The call comes in on a rather dreary November afternoon. Fresh on the heels of the postseason, Anthony has done little other than rewatch games and analyze his own pitches—keeping his mind in shape even if he’d rather be exercising his body. Every muscle in his body buzzes with the desire to move, but his coaches insist on getting genuine rest so he remains on the couch, watching footage until his mind goes blank. Only for a few weeks, they promised.

Time drips by slower and slower with four days left on the clock. Anthony anticipates that it will be an uneventful four days.

His agent’s name flashing on his screen and sends some kind of signal that his preconceived notions about the remainder of his forced break isn't exactly right, but there’s little that will trigger a train of thought that isn’t related to pitching for Anthony at this point in his waiting period.

“What is it, Emya?” Anthony has long since dropped the act of disliking his agent, but he still gets a kick out of coming across clipped and cold, as though Emya has interrupted anything of value.

“Woah,” Emya sounds wholly unimpressed, “cool it, hotshot. Got some news for you.”

“Is that why you called? To do your job? What a wonder.” That earns her a small chuckle.

“I know you’ve been getting real comfortable in the minors, but I’ve got an offer.”

The world stops for a moment. It could be any team in the league, any one of them could ask him to come up from the minors. Every game this season he felt the piercing gaze of scouts, picking apart his pitches, scrutinizing his swings.

 “Who?”

It could be any of them. But there’s only one team he wants, truly wants to play for.

“The Jackals.”

The world turns upside down.

It’s strange the way things seem to become so still in a moment of pure chaos—everything outside of Anthony’s body stills but his brain becomes a live wire. The Jackals, the team that got him into baseball in the first place. The team he and Motoya would spend all their money to go see. The team who hit the very first baseball he ever caught. The team he’s dreamed of playing for since he was eight years old and mapping out his life like it was something he could control if he tried hard enough. Those Jackals.

“I take it from your silence that you’re excited?” If Anthony wasn’t brimming with excitement he’d probably wring Emya’s neck for the smug indifference that oozes through the speaker—but she’s right, so Emya gets to live to see another day.

“Yes. The answer’s yes.”

“You don’t even know how much they’re offering!”

Anthony sighs as if this is the most ridiculous protestation Emya could have, “It’s the Jackals, Emya. They could offer me scraps and I would probably agree.”

“Well, it’s far from scraps,” he hears some clicking on the other end of the line. “Are you sitting? I feel like you should be sitting with that fragile constitution you act like you have.”

“Give me the number, Emya, before I fire you.”

“Don’t think you’ll want to do that after you hear the deal,” she sing-songs. Anthony only has to badger her for an extra handful of seconds before she breaks, a mix of pride and excitement edging her voice. “25 million.”

Emya’s right—if he hadn’t been raised in a family where that was roughly the cost of a wedding, he likely would have found himself unconscious. Still, it’s a damn good number, especially for being considered a rookie.

In light of Anthony’s silence, Emya continues to ramble, “They’re pulling an unknown from the Dominican Republic, too. Except he’s not really all that unknown. Not to me, at least. We played against each other in high school—Jeremy Jackson, if you’ve heard the name.” Anthony tries to wrack his brain, the name feeling vaguely familiar, but it hardly matters. He’s about to sign a 25-million-dollar contract to be a major league pitcher. “I’m assuming you’ll take it, this has been the goal, right?”

“Yes, are you dense? I already said I would.” Emya laughs in earnest at her gripe.

“I’ll tell Coach Foster. Everything should be cleared up by the end of the week. I’ll text you the details. And Anthony?” He hums waiting for whatever inane comment his agent is going to make. “You do realize who the starting catcher for the Jackals is, right?”

And the world stops again. “Fuck.”

Emya’s all but wheezing before she has the decency to end the call and leave Anthony to stew in the revelation about his newfound teammate. The starting catcher of the Jackals, the man who’s supposed to help him make the calls for his pitches, is none other than Cole—baseball’s prized loose cannon. The man who has been ejected no less than once per season and has picked a fight with just about every other big name in baseball, including his own teammates.

He groans, throwing his back onto the back of the couch. He’s just another teammate, Anthony can handle that. It’s not like they’ll really have to even interact outside of practice and games. Antony can have a working relationship with him. That’s fine. This is fine. It will all be fine.  

