knocked one into the bleachers to start the second inning. As much as I wanted to hate him for taking Eric’s spot on the roster, there was no denying he had one hell of a swing. We all congratulated him when he got back to the dugout and I made my way to the stairs, ready to do my part to stretch our two-run lead. To make up for my mediocre performance on the mound, I had to do something from behind the plate. Henderson ran as if he were in the Olympic trials, losing the race to first base by a split-second. Nothing was riding on my performance at the plate, other than my own desire to do something, anything, to make up for that first inning. I waited out the pitches, collecting a strike and two balls before making contact with a curveball.

As I hustled to first base, I was in shock that I’d even hit the ball. My disbelief only grew as I watched the ball sail past me into the Bulldogs’ dugout. I practically sauntered to second base, happy to be able to sit back and relax a bit before being forced to do a damn thing. It wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t a run, but I was in a good position.

“You got lucky,” Mason grumbled as I stretched my legs a bit.

“I think Colfax knew how much you wanted to see me and this was his way of giving us some time,” I quipped, rubbing a bit of salt in the wound over the fact that Chicago was having a worse game than we were. Townsend slapped Sully on the back before jogging back to the mound.

“Yeah, that’s it. He’s good that way.” He turned his attention back to the game as Jason walked up to the plate. The third base coach shot me a disapproving look and I shrugged. We might be on opposite sides today, but that wasn’t going to stop me from talking smack with a friend.

I’d like to say we turned the game around and had the defense to keep the Bulldogs from scoring, but that’d be a lie. The second through fifth innings weren’t much better than the first, and Stu pulled me from the game with one out in the sixth. Our saving grace was that the Bulldogs continued to struggle as well. We held onto our lead, winning by one run. I was credited with the win, but I wasn’t sure I deserved it after my lackluster performance.

The mood in the locker room was somber following the game. No one celebrated, other than to quickly congratulate the guys who helped us earn the win as they headed to the showers. We kept waiting for Stu Ackerman to come storming in to scream at us, but it seemed he was sympathetic to the fact that Eric’s sudden departure had thrown nearly every player out of his typical routine. Whether they’d admit it or not, every man had his own pre-game ritual, and his play suffered when it was disrupted.

It was shortly after five in the afternoon and the next game wasn’t until the following evening, which meant most of the guys planned to hit the hotel bar or nearby clubs for drinks and debauchery. If nothing else, copious amounts of tequila would help them forget today’s disastrous outing. Jason invited me to go for drinks with the older, mostly married players and I turned him down the same as I did every other night. It was yet another reminder that Eric was already on a plane headed west.

Not in the mood to party, I pulled my cell phone out of my duffel and tried calling Mason. A low-key night at his condo with a six pack and a pie sounded perfect. The call went straight to voicemail, which meant it was still turned off from before the game. I followed the rest of the guys out to the bus back to our hotel, even though I knew exactly where I’d find Mason and I could grab a ride with him. After a day like today, it was best not to piss off Stu.