"Your leg feeling okay?" asked Neal, swinging his carry-on bag from one shoulder to the other and nearly clipping Gold with the duffle.
They were in the middle of their considerable group of teammates, coaches and trainers, ambling their way through the airport and toward the exit where their team bus waited, and Neal Cassidy still found opportunity to pester him.
"Just splendid," Gold informed the other man, rolling his own small suitcase behind him.
Neal was a catcher – for all intents and purposes, Gold's catcher, due to the fact that he was a backup, and generally only penciled into the lineup when Gold was pitching. Even though Gold was only a decade or so older than Neal, the younger man was like a son to him.
Not that he'd ever admit to the sentimental feeling.
"I saw you limping. You're limping right now, man."
Gold straightened, trying to even his gait. It was just like Neal to notice. "It only seems that way because I am dragging this case. It's at an awkward angle."
Neal quieted for several seconds, and all Gold could hear was the shuffling of his teammates' feet and the droning of the PA system as an announcement was made.
"How long has it been hurting?" Neal asked at last.
"Glass wants me to pitch tomorrow," Gold said, both avoiding the question and preparing his friend for the inevitable event.
Neal's reaction was exactly what Gold had predicted it would be. "What! You gotta be kiddin' me. Nun-uh, there's no way you're doing it. No reason to risk it. It's the end of a terrible season – you know what, I'm gonna go talk to Sidney right now." He took a large stride, but was cut off by their first baseman, David Nolan, who had spotted a rubbish bin and was moving to throw his disposable coffee cup away.
Gold took the opportunity to grip Neal's arm and stop the man from any rash action.
Thankfully, Neal didn't fight him, but couldn't help sullenly remarking, "Ed, it's a meaningless game, anyway. It's pointless for you to risk hurting yourself again."
Gold set his teeth. No game was meaningless. "It's important to the Red Sox." If the Yankees won tomorrow, they would clinch the division championship, and the Red Sox would have to make do with the Wild Card berth in the playoffs, which led to undesirable playoff match ups.
Yes, to the Yankees and Red Sox, this game was the culmination of their whole season.
Neal, meanwhile, was still pouting. "I see you wince even one time…" He trailed off warningly, leaving the threat unspoken.
"Yes, mother," Gold said drily.
David, noticing them lagging behind the rest of the group, called out, "Hey, we leaving you two behind, or what? Come on, bus is this way."
Single file, the team trickled through the doors of the airport, where their transport was waiting, growling its low, diesel roar.
Gold decided to forgo stowing his suitcase, lifting it up the steep steps of the bus and setting it on his lap when he found an empty seat beside one of the grimy bus windows.
Neal sprawled into the spot next to him, leaning his head against the backrest with a tired sigh. "Last series this year. Golf courses, here I come."
Gold nodded, but did not comment. The off-season was not a respite to him; but rather, a hibernation of boredom and loneliness.
Except for the years he had been with Belle.
His heart rate increased as he thought of her blue eyes, the silk of her dark hair that drove him mad every time he ran his fingers through it. At last, he was going to see her again.
He was going to see her tonight, and fix whatever it was that had gone wrong between them.
As if reading his thoughts, Neal said, "So, New York. I wonder if Belle is in town."
"Why do you ask?" Gold replied, unconsciously hunching his shoulders and fixing his attention at the New York skyline so his friend couldn't read his face.
"Because I miss her. And I know you do, too," Neal said plainly, trying to stretch his legs in the cramped space.
"Hey, watch it!" Jefferson complained from the seat in front of them as Neal's foot accidentally connected with the back of his bench.
"Sorry, Jeff," Neal apologized to their third baseman. "My knees hurt after sitting for that flight."
"Fine, just don't kick me again." Jefferson was a bit of a strange character. Gold had never seen him without a hat of some kind, even when they weren't at the stadium. But he was team, and therefore he was family.
"Speaking of Belle, how is Tamara?" Gold asked, remembering the look in Neal's eyes when he had handed Gold a save the date rsvp a week ago.
Gold knew a mistake when he saw one, and Tamara was Neal's. He didn't throw around the words gold digger lightly, finding the term distasteful, but that was exactly what Tamara was. She was an aspiring model and fame seeker, always trailing along to team events and charities in the hope that the cameras would catch her. As far as Gold could tell, she didn't seem to have any true feelings for her fiancé, and it broke Gold's heart to know Neal was planning to go through with the wedding this off-season.
He had much preferred Neal's last girlfriend, a girl by the name of Emma Swan. She was much younger than Neal, all of 19, but had adored him and not his major-league status. Something had caused them to break up, however, and while Neal didn't like to talk about it, he had all but admitted the blame lay with him.
Tamara brought Neal joy in the aftermath of Miss Swan, and artificial as it may have been, Gold was reluctant to give his true thoughts on the matter.
"Tamara is fine," Neal said, digging a battered Sports Illustrated from his duffel and paging through it. "Busy, with the wedding planning, but fine. Hey, check out this article on Ivan Rodriguez. Pudge is getting the MVP award this year, easy. Way to represent catchers, Pudge. We get overlooked."
"In my opinion, pitchers get overlooked," Gold said, beginning to recognize city streets as they drew closer to the hotel.
"Yeah, right. You guys are the most coddled divas on the entire team. Never mind the MVP, you guys get your own special award category while the rest of us fight for scraps," Neal teased.
Gold continued the banter, his deadpan delivery against Neal's spirited ribbing, but his mind was barely aware of what he was saying.
For his thoughts were consumed by Belle, and what he was going to say to her that evening.
Later, at the front desk, the concierge - a charming elderly woman whose real name was Amelia Lucas, but who was referred to as nothing besides 'Granny' by guests and staff alike - smiled slyly at Gold. "Are we expecting a Miss French this evening?"
Even hearing her name spoken by another made Gold feel like a schoolboy, giddy and lovesick. "Indeed, we are. What name am I registered under?"
"Rumpelstiltskin. The fairy tale character, you know. I believe it was the Tigers front office's idea of a joke, perhaps."
Palms cold from nerves, Gold adjusted the tie around his neck. "Inform the front desk I don't wish to speak with anybody but her. Tonight," he stressed, pressing a sizeable tip into the woman's hand, "everything has to be perfect."
"You know you can count on me, Mr. Gold."