Chapter Text
Brad was still sprawled on the couch in his apartment, half watching the ESPN broadcast that was playing on his tv, scrolling through twitter, when the segment came on. He was supposed to be at the Giants Clubhouse twenty minutes ago, stretching and loosening up for practice but he hadn’t moved— just for this one headline.
POKE ESPERA TRADED TO TAMPA BAY MERLINS
He didn’t want to go down this way, Poke was his guy, his catcher. They had one bad season and the next thing Brad knew, his best friend was being traded to another team.
He’d call Poke every couple of weeks— check in about the team, ask about his family, shoot the shit about life on the road. It felt so unreal how abruptly things had ended. Poke had been the first friend Brad had made after being drafted, the first guy who’d understood what it meant to live and breathe baseball the way no one else did.
Poke’s voice came to mind, “You’ll be fine without me, dawg. Giants offense is stacked— post season’s still ours to fight for, even if I'm not there.”
Brad almost picked up the phone to call him, almost. But he figured Poke would be busy unpacking, getting to know Tampa or, more likely avoiding the media circus that was the trade, He’d check in later, maybe text a little after the game tonight.
He was reaching for the remote to shut off the tv and finally drag himself to the clubhouse when the next headline flashed across the screen.
ROOKIE CATCHER NATE FICK TO START TODAY.
Right, the rookie.
Brad had met him in Scottsdale back in February, spring training, Dartmouth kid, polished glove, quiet smile— he seemed like a decent enough kid. But replacing Poke? Brad wasn’t sure how the math added up, a rookie didn’t just step into the Giants rhythm overnight, no matter how smart or athletic he was.
Not a replacement, he reminded himself. A change. Maybe for the best. Maybe it would shake something loose in the lineup or maybe it would prove that trading his best man for a rookie would be a disaster, only today would tell.
Brad grabbed his duffel bag, pulled on his jersey, and felt that familiar feeling of adrenaline and apprehension tighten in his chest. new catchers, old friends gone and to top it all off a new season of baseball.
By the time Brad had made it to the clubhouse, things seemed off— it wasn’t loud, they rarely were before a game, it was a tension that had nothing to do with the game against the Tigers today.
A cluster of reporters had formed near the lockers on the far side of the room, blocking the aisle like a traffic jam. Brad recognized most of them almost instantly— some of them from ESPN, a couple beat writers, national guys he knew from Baseball tonight, even a guy from sports illustrated was there.
Rookie day, then.
Brad slowed his walking, setting his duffel on one of the benches beside his locker, eyes flicking back up towards the swarm. At the center of it all— standing way too stiff, was Nate Fick.
He looked composed, Brad would give him that. Back straight, shoulders back, hands folded like he was answering questions in a lecture instead of being thrown in the middle of a major league club house.
He still had that spring training looking about him, new cleats, un scuffed glove, hair that still hadn’t yet learned what a full season of the major leagues was really like.
“—how does it feel stepping into the lineup after the Espera trade?” a reporter asked him.
Brad’s jaw tightened, ever so slightly.
Nate hesitated, just a fraction of a second. Barely even noticeable but Brad caught it, “I’ve got a lot of respect for Poke and what he’s done for the organization, I'm not here to replace him, I'm just here to do my job and help the team see some wins.”
His response was clean, safe. Somehow the kid had already been media trained.
“Coach Wynn says you’ve been working closely with the pitching staff.” another voice chimed in, “any nerves getting your first start today?”
Nate smiled, a little crooked this time, “I’d be lying if I said no. But I've prepared for this my whole life, I trust the guys on the mound.”
Smart Answer, Brad thought to himself, he hated that he had noticed.
There hadn’t been much hype surrounding the Giants since well— Brad himself had been a rookie, really.
Across the room, one of the relievers, Stafford, leaned over towards Brad, “Media’s eating him alive already.” he said under his breath.
Brad just nodded. He knew how these things went, one good game and the kid would be the future of the franchise. One bad inning and the same reporters would be writing about how a Dartmouth catcher had no business being behind a big league plate.
Nate glanced over, eyes briefly scanning the room— before meeting Brad’s.
Just for a second.
Something flickered across his face, recognition maybe, acknowledgement, Or nerves. Brad didn’t smile, didn’t scowl either. Just held the look, steady and unreadable, like he did on the mound.
The questions started up again, louder this time and Nate was pulled back into the moment.
Brad turned towards his locker, rolling his shoulders, forcing himself into practice mode. New season, new catcher, same pressure.
The bullpen was quieter than the clubhouse, it meant Brad could actually get in a few pitches today before the game tonight.
Gunny was already there, leaning against the railing, stopwatch in hand with a pair of Oakley's on.
“About time.” Gunny says, “You stretching or you gonna complain first?”
Brad doesn’t say anything, dropping his bag before rolling his shoulders.
A second later, Nate appears— helmet off and to the side of him, chest protector slung loose across his frame, he clocks Brad immediately, then Gunny.
“Coach.” Nate says, it was clear he still had that fresh media sheen in him.
Gunny nods once, “You ready, Fick?”
“Yes, sir.”
Brad glances over despite himself, Nate’s already setting up behind the plate they have bolted to the ground, adjusting his helmet.
Gunny checks his watch, “Light session, focus on command.” he says, “No hero stuff.”
“When do I ever—“ Brad begins to snort.
Gunny only lifts his eyes.
Brad takes that as a sign to shut up and toes the rubber.
First pitch is easy, fastball, low and away, Nate barely shifts, glove snapping shut.
Gunny clicks his stopwatch, “Good, again.”
Brad throws again— Nate adjusts subtly, about half an inch, maybe less, framing it clean.
Brad exhales through his nose, “You always set up that low?”