                                                                                                                         The contract is signed by the end of the week and Anthony is touring the clubhouse at the start of the following week. Between the signing and the tour, there have been entirely too many introductions with people he will never see again—big money contributors that care little about anyone except who makes them money. Most of them seemed put off by his mask and refusal to get too close. But Coach Foster simply smiles and waves them off.

“Mysophobia, right?” The question comes after they leave a conference room filled with executives. Anthony glances at Foster before confirming. “Emya mentioned it. It’s in your contract too, which I’m sure you didn’t read the entirety of-” he did “-almost no one does.”

There’s a pause between them before Foster speaks again.

“We’ll do everything we can to make sure things are kept in tip-top shape. Especially in the locker rooms. Plus, the team has already been made aware that crowding is not ideal.”

Anthony relaxes considerably at that. “Thank you, sir.”

“It’s the least we could do. Haven’t seen a pitcher like you in quite some time.”

The comment would probably go to a lesser pitcher’s head, but Anthony simply murmurs his gratitude and moves along. Getting to this status of pitcher took a lot of work, a lot of training and he’ll be damned if he’d let his ego get in the way.

As they wander through the halls of the clubhouse, Coach Foster points out the important rooms and drops names of staff members left and right until they reach his office.

Inside sits a bouncing head of orange hair among Coach Foster’s actual belongings. The man in the room turns to greet the pair and Anthony is nearly blinded by the pure sunshine he radiates.

“You must be the other new guy!” Mr. Sunshine gives no room for introductions. “I’m Jeremy Jackson,” he waves.

“Names Antony. What position do you play?”

Foster ushers them both to sit while he gathers materials off his desk, eavesdropping with absolutely no subtlety.

“I do a little bit of everything—utility! Right now, they have me down for infield relief and closer.” Anthony’s brows raise considerably. Not that he’d ever doubt the ability of another athlete based on appearance alone, but Jeremy doesn’t even reach six feet and it’s hard to imagine him on the mound at all, let alone trying to come in for a save.

“Tell him the nickname you earned when you played in the Dominican Republic.” Foster pauses his fake busy work.

Jeremy sits up a little straighter, puffing his chest out, “Gigantito. It means little giant in Spanish.” The sight makes Anthony stifle a low chuckle while Foster laughs to himself and resumes his busy making. “What do you play, Anthony?”

“I’m a pitcher.” He makes no other indication as to whether he’ll start or relieve, mostly because Foster hasn’t breathed a word about it. Plus, it’s months until spring training even starts, further to the season. Neither of them really knows what’ll happen.

Jeremy takes his answer and talks at a mile a minute about how cool pitching is, including sound effects as he mimes the various pitches and crowd reactions. Despite his typical disdain for anything unnecessarily loud and boisterous, Jeremy’s energy seems to brighten the room, making Anthony unfurl just a little. Through his various sound effects and rapid topic switches, Anthony tries to input what he can—he’s more intent on spying on Coach Foster’s screen as he clicks through various tabs on team stats, though.

Foster seems to take pity on Anthony about five minutes later when Jeremy starts to try and pester Anthony into showing him the secret to his curveball. He “finds” what he was looking for, prints off whatever was on his computer, and clears his throat. “Jeremy,” the man pauses as Jeremy swings his focus back to Foster, “Anthony, we’re thrilled to have you. The Jackals have a long-standing history of greatness and we have no doubts that you both will add to that legacy.

“In order to help you both with the transition into the majors, we’ve assigned you team mentors. Both of them are experienced players and, even if I question their methods, I trust them unequivocally.” He lets that sentiment settle in before continuing on. “These are the men I want you to talk to first when you feel like you’re struggling or if you have questions about team dynamics or the clubhouse. They’re incredibly dedicated to this team and I trust you’ll find their guidance helpful.”

Jeremy is all but vibrating with excitement at the prospect of having a mentor. Anthony, however, looks approximately the same as a cat who has been doused by a fire hose. Though, he rationalizes, it’s not likely he’ll have to really talk to whoever it is anyway.

“You’ll be required to meet with them every other week outside of practice leading up to and during the preseason,” the gods must truly hate him, really just despise him. “We’ll also be having a whole team bonding night before spring training. That sound alright?”