In It to Win It Book 2
Author
Noah Ashlee
Reads
241K
Chapters
46
Prologue
Book Two: Winner Takes All
Noah
āNoah LenĆ©e. I raised you better than that!ā
My mom bats my hands away from my blouse when I try to tuck the restaurant napkin into the neck. Iām a bit of a messy eater, and unless Iāve got a bib underneath me, Iāll undoubtedly end up wearing my lunch for the rest of the day.
āSorry, Mom.ā
āHave you thought anymore about what we talked about last week?ā 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 doesnāt 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.
āWeāve talked about this. Iāve already got a career.ā
āI already have a career, darling. And all Iām saying is maybe you should consider your other options. This little hobby of yours isnāt going to sustain you forever, nor will it keep you warm at night.ā
She mumbles that last part under her breath, but I hear it anyway.
I donāt dignify her remark with a response, folding the linen napkin in my lap. Iāve 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 Iāve ever had.
Iām not a lawyer or a doctor like my mother would have preferred, nor am I a stay-at-home housewife.
Iām a baseball player, a damn good infielderāsecond baseman, to be exactāand much to her dismay, I have no intentions of stopping any time soon.
āIāve only been in the minors for four years, Ma,ā I tell her, but I have to admit I share her concernsāif 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 isnāt exactly uncommonāhell, some players never see the outside of Triple A their whole livesāI admit Iāve placed pretty high expectations on myself.
You have to when youāre the only female in professional baseball.
Itās as if youāve got the entire world watching you, waiting for you to fail, just so they can say they were right, that women donāt belong in the MLB. Or for you to succeed so they can take advantage of the good publicity.
I honestly donāt care about either. I donāt see myself as the poster child for inclusion, nor would I consider myself a womenās rights activist outside of labeling myself as a feminist.
Iām a baseball player first and foremost, and I hate that me wanting to do my job has become some big political statement.
āIām 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.
āYou 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.ā My mother wrinkles her nose.
Donāt get me wrong, I love my mom dearly, but itās 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.
Iāve worked my ass off to gain respect from my teammates, my coaches, and other womenāwho for some reason can be bigger assholes about me playing pro baseball than the guys.
But all of that hard work just isnāt good enough for someone like Delphine Allen. No, the woman wonāt be happy until Iām good and knocked up, barefoot in the kitchen like a nineteen-fifties incubator-slash-sex-slave.
I guess I shouldnāt expect anything less from a retired beauty queen, former national sorority president, and debutante to bootābut thatās bougie, east coast, black women for you.
āMom, I am only twenty-five. I have my entire life to find a husband, whereas with baseball, I have to seize the opportunity while Iām still in shape.ā I point my fork at her, an action that makes her frown tighten.
āDid you know that male athletes peak in their mid to late twenties while women are pretty much capped at nineteen?
āNow that Iām in Double A, itās going to take all of my focus if I want to make the majors, meaning no distractions and men are the worst kind.ā I fork a bite of salmon into my mouth as my mother lets out a disappointed sigh.
āWell, at least Iāve got two other daughters married off and working on my grandchildren,ā she huffs, rolling her eyes.
āSee, I knew youād find the silver lining.ā My mother isnāt impressed by my sweet-as-sugar grin, but she doesnāt have time to respond because Iām saved by the bell. Or rather, the ring.
I reach for my cell phone thatās face down on the table, and I donāt recognize the area code. I answer anyway.
āHello, am I speaking with Noah Allen?ā 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.
āWho wants to know?ā I ask.
āMy name is Barry Shields, Iām . . . ā I frown. Why is the GM of the Atlanta Statesmen calling me? I scramble to adjust my phone to my ear.
āYes, this is she . . . Iām sorry, sir. Can you repeat that?ā I ask, embarrassed that I checked out.
Mr. Shields chuckles. āMiss 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.
āIām calling to inform you that youāve been selected by the Atlanta Statesmen organization.
āI apologize, I understand youād be expecting this call from the Portland Lumberjacksā manager, but his grandson was born ten minutes before the transaction went through.ā
My entire body freezes in place, the blood pounding so heavily in my ears that I wonder if Iāve heard him correctly. Everything inside of me screams like a nine-year-old at a Destinyās Child concert, and it takes me a moment to remember how to speak.
āMiss Allen?ā
I attempt to swallow past my heart in my throat. āIs this a prank?ā
Mr. Shields laughs, making me wish I wasnāt an idiot, but Iām shocked as hell.
I was on the top one hundred prospect list, but my ETA wasnāt for another two years. Iāve played four full seasons in Bostonās system, but if Iāve been chosen by a team for the rule five, then that means . . .
āIām going up?ā I ask, my heart rate skyrocketing in my chest.
āCongratulations, kid. We expect to see you in Florida next month.ā Iām barely present for the rest of the conversation as my head still reels from the news Iāve just received.
When Mr. Shields hangs up, my mother is pretending as though her salad is the most interesting thing since Anna Maeās latest gossip at the beauty salon, but I know better. Sheās nosier than a seasoned member of the usher board at a post-church luncheon.
āWho was that on the phone, darling?ā
āThat was Atlantaās GM, Mom.ā Her brows furrow in confusion, so I continue. āI got traded.ā
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 donāt perform well.
The fact that Iāve been given this opportunity is almost unfathomable. Iām an anomaly that has never occurred in the organizationās 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.
āWow, honey. So what does that mean?ā she asks.
āEverything, Mom,ā I breathe. āIt means everything.ā