“Only when it works.” Nate says, looking up, just slightly.
“Slider.” Gunny says, clicking his stopwatch again.
Brad throws it, Nate tracks it perfectly, glove steady, body relaxed.
“Don’t rush it.” Nate says, still crouched as he tosses Brad the ball back.
In between throws, Gunny asks, “Interview go okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They ask you the usual?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Gunny snorts, “You handled it fine, now forget about it.”
Nate nods, exhaling slowly, “Already am.”
After a few throws back and forth between them— and Nate having to adjust, Gunny claps, “Alright, that’s enough, save it for the game.”
As they make their way out of the bullpen, Nate says, “Nice command today.”
“Don’t get used to it.” Brad huffs, before adjusting the strap of his duffel and making his way out of the stadium and towards the clubhouse.
But as he’s walking back, he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket, he doesn’t check it yet, already knowing exactly who it was.
It wasn’t until he stepped out into the concrete hallway that he picked it up, phone now pressed against his ear.
“Yeah,” Brad says, “Hey.”
“Hey.” Poke answers, “You busy?”
“Always.” Brad sighs, leaning against the wall, “What’s up?”
A beat passes, Brad can hear the hum of the airport in the background.
“So it’s real.” Poke says, “They made it official this morning.”
“Yeah. I saw.”
“Figures.” Poke exhales, “Guess I’m a ray now.”
Brad rubs his thumb against the edge of his phone, “That’s not the worst place”
“Didn’t say it was.” Poke half laughed, “Just didn’t think it would be like this.”
Silence stretches.
“I saw the kid.” Poke says, finally, “Fick. They’re already shoving microphones in his face.”
Brad’s jaw tightens, slightly. “He handled it fine.”
“Yeah, he looked calm.” A beat, “You always liked that.”
Brad doesn’t answer.
“Look, I'm not calling you to give you a hard time.” Poke says quickly, “I know how this works, Teams move on, players move on— The media definitely moves on.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s easy.” Brad says, before he can stop himself.
“No It’s not.” Poke says, softly.
Another pause, Brad can hear a suitcase wheeling by on the other line.
“You good?” Poke asks.
“I will be.” Brad exhales.
“Good—“ A beat. “Listen, don’t take this out on the kid. He didn’t ask for this, None of us do.”
Brad swallows, “I know.”
“And for what it’s worth.” Brad adds, “You made me better. The best years of my career were with you on the mound.”
Brad closes his eyes, “Same here.”
Poke clears his throat, “Take care of that arm. Don’t be stupid.”
“Too late.” Brad snorts.
Poke laughs, briefly. “I should go— flight’s boarding.”
“Yeah.” Brad exhales.
“And Brad?”
“Yeah?”
“Call me sometime.” he adds, “Not just when ESPN tells you.”
Brad nods, even if Poke couldn't see it, “Will do.”
The line clicks dead.
The Giants had won against Detroit, 3 to 0.
It took a few tweaks in order for Nate to catch Brad’s throws cleanly, the first pitch of the day had had the rookie fumbling. the ball skipping off of his glove, Brad’s fastball having that subtle late hop that had made it impossible for him to predict.
Nate had to adjust his signals, thumb brushing over his chest protector, fingers flicking quietly behind his back— he tried reading Brad’s micro tells, the slight shifting of his weight, the way his hand would twitch at the top of the motion.
It was tricky, half the time he had Nate guessing.
The first time Nate had caught a fastball cleanly, Brad’s eyes had flicked towards him under the brim of his hat, his expression unreadable.
Nate had felt a small sense of relief.
The next pitcher however, a slider— slipped right past him, Brad’s shoulders stiffened on the mound.
In the dugout after the fifth inning, Brad finally broke the silence. “You’re thinking too much, Stop guessing, just move with it.”
Nate leaned back, mask in hand, “Yeah.” he said exhaling, “You shook me off again back there. It's not easy to catch someone like you.”
He was right, it wasn’t easy.
“This isn’t college ball, Fick.”
“I know.” Nate says, getting up from the bench.
“Then act like it.” Brad says firmly, “Stop flinching, I see it— the team sees it, the fans see it.” he huffs, “How’s it going to look if the team’s catcher can’t handle a pitch?”
Nate adjusted his mask, gripping it a little tighter. “i’m not flinching.” he said evenly, “i’m reading you.”
“Reading me?” Brad tilted his head, dry. “You don’t even know what’s coming half the time.”
“Because you continue to shake me off.” Nate says, stepping closer, voice sharp. “You want me to react? fine— just quit messing around.”
“Exactly, you’re supposed to react, not guess.” Brad said, lips twitching into an almost smirk. “One false move and it’s on you, You want me to go easy?”
“Not a chance.” Nate says flatly. “I didn't come here to be coddled, Brad.”
“Good.” Brad exhales sharply, “Because I’m not predictable and I'm not easy. Not a little, not ever. I throw, you catch, think you can handle that?”
“I’ll handle it.” Nate said, tone edged with defiance. “But I'm not going to sit here and let you shake me off out there, I'm not going to play games with you.”
“Yeah?” Brad said, self assuring, “You already are, Fick.”
“Then stop acting like it’s a game of who blinks first— I'm here to catch, not predict your next curveball or fastball or any pitch, period.”
Brad’s expression didn't change, “I don’t play games, Fick. You catch, I throw. Simple as that.”
“And if I miss? You don’t even hesitate to make me feel it.” Nate said, voice low but sharp.
Brad’s gaze held steady, “Then you better stop missing.” he said, before getting up from the bench and adjusting his hat— he headed out of the dugout and back onto the mound.
“This is gonna be a long season.” Nate said, under his breath before he followed Brad out of the dugout and back onto the field.