8. CADE
CHAPTER 8
CADE
A hand falls on my shoulder and stops me right as I intend to climb out of the dugout. “Hold on, son.”
I turn to Rob Beau, our manager, and he motions me to the corner, so we can let a couple of the outfielders out. Beau folds his arms, and the coarse nylon fabric of his purple and yellow team jacket crinkles audibly. I fiddle with my cap while he observes me in complete silence, only chewing gum like a cow eating pasture.
“The trainers tell me you’re in top condition.”
“I feel good.” Immediately the old timey song starts playing in my head.
His head jerks in a nod. “Good. But no cutters today.”
The song comes to a scratching halt in my mind. “But?—”
“It’s still not refined enough and I’m hoping it can be a real weapon when it counts.” He points a firm finger at my face. “No cutters today, Starr. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.” I sigh in my heart—can’t show anything else but obedience to the boss on the outside.
“Now, go out there and do some damage.” He pats my shoulder strong enough that it forces me to pivot back to the exit.
I let the momentum keep me going until I emerge into the sun. It’s funny how out here the atmosphere is drastically different. The shade of the dugout right before the game starts is a crush of people trying to do last-minute things, setting up equipment, doing some stretching, saying prayers, talking strategy, watching film on iPads, even spraying on sunblock.
Outside, the sun blares bright and hot right above the field, and the perimeter is packed with fans from either team watching your every move. All the anxious energy inside the dugout turns into real pressure out here.
And I live for it… because I’m a massive weirdo.
“I don’t like the look on your face,” Logan Kim says as I approach the mound, where he’s waiting for me. The Orlando Wild doesn’t have an official captain but if we did, it’d be this asshole.
“Well, I don’t like your face,” I spit right out without much bite.
His mouth twists in annoyance. “You’re too calm. Why is that? I don’t like it.”
I bend my glove against my chest, trying to soften it up after traveling inside a duffel bag. As response, I shrug and say, “Would you rather see me freaking the hell out or what?”
“Are you? Secretly freaking out, I mean?” He narrows his all-seeing eyes at me and gives me the same studious look as Beau.
“No.” I blink real slow. “It’s game one of Spring Training, there’s no reason to panic. Besides…” I lift my glove to cover the lower half of my face. “No offense to the Sacramento Badgers, but they’re not necessarily the hardest team to play.”
Kim hums from deep in his throat and gives me a side eye. “I like this even less. I’d rather see you nervous than underestimating your opponent.”
I tip my head toward the the home plate. “I’d love to keep chatting about our feelings but the umpire’s giving us the stink eye.”
“Get more tense, Cowboy. The last thing I want is for you to give this game away to one of the weakest teams in the league.”
“Me?” I gasp in mock outrage.
“Yeah, you . Don’t forget that we’re starting you because we’re shit out of luck.”
I bob my head. “True, now that the great Ben Williams is gone we don’t have a superstar pitcher. But guess what?”
“Don’t say it.” His expression tightens.
I still say it. “We have a Starr now.”
“I hate you.” Kim turns around and stalks away to home.
I hide the grin on my face behind my glove, not just because I don’t want the Badgers to see that I’m not too concerned about them, but because I probably look like a possum baring its teeth.
Kim exchanges a few words with the umpire before lowering his mask on his face. The leadoff batter walks up to the plate and the umpire shouts, “Play ball!”
The crowd gets a bit rowdy and it makes my limbs tingle. It’s really hard to feel tense or worried when I’m bursting at the seams with happiness. This is my freaking dream come true, to be a starting pitcher for the team. This is what I’ve been working for since the moment my middle school teachers figured out the only thing I was good for was playing baseball.
Kim signals for an easy fastball and I nod. There’s no point in overthinking the very first pitch of game one, and the pitching clock is ticking. I make the kind of windup I’m most comfortable with, big and flashy, hiding my pitching hand behind my head, and release the ball right at the last second.
“Strike!”
The batter goes through the motions of sweeping the dirt with his cleat and Kim returns the ball to me with a bit more strength than necessary. I can feel it convey a ‘don’t you get complacent’ message as it thuds against the palm of my glove. What he doesn’t know is that I’m giving him the middle finger inside my glove. Just keeping it PG for the little fans out there in the stands.
This time when he crouches, he calls for an easy curve that should fool no one. I guess we want to give some action to the infielders, and that’s cool by me when we have no runners. The Badgers aren’t known for power hitting either, so I nod once and position the ball in my glove for a run off the mill 12-6.
“Strike!”
That fell perfectly at the bottom of the strike zone, where the batter could’ve at least swung. He didn’t even try, so either the guy is paralyzed by fear, or… the Badgers are just watching me.
Bleh, so this is why I can’t do cutters.
A third strike is called after another curveball and I lift my index finger so everyone in the field can see we have one out.
“C’mon, give me some sugar,” Rivera calls out from close to third base.
From first base, Miller says, “Give me something to justify my salary.”
Even the guys in the outfield make some noise, urging the game to be more interesting than this. But the inning ends just like that, three outs and no runners on base. The stands are fairly quiet as we head over to the dugout.
