The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

9. Bad Pitches

9

BAD PITCHES

Zane

On the mound, I lean in for the pitch, peering at my brother behind the plate. He taps two fingers against the inside of his thigh. He stage-whispers from behind the plate on an empty ballfield in Sacramento, “Fastball down the middle.”

His daughter whirls around. “Daddy, you don’t need to tell me the pitch for me to hit it.”

“Daddy’s been busted,” I tease from the mound.

Gage frowns, guiltily. “I said that to give your uncle a hard time, Eliza. He’s only got one pitch.”

Eliza deals me the fiercest stare possible. “I bet you have another pitch, Uncle Zane. Try to trick me. Fastball, curve ball, anything,” she goads. At six years old, she’s already got a sharp mind and a competitive spirit to match.

I slide into an old-school, leg-kick, wind-up. Then I underhand the whiffle ball down the middle of the plate.

She smacks it hard, a solid grounder. My little niece runs the baseline as I field the ball then jog to cover first base, but I don’t even come close before she jumps on the bag. “Single! I hit a single off a major leaguer,” she says.

She offers a hand to high-five, and I smack back.

Then, we do it all over again, pitch after pitch after pitch. An hour later, when Eliza’s all worn out, she flops down on the grass by first base.

“I’m going to bed here,” she says, then pretends to sleep.

Gage offers her a hand. “Come on. Up and at ’em, little lady.”

“If I can have a piggyback from Uncle Zane,” she insists.

“I hope my agent is as good at negotiating as you are, kiddo,” I say, picturing Maddox in London, all badass and strong, protecting my best interests. Hell, expanding them. I’m lucky to have him in my corner.

I’m lucky, I’m lucky, I’m lucky.

I repeat that silently so I can stay the course. I haven’t sent him any more selfies since yesterday. Twenty-four hours and counting. I deserve a medal.

Eliza tilts her head to the side. “What’s an agent?”

“Someone who goes to bat for you,” I say as I squat and offer myself as her ride.

She scurries up my back. “ I went to bat today. Can I be an agent?”

“Sure can,” I say, standing then walking out of the park.

“I bet I’d be as good as your agent,” she says.

“My guy is a rock star, so I’d say you would be.”

“Uncle Zane,” Eliza says, “do you think you can steal off that lefty reliever on the Phoenix Scorpions?”

“Whoa. You’re already studying pitchers in the major leagues?” I ask.

Gage flashes me a winning grin. “Course she is.”

“Daddy says baseball is educational when we watch it together. He teaches me everything, like how to frame a pitch.”

I whistle. “That is downright impressive. Look at you, Gage. Finding a way to make your favorite form of entertainment educational.”

My brother lifts his chin proudly. “That’s right.”

He squeezes Eliza’s foot playfully—lovingly too—and my heart expands.

We make our way to a nearby quick-serve organic café. Over smoothies and tofu tacos, we catch up on how Eliza’s doing in summer camp. When she grabs crayons from a cup on the table and starts to draw a cat, I ask Gage how work is going.

“What’s the latest with the boss man?”

Gage slumps in his chair. “The other night, Neil was harping on me about the glasses. Oh, there’s a speck on this one . It was our best night in a month, and he’s focused on smudges on the drinkware. I’m not even the dishwasher,” he says with a huff.

“He sounds like a pain in the you-know-what,” I say.

“Butt,” Eliza puts in as she colors in a cat.

I laugh, then Gage continues, scratching his jaw in resignation. “But that’s what bosses are. He’s kind of like you-know-who.”

Dad , I mouth.

“Yup.”

“Bet you’ll never leave a speck on a glass again,” I say heavily.

He shudders. “Learned my lesson. Maybe I’ll find another bar, but the pay is good, so it is what it is,” he says, then crunches into a taco.

I wish I could solve this problem for him. Swoop in and get him a new boss. Or, better yet, a new elbow. But I can help in other ways, and I wonder if now would be a good time to ask if I can set up a college fund for Eliza? I don’t have a deal in hand yet, but I want to do this for them so badly. Trouble is, Gage has been so committed to carrying the weight of parenting solo that I need to find just the right moment, and while he’s venting about his job is probably not it.

