In It to Win It Book 2

“Noah Lenée. I raised you better than that!”

My mom bats my hands away from my blouse when I try to tuck the restaurant napkin into the neck. I’m a bit of a messy eater, and unless I’ve got a bib underneath me, I’ll undoubtedly end up wearing my lunch for the rest of the day.

“Sorry, Mom.”

“Have you thought anymore about what we talked about last week?” 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 doesn’t 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.

“We’ve talked about this. I’ve already got a career.”

She mumbles that last part under her breath, but I hear it anyway.

I don’t dignify her remark with a response, folding the linen napkin in my lap. I’ve 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 I’ve ever had.

I’m not a lawyer or a doctor like my mother would have preferred, nor am I a stay-at-home housewife.

“I’ve only been in the minors for four years, Ma,” I tell her, but I have to admit I share her concerns—if 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 isn’t exactly uncommon—hell, some players never see the outside of Triple A their whole lives—I admit I’ve placed pretty high expectations on myself.

You have to when you’re the only female in professional baseball.

It’s as if you’ve got the entire world watching you, waiting for you to fail, just so they can say they were right, that women don’t belong in the MLB. Or for you to succeed so they can take advantage of the good publicity.

I honestly don’t care about either. I don’t see myself as the poster child for inclusion, nor would I consider myself a women’s rights activist outside of labeling myself as a feminist.

I’m a baseball player first and foremost, and I hate that me wanting to do my job has become some big political statement.

“I’m 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.

“You 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.” My mother wrinkles her nose.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my mom dearly, but it’s 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.

I’ve worked my ass off to gain respect from my teammates, my coaches, and other women—who for some reason can be bigger assholes about me playing pro baseball than the guys.

But all of that hard work just isn’t good enough for someone like Delphine Allen. No, the woman won’t be happy until I’m good and knocked up, barefoot in the kitchen like a nineteen-fifties incubator-slash-sex-slave.

I guess I shouldn’t expect anything less from a retired beauty queen, former national sorority president, and debutante to boot—but that’s bougie, east coast, black women for you.

“Mom, I am only twenty-five. I have my entire life to find a husband, whereas with baseball, I have to seize the opportunity while I’m still in shape.” I point my fork at her, an action that makes her frown tighten.

“Did you know that male athletes peak in their mid to late twenties while women are pretty much capped at nineteen?

“Well, at least I’ve got two other daughters married off and working on my grandchildren,” she huffs, rolling her eyes.

“See, I knew you’d find the silver lining.” My mother isn’t impressed by my sweet-as-sugar grin, but she doesn’t have time to respond because I’m saved by the bell. Or rather, the ring.

I reach for my cell phone that’s face down on the table, and I don’t recognize the area code. I answer anyway.

“Hello, am I speaking with Noah Allen?” 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.

“Who wants to know?” I ask.

“Yes, this is she . . . I’m sorry, sir. Can you repeat that?” I ask, embarrassed that I checked out.

Mr. Shields chuckles. “Miss 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.

“I’m calling to inform you that you’ve been selected by the Atlanta Statesmen organization.

“I apologize, I understand you’d be expecting this call from the Portland Lumberjacks’ manager, but his grandson was born ten minutes before the transaction went through.”

My entire body freezes in place, the blood pounding so heavily in my ears that I wonder if I’ve heard him correctly. Everything inside of me screams like a nine-year-old at a Destiny’s Child concert, and it takes me a moment to remember how to speak.

“Miss Allen?”

I attempt to swallow past my heart in my throat. “Is this a prank?”

Mr. Shields laughs, making me wish I wasn’t an idiot, but I’m shocked as hell.

I was on the top one hundred prospect list, but my ETA wasn’t for another two years. I’ve played four full seasons in Boston’s system, but if I’ve been chosen by a team for the rule five, then that means . . .

“I’m going up?” I ask, my heart rate skyrocketing in my chest.

“Congratulations, kid. We expect to see you in Florida next month.” I’m barely present for the rest of the conversation as my head still reels from the news I’ve just received.

When Mr. Shields hangs up, my mother is pretending as though her salad is the most interesting thing since Anna Mae’s latest gossip at the beauty salon, but I know better. She’s nosier than a seasoned member of the usher board at a post-church luncheon.

“Who was that on the phone, darling?”

“That was Atlanta’s GM, Mom.” Her brows furrow in confusion, so I continue. “I got traded.”

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 don’t perform well.

The fact that I’ve been given this opportunity is almost unfathomable. I’m an anomaly that has never occurred in the organization’s 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.

“Wow, honey. So what does that mean?” she asks.

“Everything, Mom,” I breathe. “It means everything.”