Left Standing
Left Standing
Trading Tim Hudson just made good economic sense. But trading Mark Mulder; that was personal.
"You motherfucking motherfucker."
Beane looks up from his desk, no expression, the dryest trace of humor in his tone. "That's very creative, did it take you the whole ride over to think of it?"
"I'll fucking kill you. You fucking. Motherfucking sonuvabitch. I'll kill you." Barry Zito crowds the doorway to the small, cramped office, shoulders brushing the frame, his hands in fists knocking against the moulding. His hair is little-boy touseled and his eyes are tight and red from crying, and it's a little uncomfortable, the way he doesn't seem ashamed. Beane takes him in for a moment, predator still, then returns to his paperwork.
"I don't have time for this, Zito, I have a lot of work to do."
He hears the creak-soft shift of him moving, the way the air trembles and stands still, but he doesn't look up, calling his bluff, grip steady and light on the pen in his hand so that his signature won't waver. He feels the fine hairs on the backs of his hands rise with the movement but he doesn't look up, and then he's crashing back, head touching the wall, and Zito's knee is screwing into the paper he was just signing and he'll have to print that out again, motherfucker, more fucking work.
"Tell me you did it to get under salary, Billy." Zito's breathing in his face, swallowing hard after every sentence to keep his voice steady, trying to be movie-tough and in control. "Tell me you think he's finished. Tell me you saw something in Haren and Calero that you couldn't pass up. Tell me something, Billy, tell me it's just about the fucking game."
Zito's hand is roughed around the collar of his shirt, twisting the cotton out of shape, and his thumb is tucked under Beane's adam's apple. He can feel the heat push off his skin when he swallows. "Tell me, Billy, why?"
"It doesn't matter why. Now get off of me and get the fuck out of my office."