Still, I dip my toe in with, “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I’m good, man,” he says with a firm I’ve-got-this grin. “I do appreciate you listening though. And coming here and hanging out with us. I know you’re busy.”

I scoff. “Never too busy to see my favorite people. I’ve got plenty of time before we play Phoenix tonight.” I bookmark the college-fund discussion as I turn to Eliza. “Got any hitting tips for me against the Phoenix pitching staff?”

She screws up the corner of her lips. “Daddy says you need to stop swinging at bad pitches.”

I crack up. “Your daddy is right. But it’s kind of his fault. When we were growing up and playing ball together, his cut fastball was too darn tempting. I swung at it every time he threw it my way.”

“And always missed,” Gage says proudly. “That was a fun one to throw. I miss that pitch.”

The whole drive back to San Francisco, I’m thinking of the games he pitched his year in the majors. Remembering them fondly. Wishing he had them again.

There’s no room for sad memories in my head when the game starts that evening. On the field, I laser in on each play. At the plate, I zoom in on every pitch. But still, I go hitless in my first three at-bats, and that pisses me off. I need to do better. I’ve got to get on base.

When I head to the batter’s box in the bottom of the eighth, I review my strategy against the relief pitcher who takes the mound.

Wait for my pitch.

But as I step up to the plate, a flash of memory streaks through my concentration—the utter shock on Gage’s face when he told me about the team doctor’s diagnosis of his elbow injury. “My career is over,” he’d said in a hollow voice. It was like someone had died.

I try to shake off the thoughts, taking a few extra practice swings. But those horrible words echo in my mind. My career is over.

I swing terribly at the first pitch. Then the next. Then one more. I strike out, and we go on to lose the game.

Next time I’ll do better, I tell myself as I trudge to the dugout at the end of the night. That’s the beauty of baseball—it keeps giving you chances.

As long as you’re healthy enough to keep taking them, and good enough to make the most of them.

The morning after the Phoenix game, I board the team plane, checking my phone one more time. Our series against the Miami Aces starts tomorrow, and I’m antsy as fuck.

I’ve been watching my texts all morning for a message from Maddox. It’s been radio silence, though, and it’s driving me batty. No word on the meeting with Priyam. It was supposed to be this afternoon in London. Maddox should be done by now.

I grab a spot in the fourth row, slumping into the seat with a huff. Another glance at my texts. Still crickets.

Well, dickhead, if you’d give it longer than five minutes before you check again…

I suck it up and write to Maddox anyway.

Zane: Hey! Any news? Just checking.

There. That’s not too pushy or too eager. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the funk that’s been outrunning me the last few days. My series with Phoenix sucked. I was up in my head too much, and I hate that seeing my brother did that to me.

I shouldn’t fixate on Gage’s injury and what it did to his career. I should focus on the joy baseball brings me, my good fortune to be able to play a game for a living.

I click over to the text thread with my brother. Gage sent me a pic of Eliza scoring a run in her game last night. I already responded, but I write back again. BTW, I’ll be at her game next weekend. I’m off on Sunday.

He replies with, Awesome. Hope you have a great series in Miami. And stop swinging at bad pitches. That’s from Coach Eliza.

Laughing, I scroll back to the photo one more time.

I look up from my phone as Gunnar stops at my row. “Excuse me, sir, is this seat available for the best player on the team?” He gestures to the spot next to me.

I unbuckle the belt and make a show of taking the seat.

Gunnar laughs, then when I move back to the window position, I pat the cushion. “Here you go.” He flops down. “It’s for average players,” I retort.

“We better switch then,” he says.

Then my phone beeps. When Maddox’s name pops up, I click so fast.

Maddox: Didn’t mean to keep you waiting. The meeting was pushed back till tomorrow. I just found out an hour ago and was about to let you know. Priyam had to take his granddaughter to a rehearsal for her school play.

Whew. That’s good to know. I tap out a reply and shed a little more of my annoyance.

Zane: That’s adorable. Almost as cute as this…

I attach the pic of my niece, then add, My brother’s kid .

Maddox: That is the cutest!

Zane: Anyway, thanks for the update. I was, I admit, about to lose my mind.

