The Next Best Thing

Chapter 8

Mitch's mind was too restless for sleep, but he crawled into bed anyway because it was too restless for anything else. Tomorrow was his last day. His last day. It was going to sting like a son of a bitch and he just wanted to get it over with.

He really struggled with whether or not to send that resignation letter in. Almost did a couple of times, but ultimately decided against it because his last words as a Jays announcer didn't belong to that dipshit Henson. They belonged to his fans, to the guys in the booth, to the team, and to the game he loved so much. He wanted to sign off with some dignity, and yet in the back corner of that restless mind he was still trying to decide how many of Tamara's toes he could step on and still keep that dignity.

Give up gracefully or go down swinging? Those were his options. He could pretend to be ignorant to the fact he was only supposed to advise Tamara off-mic and just start announcing alongside her, over her really. Kirk Derry wouldn't throw any stats her way, and if the girl couldn't improvise her way out of dead air, then she didn't deserve to be there. Sabotaging was beneath him, but he smirked at the hell that would break loose if he told her it was her job to hit the home run horn button instead of in-stadium announcer, and foghorn overlord Virgil Ross. Rumour was he'd take a trespassing finger off with sharpened pair of hot dog tongs. There'd never been an occasion to, but Mitch believed he was capable of it.

He could be really petty and give her a few words of encouragement with no guidance whatsoever, or worse, intimidate her with the silent treatment, but neither would be the salve to the ego that showing her up would be. He could do what he did best, call the game of his life, then announce to the world he'd been given the sack and hope to rally outrage, sympathy – whatever emotion might cause a boycott or protest to get him his job back. Even if it would never work. No fan would really boycott the series, and Henson wasn't the type to fold to public shaming. He probably got off on it. Well, baseball would outlive them all, and maybe he should just accept his time was up and move on. Some people were born to be legends. Others would have to be happy being future sports trivia answers. God, he was sick of his own thoughts.

He didn't even feel his eyes growing heavy before they closed on him. The next thing he knew, he was awake again, hearing the sounds of rain hitting his window. He thought about how they'd have to close the stadium roof, which wasn't such a shame now that summer was over, although it sure didn't feel like it. His room was hot. He kicked off his top blanket and grabbed his phone to check the time. It was half-past one in the morning. He faced his window and blinked a few times as he realized it wasn't raining outside at all. He sensed a light coming from his other side and turned his head, assuming he'd fallen asleep with the TV on. He hadn't.

There was a glow coming from the hallway, and soon enough he made out a fine mist illuminated by it hovering in his doorway. His first thought was that his vision was still blurry from looking at his phone in the dark, but it couldn't account for the vapour moving further into his room the way it did. For the briefest second, he wondered if he was seeing an apparition of some kind, but the only ghost who might visit him was his dad, and he couldn't imagine a man who hated pranks sticking around to get his post-life thrills by scaring the bejeezus out of his son. Was it smoke? Mitch sniffed at the air. It didn't smell like fire, but again, his room was hot. Steamy even. And there was that sound of rain...

I'll kill her, he thought, realizing where it was coming from. "What kind of nutjob takes a shower at two in the morning?" he asked aloud, though not so loud that Emma could hear it under water.

With someone to blame for his being awake, he was suddenly incensed. He threw off his covers and vaulted out of bed, pacing at the foot of his bedroom because as much as he wanted to march into the bathroom and give Emma shit, he couldn't imagine yelling at a naked woman. It seemed a sort of unfair advantage. He wiped his brow with his sleeve. Was she shovelling coal in there? How hot did a shower need to be for soap to work?