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The day after the Trevor Davis pictures break, Mike invites Ginny to come crash at his place.
Blip’s the one who gives him the idea. The two of them meet for beers at a wing joint in Sunset Cliffs the night the Padres limp home from Pittsburgh, bro-country piping in on the sound system and GINNY BAKER PHOTO SCANDAL splashed across every TV in the place. Fox has blurred out the pictures, leaving just enough of Ginny’s body to the imagination for plausible deniability. Mike would like to buy the entire network and immediately fire everyone who works there. “This is fucking bullshit,” he mutters, scrubbing through his beard with his good hand.
“Yeah,” Blip agrees. “You know why, right?”
“What do you mean, why?” Mike gulps the rest of his beer, nods at the bartender for another. “What, like, it’s a sexism thing? I was married to Rachel for six years, dude. I know it’s a sexism thing.”
“Yeah,” Blip says, rolling his eyes a little like he does when Margolis puts Biggie on in the locker room and tries to rap along. “And it’s a racism thing.”
Mike looks up at the TV, where the picture keeps cutting between the white anchors and Ginny. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, man. Fox is gonna find a way to call her a slut every damn day from now until she dies.” Blip sighs and fiddles with his beer. “She won’t even come stay with me and Evelyn because she thinks her brand is bad for my brand. She thinks her brand is bad for black folks.”
Mike furrows his brow. “Come stay with you?”
“There’s a shitton of press in the Omni lobby.” Blip shrugs. “Apparently management complained.”
“Fuck,” Mike says, feeling out of his depth and deeply, newly furious at every single member of the media. Then he sees Blip’s face. “Wait. You want me to ask her to come stay with me?”
“Well, your brand was already pretty slutty,” Blip points out. Then he grins. “Nah, just think about it, okay? I’m worried about her.”
Well. Mike’s worried about her too. “I’ll think about it,” he promises, reaching for his beer. His catching hand aches.
The next day when he shows up at the Petco for BP the press is already camped outside the clubhouse doors in a writhing, clamoring throng, flashbulbs and cameras and a million boom mics hanging in the air like dead rats. Mike flips them off when they start shouting for him, even though strictly-speaking it's probably a bad idea for his image. He's already lost one endorsement deal this week.
It’s Evers’s start, so Ginny is hanging around the locker room instead of long tossing, sacked out in one of the rolly chairs beside Blip with her cap pulled low. Yesterday after the pictures broke she hid behind her makeshift-curtain in the PNC Park clubhouse until game time, coming out looking hunted and avoiding eye contact with all of them. Mike’s irrationally glad to see she’s chosen a different approach this afternoon.
“Look alive, Baker,” he says, kicking her chair gently before dropping his bag on the bench, both knees cracking loud and ugly as he sits down.
Ginny grimaces. “I could say the same thing to you,” she says, tipping her head back to peer at him from underneath the brim of her ballcap. “How’s the hand?”
Mike shrugs, not quite looking at her. “I’ll live,” he says, which is true, though he’s on the DL until the end of the week at least and this morning his back was so tight he could barely haul his fat ass out of bed. “Anyway, don’t act for one second like you’re not excited about warming that bench next to me all afternoon,” he says, loud enough so the rest of the guys can hear him joking around with her. “You get real lucky, maybe I’ll sign your baseball.”
Ginny’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. Mike lets out a quiet breath.
He tries again once they’re out there, keeping up more or less a running monologue about anything he can think of, Shrek’s lucky socks and what would happen if he flagged down a hotdog vendor, the time in ‘05 they made the playoffs and Al showed up at the clubhouse dressed in full cheerleader regalia. He doesn’t know why he feels compelled to cheer her up.
“Lawson,” she says finally. Just that, just his name.
Mike makes eye-contact with Blip over her head. “Do you want me to start telling jokes?” He used to do that for Rachel whenever she was sad or angry with him. He has an entire repertoire of dumb dad jokes, carefully cultivated over six years of marriage. He used to think some day he’d tell them to their kids.
Baker considers that. “Yeah, actually. I do.”
So. Mike tells her the one about the restaurant on the moon (great food, no atmosphere) and the one about the cow with no legs (ground beef). When he tells the one about the scarecrow who was outstanding in his field, Ginny smiles, dimple making its first appearance, and when he tells the one about how he used to be addicted to the hokey pokey but then he turned himself around, she puts her head down on her knees and laughs so hard Mike thinks she might choke.
“Really?” Blip asks. “That one?”
Ginny waves him off, completely unable to speak. Mike has never felt funnier in his entire life.
“Plenty more where that came from, Baker,” he says, resting a hand on her back for a second. He can feel her spine right through her uniform.
By the time they beat the Brewers 2-1 with a bases-loaded double from Sanchez at the bottom of the ninth, Ginny's cheering. Not anything near her usual level of grinning, whooping joy—Mike has his suspicions that more than one player on the Padres is trying to improve his stats just to be on the receiving end of Ginny Baker’s smile—but enough.
He asks her to come stay with him before they’re even halfway down the tunnel. “Just for a couple days,” he says as the rest of the guys shuffle around them, the smell of sweat and dirt and bleach. “Til the circus leaves town.”