Maddox: Shoot. I’m sorry, Zane. I should have messaged you sooner. It’s been crazy here, but that’s no excuse. I never want to worry you or leave you hanging.

Zane: Nah, it’s me. You’re all good, man.

Maddox: You sure? Is there anything I can do?

Damn, he’s sweet. The guy loves to solve problems. But there’s nothing to do. The problem is me.

Zane: Nope. Sometimes I’m an impatient, demanding fucker. Case in point—I was impatient last night in my last at-bat. Lot of good that did.

Maddox: I saw some of the game. You didn’t seem like yourself. Try your best to leave that behind—it starts all over tomorrow. Best thing about baseball is all the chances it gives you.

I smile since I was just thinking the same thing. We’re on the same wavelength.

Zane: You’re a baseball philosopher.

Maddox: Don’t tell my other clients, but baseball is my favorite.

Zane: It’ll be our little secret.

Maddox: That works for me. And listen, Zane? Try not to worry about Bespoke either. I’ve got this handled. I’ve done my research. I’ve reviewed his proposal. I’ve made a great pitch. I don’t like to make false promises, but I feel damn good.

I breathe a little easier. Actually, a lot easier.

Zane: Like I told my niece, you’re a rock star.

Maddox: I’m blushing.

Mmm. Bet he looks good blushing. But I don’t say that. And I don’t send another selfie. The safe zone’s not a bad place to be, since I like shooting the breeze with him. Flirting is fuck-all awesome, but so is talking to him. Well, texting.

Zane: Did the change screw with your schedule? I hope you have plenty to do there. I’m sure you’ve been up since five-thirty to run ten miles and draft a fifty-page contract before noon. Then, go to your meeting with the Queen to seal a new branding deal for…rubies or something.

Maddox: Please, the deal was for diamonds.

Zane: But five-thirty and the other stuff was right?

Maddox: I like to exercise every morning. I bet you do too. Pot, kettle.

Zane: Love exercise. All forms of it.

Okay, fine. That was a little flirty. But I’m no saint. Especially with him.

Maddox: No doubt you do. Same here.

Ah, and he’s a little flirty too. I tap out a reply.

Zane: It’s fun imagining the things you do. I especially like being right and then needling you about it.

Maddox: Glad you like giving me a hard time. It seems to be another favorite sport of yours.

Oh, you have no idea, Maddox . But before I can write back with something flirty and dirty, my phone buzzes with another text from him.

Maddox: Are you on your way to Miami soon?

That’s a one eighty. Maybe it’s a sign not to flirt—to just talk shop. Fair enough.

Zane: As we speak. Change of scenery better do me good. Hoping to turn things around against the Aces.

Maddox: Watch out for Hoffman. He’s been working on a killer changeup. But if you get ahead in the count, you can usually hit off him.

Zane: Whoa. Hitting tips from my agent? You’re a full-service kind of guy.

Maddox: Happy to give restaurant recs too.

That piques my interest. I’m not a restaurant connoisseur, but I am gobbling up these details about him—his pitching knowledge, daily habits, and interests.

Zane: Maddox LeGrande, are you a foodie?

Maddox: You figured me out.

Zane: What’s your favorite cuisine?

Maddox: Vietnamese, Thai, Mediterranean, Italian, Turkish, Indian. And so on.

Zane: Dude, you just named six things.

Maddox: Don’t forget the so on . It covers all manner of other cuisines.

Zane: So you don’t have a favorite?

Maddox: Evidently, I like to try lots of things.

Oh man. That’s some low-hanging fruit. I look at the pic of my niece.

Behave, Zane .

I will.

But, maybe not entirely…

Zane: I like to try lots of things too.

Gunnar clears his throat again. “Ahem. Am I the invisible man as you text your agent?”

I flip the phone over in a nanosecond. This conversation is private. “What are you, a detective?”

“Got something to hide?” He wiggles a brow.

“Nope,” I say.

That’s not entirely true. But what is true is this—I think I like the guy.

Wait. That’s wrong.

I know I like the guy.

Great. Fucking great. This is so not my MO. I haven’t been into someone this much since college. Three years in the pros, and I haven’t liked someone enough to make it past a handful of dates.

Now, with Maddox, I want him, and I like him. But I also need him.

This is getting to be a big problem.