I have no idea where this is going. POVs might alternate, I'm trying to kind of write this like an episode of the show, and the rating may change in the future too. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Title from "Born for This," by Paramore.
"Oh, shit."
"Damn. Is that Baker?"
"Forget Baker, that's Trevor Davis."
"Fuck. The Cards' catcher?"
Lawson strides into the clubhouse, a cheerful greeting on the tip of his tongue, when all the mindless chatter trickles to a stop. He pauses, a hand poised over the strap of his bag. In the corner of his eye, he notices Tommy and Stubbs by their lockers, hastily shoving their phones in their stalls. Lawson's mind flicks over the scraps of conversation he'd heard as he pushed through the clubhouse doors and he makes his way over to them.
"What's up, fellas?" Lawson drops his overnight bag on the nubby gray carpet and toes it off to the side.
Stubbs and Tommy share looks, communicating soundlessly with furtive glances back at their lockers before Stubbs sighs, reaches into his stall and pulls out his iPhone.
"We all got 'em," Stubbs says, sliding his thumb across the darkened screen. "Someone must've got our emails off the team site or something. You probably got some too."
Frowning, Lawson reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his phone. He hadn't bothered to check it before leaving for the ballpark earlier that morning. Usually he caught up on his emails, missed texts, and voicemails on the ride over to Petco but the cabbie had been super chatty and friendly, and Lawson had ended up signing a bunch of shit for him in lieu of payment. He isn't sure if he's actually allowed to do that but the cabbie had insisted it was all on the up and up, so Lawson'd just shrugged and gone with it. Now he wishes he'd bothered to check his phone.
Lawson opens his email.
GINNY BAKER AS YOU'VE NEVER SEEN HER: AMERICA'S DARLING BARES IT ALL? blares across the screen in obnoxiously bold, garish red font. Comic sans, by the looks of it.
"What the fuck is this?" Lawson bites out.
"They're…" Tommy trails off at a loss for words, reaching back to twist his fingers in his blond curls.
"Yeah, they're kinda… Like, I mean, they're not, like, bad or anything. Not like Verlander and Upton. But, y'know." Stubbs flushes and lifts a shoulder in a shrug as if to say What can you do?
Lawson stares down at his screen and scrolls through the email attachments unseeingly. He taps one and, as it opens, his stomach sinks like a stone.
It's Baker. Ginny. Wrapped up in a thin sheet and nothing else, dark curls tumbling down over bare, bronzed shoulders. There's a fine sheen of sweat to her skin and she's smiling like Lawson's never seen her smile before, cheeks dimpled, eyes crinkling in the corners.
His mouth immediately runs dry as a creeping dread crawls down his spine. He shuts his phone down, looks up at Tommy and then Stubbs.
"Get that shit off your phones." Lawson rubs a hand through his beard. "Dammit. Is Baker here? Have you seen her?"
"Nah, man," Tommy says, as he retrieves his phone from his locker and taps at the screen. "Her agent came by, like, ten minutes ago, though. Super hot, blonde hair. Ice queen type."
"She's got a name," Lawson mutters, as he bends down, ever mindful of his aching back and knees, to pick up his bag. "I'll see you guys later."
After shuffling off to his own locker, Lawson sits down and pulls his phone back out. The picture of Baker—Ginny—is still on the screen. Despite the responsible voice at the back of his head—that sounds alarmingly like Amelia Slater—yelling at him to just delete the email and get the pictures off his phone, Lawson scrolls to another. This one's a point-of-view shot from above, aimed at a stretch of smooth, brown skin. Lawson hastily closes the email.
He hears the commotion in the hallway—angry shouts blunted by the heavy clubhouse doors—before he really registers what's happening. Then the doors swing open and Amelia Slater herself storms in, making a beeline right for Lawson's locker. She has her phone in hand, pointed out at Lawson like a weapon.
"Where is she, Lawson? Where is she? I haven't been able to get ahold of her all morning and—did you know about this? Did you—" Amelia's face is bright red, nearly the same color as her tomato-red blouse, blonde hair pulled back into a sloppy bun.
Lawson gets up out of his chair gingerly, reaching out a hand to brace himself against his locker stall. "I haven't seen her yet and the guys say they haven't seen her either," Lawson says, jerking his thumb over in Stubbs and Tommy's direction. "We've all seen the pictures though."
"Fuck. Fuck!" Amelia clenches her hands into fists and bangs them against her thighs. "This is bad, Lawson. This is so fucking bad. This will ruin her."
"It'll be fine," Lawson tries, even though he doesn't believe that. He puts on his calming 'mound conference' voice, the one he uses with Ginny after she's walked a couple guys and suddenly she can't command anything in the strikezone. "It'll blow over."
"This isn't blowing over. Once the media gets ahold of this—" Amelia holds up her phone to Lawson so he can see the image of Ginny and the Cardinals' catcher in bed together "—they're gonna have a fucking field day. They'll bury her, Lawson, and you know it."
"Look, the same thing happened to Verlander a couple years ago and nobody even talks about it anymore," Lawson points out, pushing Amelia's phone down so he doesn't have to see the half-naked image of his pitcher or her…ex-boyfriend? Current boyfriend? Booty call? Better not to even go there, Lawson supposes.
"Verlander's also a man who gets paid a hell of a lot more than Ginny," Amelia points out, acid dripping from her words. "He made that scandal go away with a fleet of lawyers and threats of lawsuits. People sympathized with him because he was obviously the victim of a phone hack. You know they're not gonna look at Ginny the same way. They never do. They'll blame her for it. You know they will."
Lawson's stomach tumbles. He fights the urge to argue because he knows Amelia's right. He knows damn well Ginny will get blamed for not being careful enough or, hell, daring to take intimate photos with someone she obviously cared—cares?—about. Of course she'll get blamed.
Lawson's at a loss for words. For once.
Amelia presses a hand over her sweaty forehead. "This is a mess."
"I'm… I'm already on it, guys. And I think I might be able to get the pics off the internet," a nervous voice pipes up behind her.
Amelia turns to reveal Eliot, the social media intern, standing in the doorway, a laptop balanced precariously on one arm. He holds a cell phone in the other and his thumb is moving furiously.
"Obviously I can't wipe people's emails. But I'm trying to trace the source of the leak," he says. "I'll let you know what I come up with."
"Do whatever you can, Eliot," Amelia urges. She turns back to Lawson. "I'm gonna go attempt damage control." She leans in like she means to kiss him before remembering where she is and backing away. "Take care of her, Mike."
Amelia turns and runs out of the clubhouse, Eliot hot on her heels.
Lawson slumps into his chair and rubs his hands over his face.