In It to Win It Book 2
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Natalie Ashee
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Prologue
Book Two: Winner Takes All
Noah
âNoah LenĂ©e. I raised you better than that!â
My mom bats my hands away from my blouse when I try to tuck the restaurant napkin into the neck. Iâm a bit of a messy eater, and unless Iâve got a bib underneath me, Iâll undoubtedly end up wearing my lunch for the rest of the day.
âSorry, Mom.â
âHave you thought anymore about what we talked about last week?â she asks, taking a sip of her mimosa.
Annnd here we go.
It was too much to hope my birthday brunch would be a hassle-free occasion. My mom has been begging me for two weeks now to consider putting my fancy math degrees to work and acquiring a teaching license, despite my protests.
She doesnât even know that I only got the stupid qualifications in the first place because it was one of the only majors I could completely finish online while I played baseball.
âWeâve talked about this. Iâve already got a career.â
âI already have a career, darling. And all Iâm saying is maybe you should consider your other options. This little hobby of yours isnât going to sustain you forever, nor will it keep you warm at night.â
She mumbles that last part under her breath, but I hear it anyway.
I donât dignify her remark with a response, folding the linen napkin in my lap. Iâve officially lost all desire to celebrate.
Leave it to Delphine Camille Allen to remind me exactly how far short I fall from what might possibly be the only dream Iâve ever had.
Iâm not a lawyer or a doctor like my mother would have preferred, nor am I a stay-at-home housewife.
Iâm a baseball player, a damn good infielderâsecond baseman, to be exactâand much to her dismay, I have no intentions of stopping any time soon.
âIâve only been in the minors for four years, Ma,â I tell her, but I have to admit I share her concernsâif for different reasons.
It seems as though every player in my draftee class was either added to roster or invited to spring training this coming February.
Though being in the minors for several years isnât exactly uncommonâhell, some players never see the outside of Triple A their whole livesâI admit Iâve placed pretty high expectations on myself.
You have to when youâre the only female in professional baseball.
Itâs as if youâve got the entire world watching you, waiting for you to fail, just so they can say they were right, that women donât belong in the MLB. Or for you to succeed so they can take advantage of the good publicity.
I honestly donât care about either. I donât see myself as the poster child for inclusion, nor would I consider myself a womenâs rights activist outside of labeling myself as a feminist.
Iâm a baseball player first and foremost, and I hate that me wanting to do my job has become some big political statement.
âIâm just saying . . . Look at Vanessa and Ashley! They both had such lovely weddings when they were your age. I only want the same happiness for you, sweetheart.
âYou spend so much time at the gym and those filthy . . . establishments you play at. Not to mention, the closest thing to male company you keep comes with a horrendous smell.â My mother wrinkles her nose.
Donât get me wrong, I love my mom dearly, but itâs times like these I just want to grab ahold of her shoulders and shake her. Hard.
This idea that a woman can only be happy with a man, or have a career and degree that looks good on paper, works my everlasting nerve.
Daddy knew that. In fact, he always respected my game, my hustle.
Iâve worked my ass off to gain respect from my teammates, my coaches, and other womenâwho for some reason can be bigger assholes about me playing pro baseball than the guys.
But all of that hard work just isnât good enough for someone like Delphine Allen. No, the woman wonât be happy until Iâm good and knocked up, barefoot in the kitchen like a nineteen-fifties incubator-slash-sex-slave.
I guess I shouldnât expect anything less from a retired beauty queen, former national sorority president, and debutante to bootâbut thatâs bougie, east coast, black women for you.
âMom, I am only twenty-five. I have my entire life to find a husband, whereas with baseball, I have to seize the opportunity while Iâm still in shape.â I point my fork at her, an action that makes her frown tighten.
âDid you know that male athletes peak in their mid to late twenties while women are pretty much capped at nineteen?
âNow that Iâm in Double A, itâs going to take all of my focus if I want to make the majors, meaning no distractions and men are the worst kind.â I fork a bite of salmon into my mouth as my mother lets out a disappointed sigh.
âWell, at least Iâve got two other daughters married off and working on my grandchildren,â she huffs, rolling her eyes.
âSee, I knew youâd find the silver lining.â My mother isnât impressed by my sweet-as-sugar grin, but she doesnât have time to respond because Iâm saved by the bell. Or rather, the ring.
I reach for my cell phone thatâs face down on the table, and I donât recognize the area code. I answer anyway.
âHello, am I speaking with Noah Allen?â a raspy voice asks on the other end. I frown, wondering if they might be a debt collector. I should be all caught up on my student loan payments for the month, but who knows.
âWho wants to know?â I ask.
âMy name is Barry Shields, Iâm . . . â I frown. Why is the GM of the Atlanta Statesmen calling me? I scramble to adjust my phone to my ear.
âYes, this is she . . . Iâm sorry, sir. Can you repeat that?â I ask, embarrassed that I checked out.
Mr. Shields chuckles. âMiss Allen, as you know, players drafted at the age of nineteen who are not added to the forty-man roster after four years, become eligible for the rule five draft.
âIâm calling to inform you that youâve been selected by the Atlanta Statesmen organization.
âI apologize, I understand youâd be expecting this call from the Portland Lumberjacksâ manager, but his grandson was born ten minutes before the transaction went through.â
My entire body freezes in place, the blood pounding so heavily in my ears that I wonder if Iâve heard him correctly. Everything inside of me screams like a nine-year-old at a Destinyâs Child concert, and it takes me a moment to remember how to speak.
âMiss Allen?â
I attempt to swallow past my heart in my throat. âIs this a prank?â
Mr. Shields laughs, making me wish I wasnât an idiot, but Iâm shocked as hell.
I was on the top one hundred prospect list, but my ETA wasnât for another two years. Iâve played four full seasons in Bostonâs system, but if Iâve been chosen by a team for the rule five, then that means . . .
âIâm going up?â I ask, my heart rate skyrocketing in my chest.
âCongratulations, kid. We expect to see you in Florida next month.â Iâm barely present for the rest of the conversation as my head still reels from the news Iâve just received.
When Mr. Shields hangs up, my mother is pretending as though her salad is the most interesting thing since Anna Maeâs latest gossip at the beauty salon, but I know better. Sheâs nosier than a seasoned member of the usher board at a post-church luncheon.
âWho was that on the phone, darling?â
âThat was Atlantaâs GM, Mom.â Her brows furrow in confusion, so I continue. âI got traded.â
It feels surreal to say the words out loud.
Only ten percent of all players who make it to the minor leagues are asked to move up to the majors.
Nearly ninety percent will be released sometime in their career, and even more are demoted back to the minors if they donât perform well.
The fact that Iâve been given this opportunity is almost unfathomable. Iâm an anomaly that has never occurred in the organizationâs one-hundred-seventeen-year history.
I'm not officially on the roster. Realistically, I'll end up in Gwinnett by March. But it's a shot, a chance to prove myself in spring training, and I'm one thing I wasn't yesterday.
One step closer to me and Dad's dream. The one we'd begun building when I was five years old.
âWow, honey. So what does that mean?â she asks.
âEverything, Mom,â I breathe. âIt means everything.â
