8. Ace
EIGHT
ACE
“Your fastball is hot tonight,” I tell Riggs as we jog into the dugout after the sixth inning. We’re down by a run, but not because the pitching is off. The infield made a couple of costly errors in the second, but he hasn’t allowed a man on base since. He’s had a handful of strikeouts and easy pop outs—and to be honest, I think he has another inning or two in him before our manager, Clyde, takes him out.
“Too bad I can’t get my cutter under control. We’d be up if I could.” The man is an absolute legend as far as I’m concerned, but he’s his own biggest critic. If we lose on a night he’s pitching, he’ll carry it with him for days, obsessing over what he did wrong and how he can fix it next time.
“Your cutter is fine. Jacks missed that one that hopped wrong. Then Hawk bobbled the ball before making the throw to first. Both of those were off changeups, so there goes your theory.” I smirk, making him shake his head in faux annoyance.
“How’s school going?” he asks as our center fielder, Tyler Cruise, heads to the plate.
I shrug. “Pretty good. I hired a tutor to make things easier, and the team agreed to let her travel with me. You’d know that if you unlatched your lips from your girlfriend long enough to catch up.”
He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. That’s me. The obsessed boyfriend . Anyway,” he implores, rolling his eyes sarcastically.
“She showed up last night after our game. I was so fucking beat, we both ended up falling asleep in my bed. I woke up with my mouth inches away from her nipple, then shit got weird. Now I have to see her again tonight for another lesson, and I don’t know how to act. It’s hard enough talking about sex with someone you barely know, but she’s so fucking hot, dude. She’s got these perfect curves and she’s soft in all the right places. She should be locked up for being so goddamn sexy, and I have to sit there like everything is fine while she talks about erectile tissue.”
“Talks about what? ” he chokes out, laughing as Cruise smacks a line drive right to the other team’s shortstop. I side-eye Riggs, who continues to take enjoyment in my misery, doubling over as he loses his shit. “Did you say erectile tissue? That’s really what you’re learning about?”
“Yeah,” I reply, scrubbing my hands down my face as the crowd roars in both cheers and boos for Hawk Mason. I don’t know why they bother with all the fanfare for the guy, to be honest. It’s not like he’ll ever crack a smile. He’s the best third baseman I’ve ever had the honor of playing with, but unless you’re our second baseman and his best friend, Jackson Blake, the likelihood of him acknowledging your existence is slim. “I wish that was the worst of it,” I continue. “I had to write an entire essay on the female orgasm as she slept with her head on my shoulder. Some of the research I did was so detailed that it took everything in me not to imagine it was her I was trying it all out on. How the fuck am I supposed to do this? She’s thirty-one, and I had to pull out all the stops just to get her to agree to be my friend.”
“So, make a move,” he says matter-of-factly. “If you’re attracted to her, what’s stopping you?”
I whip my head in his direction. “My grade in this class, for starters. And did you miss the part where she’s definitely not interested? She’s not some random girl at a bar that would sell her soul for five minutes with one of us because we play ball. She’s different.”
He looks into the stands beyond third base, where his girlfriend Monroe would be sitting if this were a home game. Even though they look like they want to kill each other sometimes, I know he misses her when we travel. “I hear that,” he says quietly as Hawk sends a deep ball past center field, sailing over the wall as the crowd voices their disappointment at the now tied-up score.
Our shortstop, Dante Cole, walks up for his turn at the plate. I put on my helmet and grab my bat off the wall, heading toward the on-deck circle. I watch him get into his stance, and I do the same, not willing to waste a single minute of my time here. The pitcher waits for the signal, nodding before winding up and firing a low slider right at Dante. When it passes the plate, I swing, visualizing my bat connecting with the ball and sending it out of the park. I repeat this with every pitch until Cole hits a single, leaving me with the opportunity to put us ahead by three runs if I can just slam one out of here. It’s not uncommon for me to hit a home run, but it’s also not the easiest part of the job.
If we were playing at home, I’d be making a show of dancing to the plate while whatever walk-up song I chose for the evening blared through the stadium speakers. It’s been my thing since I was in the minors, and it made me a fan favorite, bringing people from all over to watch us play. When I was called up, I honestly thought the Fury would tell me to stop and focus on the game, but so far, it’s been the exact opposite. The gimmick was embraced by the organization—after much convincing from our public relations manager, Taylor, I’m sure—and they’ve used it to sell tickets and merchandise.
I like the attention it brings. My grandma would call me her little ham when I was younger, always wanting all eyes on me, but the truth is that I just like having fun. Life is too damn short not to, which is why I’m so excited to bring that side out of Lark. From what I’ve seen so far, she doesn’t have anyone to break her out of her shell. I want that person to be me.
I step into the batter’s box, stretching my legs one last time before pulling my bat up over my back shoulder.
“Come on, Acey boy!” Riggs yells through his cupped hands. “Why don’t you slap a tater for your new tutor? She’ll love it!”
Holy shit. I’m going to kill him.
I seriously hope he’s not near a hot mic. That’ll be all over the sports news channels tonight, and I’ll have to explain to Lark that I wasn’t trying to show off for her by hitting a home run. Unless she actually is impressed by that sort of thing.
I’ll hit one for her every goddamn night.
The pitcher gets his signal, winding up and throwing a curveball low and outside. I swing because that’s my sweet spot, but end up missing by just a few inches.
“Damn, Mathers,” Cleveland’s catcher, Vince Edwards, says. “Almost gave me a cold with that wind.”
“Fuck off,” I say with a grin, knowing I’m going to shut him up in just a minute. One way or another, he’ll be eating his words.
The next pitch comes, and I know immediately it’s a beauty. Low and way outside, but I take a swing anyway, the sweet crack of a connection reverberating through my hands and up my arms as I drop the bat and take off. It doesn’t quite have the distance Hawk’s did, but when it goes over the head of their left fielder, ricocheting off the wall and taking a very lucky bounce, I know it’s at least a triple. I blow past second base as he finally locates the ball, hurrying over to it and reaching out. I lose sight of him as I slide headfirst into third, knowing it has to be coming—but it doesn’t.
“He errored! Go!” the third base coach shouts as I shoot to my feet and take off like a bat out of hell toward home. I know it’s going to be close by the way Edwards’ eyes widen as he waits to make the catch. I stay as far left of him as I can, sliding again and grazing the plate with the tips of my fingers just as I feel his mitt touch my elbow.
“Safe!” the umpire yells, throwing his arms out wide as the crowd gets louder. I squint because I took about a pound of dirt straight into my eyes, slowly returning to my feet and dusting myself off.
“That cold really slowed you down, Vince,” I quip. “Get well soon.”
“Fuck you,” he replies with a quiet laugh as Dante runs up and jumps on my back. Pain radiates up my hip at the contact, and I wince, trying not to let on that I got hurt on the play. If Clyde finds out, he’ll bench me for the rest of the game—and I can’t afford that. I have to be in top shape at all times so I can prove to the organization that I’m worth keeping.
“Hell yeah, baby!” he yells as he hops down, slapping my shoulder. I laugh, walking into the dugout where my team awaits, ready to congratulate me. Taking it all in, I accept the high fives and fist bumps before sitting on the bench. I immediately feel the sting from my pants rubbing against the now-tender skin of my thigh, and I’d bet every dime I have that I’m going to be dealing with one hell of a friction burn when I get back to the hotel.
In the end, we win by a run, capping off our road trip on a high note. Despite my injury—which I tell no one about—I’m excited on the bus ride back, ready to see Lark again and get to work on my next assignment. I just hope the awkwardness from earlier doesn’t bleed into tonight.