“Seriously?” Ginny’s eyebrows crawl as her pace falters for a step. “Are you sure?”
“I wouldn't ask if I wasn't sure, rookie,” Mike says, although in truth he's already wondering if it’s a mistake to offer. It occurs to him, just for a second, to worry what Amelia’s going to think. They broke up amicably enough after the Nike thing but he's never quite shaken off the way she used to talk about Ginny and his poster, like possibly she knew something he didn't. “Come use the pool," he adds. "I’ve got stuff to do tomorrow, I won't even be around.”
Ginny doesn't answer for a moment, worrying the corner of her lip. “Okay,” she says finally. “Yeah, maybe, just for a day or two.”
Mike nods. “Good. Because I’ve been meaning to have somebody in to organize all the raw material for my memoirs, and since you’ve followed my career so closely I was thinking—”
“Fuck you,” Ginny says, but she's smiling again. Mike taps the brim of her cap before he goes to get changed. He tells himself this is nothing he wouldn't do for any of the other guys, although when he stops to think about it he can't actually come up with an analogous situation. He has that problem with Baker a lot.
She shows up later that night with her backpack slung over both shoulders like a little kid going to camp. “I don’t think anyone followed me,” she says, slipping through his door with a backward glance. “Amelia had my driver turn around like three times.”
Mike forces himself not to react at the mention of Amelia. “I’ve got security I can call if the press shows up,” he says, holding out his hand for her backpack. Ginny clutches the straps tighter and he laughs. “All right, keep it then, you weirdo.”
“Sorry, I’m a little tense for some reason, Lawson,” she huffs, toeing out of her trainers. Her socks are the little white anklet kind that Amelia never wore and Rachel only had for Pilates. “Whoa,” she says, straightening up and looking around.
Mike grins. “Thanks.” He leads her through the kitchen and up the stairs to the guest room, flicking on the recessed lights. “So, okay. Sheets are clean. You’ve got your own bathroom through there, plus towels. I can order something if you haven’t eaten yet, or else there’s snacks in the kitchen. Or you could just crash, obviously.” It’s nine o’clock. Mike knows her bedtime from that strange, breathless stretch after the All Star game when they were calling each other almost every evening. “Um. I’ll let you get settled.”
Ginny nods, sinking down on the bed and picking at the sleeves of her hoodie. Mike isn’t sure, but he thinks she’s been wearing baggier clothing since the pictures leaked. “Thanks,” she murmurs. Mike nods once, then closes the door behind him as he leaves.
Bad idea, he thinks. Very bad idea.
He plans to loiter in the living room for a while, give her some privacy up on the second floor, but she comes padding down the stairs herself less than five minutes later. “Everything okay?” he asks.
Ginny nods. “Yeah, it’s great, thanks. If baseball doesn't work out you can always pimp this place out on AirBNB.”
“Oh, I’m charging you rent, rookie.” Mike grins at her. “You hungry?”
They end up sitting on opposite ends of the couch eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and watching tennis coverage on ESPN, Mike's ankles crossed on the coffee table and Ginny’s curled underneath her like she's trying to take up as little space as possible. Neither one of them says a whole lot. Mike’s fully expecting it to be awkward, but the longer they sit there the more he finds it isn't, really; in fact, he actually likes having another person in here without having to charm her into sex or reassure her afterwards. It kind of reminds him of being married.
He’s about to ask her if she wants fro-yo when a commercial for the midnight iteration of SportsCenter blares out into the living room. “Coming up on the Rundown, Ginny Baker keeps on showing the world all the ways she knows to round the bases,” Scott Van Pelt is crowing, his dumb bald head glaring in the studio lights. Mike grabs the remote off the table so fast his back twinges.
“Fuck,” he mutters, flipping clumsily to a commercial for a discount mattress warehouse off the highway. “Sorry.”
When he glances at Ginny she’s looking back at him with an expression that isn’t quite amusement, her empty plate balanced on her knees. “It’s fine, Lawson.” She rolls her eyes. “Nothing both of us haven't seen before, right?”
Mike’s heart stops. “Hey,” he says pointedly. “No, actually. Nothing I’ve seen, all right?”
That gets her attention. “Really?” she asks, tipping her chin down like she thinks he’s full of shit. “You didn’t look?”
“No, Baker, I didn’t look. Jesus.” He’s barely even seen the censored-for-TV versions, has been turning away like a reflex each and every single time they come onscreen. He’s seen just enough to know that she’s smiling. “Fuck,” he says, scratching at his beard and looking away. “I swear, Ginny, hand to God.”
There’s a silence. When he glances back she’s tipped her head to one side, considering him. “Okay,” she says finally. “I believe you.”
Mike feels himself sag against the couch. “You better,” he insists, even as his heart rate starts to slow down. “I’m not that kind of guy.”
“Uh, okay,” Ginny says, but she’s laughing. Her face looks almost fond.
“Fuck you, I’m nice,” Mike says. God, he’s blushing. “All right, you want another beer?”
“Sure,” she says, unfurling those long legs and resting her feet on the coffee table. When he’s halfway to the kitchen she drops her head onto the back of the couch and looks at him upside-down, her ponytail swinging gently. “Also, do you have any more peanut butter?”
Mike brings her the whole jar.
It takes him a long time to fall asleep that night, tossing and turning and trying to figure out what exactly he’s supposed to do with Baker for a full day tomorrow. They don't play again until their night game against the Phillies on Friday. He wonders for a second if she’s still awake too, lying in his guest bed at the other end of the hallway, then immediately stops wondering about it. He rolls around for another hour, restless and achy; finally he shoves one hand down into his boxers and jerks off in the darkness, thinking about nothing at all.
When he wakes up in the morning his back cracks so loudly he can feel it in his teeth and both his knees are swollen to the size of grapefruits, but his hand looks significantly less like ground beef than it did yesterday, which is something. Baker’s already on the treadmill when he gets downstairs. “Hey,” she says breathlessly, pulling off her headphones without slowing her pace. “Sorry, I can hop off if you’ve got a routine or something.”
Mike shakes his head. “All yours, rook.”
Ginny nods. “I made coffee,” she tells him, sounding weirdly shy about it, then jams her headphones back on before Mike can say thanks.
He’s got a meeting with his agent to talk about the endorsement he lost after the Pittsburgh thing, a kids’ breakfast cereal whose brand is decidedly more family-friendly than Mike’s is this week. “Was it worth it?” the guy asks, eyeing him across the conference table.
Mike shrugs. It one hundred percent was, actually, but he’s not dumb enough to say that out loud.
He picks up sandwiches on the way back, throwing a couple of giant chocolate-chip cookies in the bag at the last minute. “Chow time, rookie,” he calls instead of hello, but Baker doesn't answer. When Mike finds her she's fast asleep on her stomach in a lounge chair by the pool, Nike one-piece and a pair of dark blue mesh shorts that reach all the way down to her knees.
He almost doesn’t wake her, but by then he’s been standing there so long it feels like an invasion. “Up and at ‘em, Baker,” he says, setting the bag by her head. When she groans quietly he looks away, staring out at the pool.
It’s a long moment before she sits up, squinting in the bright San Diego sunshine. “You bring me food?” She crosses her legs and pulls the bag into her lap, rooting around until she finds the cookies. “Damn. You must feel real bad for me.”
“You’re welcome,” Mike says pointedly, lowering his ass onto the end of the lounge chair and promising himself it’s just for a minute. His back kills.
“Hey.” Ginny jerks her chin at him, snapping off a careful corner of cookie. “What did the team doc say, for real?”
Well, Mike guesses they couldn’t avoid this conversation forever. “DL ‘til the end of the week,” he tells her, and Ginny winces.
“That bad?” She reaches over and picks up his hand, turning it over in both of hers to see his busted knuckles. Her palms are warm and rough. “Can you catch?”
“I’ll be at first for a few games,” Mike admits, staring at her bent head. She’s got her hair scooped into a knot at the crown, different from her usual ponytail. There’s a faint sheen of sweat across her cheekbones.
“Shit, Lawson,” she says softly, stamping her bare foot against the concrete. When she lifts her face to look at him she’s got the same expression she did the other day in the PNC dugout, like it’s not outside the realm of possibility she’s about to cry. “That was a real dumb-ass thing you did.”
“Yeah, well.” Mike shrugs against the sensation of somebody grabbing his lungs and squeezing, feeling simultaneously like an idiot and also like he regrets exactly nothing. She's still holding onto his hand. “It’s not your fault.”
“I know it’s not my fault,” Ginny snaps, and her voice does break then, just for a second. She takes a deep breath, shakes her head. "It just sucks."
Mike nods. He thinks of the guys in the stands in Pittsburgh, her pictures blown up into posters and held high up above their heads where everyone could see them. He thinks of how satisfying it was to feel his fist connect with bone. The whole Padres’ bench cleared by the end of it, Blip and Evers and even Sanchez getting tossed out of the game alongside him, but it was Mike who dropped his bat and headed into the seats. It was Mike who threw the first punch. He would be embarrassed if he weren't still so deeply, profoundly furious.
Ginny lets go of his hand, setting it carefully back in his lap like it's a rally cap she borrowed. “Thanks,” she says quietly. “It was dumb as shit, don’t get me wrong, but thanks.”
“Yeah.” Mike rubs at the back of his neck. Blip and Evers ripped the pictures to pieces, efficient, but Mike just kept whaling on the guy in front of him until someone pulled them apart. Afterwards Ginny surprised them all by actually riding the team bus home, tired-looking but calm. The guys cheered every single time the footage from the brawl looped across on the bus TVs. “Just so you know, though, I only did it for my memoirs.”
“Asshole,” Ginny huffs, aiming a kick at his thigh. She leaves her foot there afterwards, her toes just brushing against his jeans. “Tell me a joke.”
Mike smiles. “What's green and has four wheels?”
Ginny’s toes press against him just a little harder. “What?”
Mike reaches down and squeezes her ankle once before pushing himself to his feet. “Grass,” he tells her. “I lied about the wheels.”