“Good job,” says Larry Socci, the pitching coach. “Looking good out there, Starr.”
“It’s just the new pants,” I joke as I walk by him, producing a snort in reward. I grab the nearest free iPad I can find and before I can even fire it up, a big paw snatches it from me.
One obnoxious catcher drops right next to me. He taps at the iPad not to look at my pitching form, like I intended, but to zoom in on the batters. A crease appears between Kim’s eyebrows for a moment until it finally clears. He tosses the device at me and I catch it in the air.
“What?” I ask.
“They’re not studying you. They’re just bad.” He leans back against the wall and folds his arms.
“How do you know?”
He snorts. “They all reacted.” Apparently that’s all he means to say.
I prod him with “I need a few more words than that, you caveman.”
“The Badgers don’t have the balls to swing big but they twitched at every one of your pitches. If they were just watching, they wouldn’t have even blinked.”
“Meaning…”
“Your balls are enough.” He nods to himself, not seeing the problem with his words.
I suck in air through my teeth. “Really trying not to quip with a that’s-what-she-said joke here.”
We both get jerked out of our riveting conversation at the unmistakable crack of a bat. Rushing to the barrier, we join the team to watch Rivera’s first hit—no. A home run?
“Asshole,” Kim mumbles. “Should’ve saved that for a bases loaded situation.”
“No complaints from me.” I nod all magnanimous as the ball finally lands on the grass behind the outfield fence. A few fans abandon their picnic blankets in pursuit of the home run ball.
“Yeah!”
“That’s right, baby!”
“Rivera, you beast!”
More hoots and hollers come from the dugout, almost competing with the noise from the stands. The Boricua raises a fist as he jogs around the diamond, stopping to step on the bases in a very deliberate way. Last season, an umpire ruled he hadn’t stepped on third base and therefore didn’t score the run. He’s probably still annoyed by that.
“And that’s how it’s done, lady and gentlemen.” Rivera strikes a tough macho pose with his arms as he approaches, and it takes a second for my brain to click.
Lady? I glance over my shoulder and spot Hope Garcia coming out from the tunnel. She’s wheeling a trunk that looks big enough to fit me inside, but doesn’t seem to struggle with it. And of course she wouldn’t, when her thighs are so sculpted that I can see her muscles ripple beneath the white fabric of her clothes. Has no one thought that maybe she should be allowed to wear different pants?
She notices me watching and for a brief second I’m annoyed to be caught.
I swivel my attention back to the front. While our second batter steps up to the plate, a couple of staff members remove the gear from Kim’s legs and chest. He’s our best batter and that, plus his catcher acumen, make him absolutely insufferable. I really have to solidify myself as the starter pitcher of the team so I can shut him up.
“Do you have it?” one of the guys asks behind me.
Garcia’s voice responds with, “Tall glass of Bengay coming right up.”
Annoying chuckles come after that. I peek over my shoulder again, this time as she’s lathering up someone’s bare shoulder. It’s way too early in the game for that shit, but it’s none of my business. At least she’s wearing gloves.
The ball hits at another good angle and the sound gets my attention again. Our third batter is taking off to first base and gets there safe, right in time for Kim to walk up to the plate and get the crowd surging with excitement. I smirk as he misses the first ball by a mile, but he hits the second pitch hard enough that it almost goes over the fence. As the outfield rallies, our third batter makes it all the way home and Kim to second base.
“Yep, the Badgers suck,” I mumble to myself.
The Orlando Wild, as a team, is decent. We don’t have a star studded lineup now that Williams has deserted—aside from our catcher, I guess—but even with the two of them as a battery, we still fell short of the postseason last year. I’m not really used to the power dynamic we have in this game.
Yet, we end our first inning up by three runs. I shut them out in the next inning, and we score one more run with the middle of our batting lineup. I concede a couple of hits in the third inning that get our infielders running wild, one of them ending with a double play that will make the social media highlights. Kim runs me through a combination of fastballs that include some nasty ones close to the batter’s chest, and also an array of curves that produce a few more hits. Sweat trickles down my face and my spine, more because of the sun than from the game itself.
However, I don’t know if it fools Beau because as I walk to the dugout after the sixth inning, he declares, “Starr, you’re done for the day. Get iced.”
I open my mouth. Close it. There’s no point in arguing with the man, and even if I didn’t pull any spectacular plays that can secure my spot in the roster, it was a decent showing.
“Yes, sir.”
“G’job, Cowboy.” Rivera pats my back as I walk deeper into the bench.
More pats and similar words are tossed my way. I’m glad this inning starts with Kim’s at bat because one look at my mug, and he’d be able to tell I’m disappointed.
I plop on the bench, finally releasing a heavy sigh.
“Shirt.”
Garcia looms over me with the shoulder ice pack in her hands.
“Gee, darlin’. At least buy me dinner,” I deadpan but still make quick work of my shirt buttons. I dig for the seam of my compression undershirt and peel it off over my head, tossing the yellow garment on top of the purple shirt.
Rolling her eyes at me, she says, “I probably couldn’t afford it.”
I slide my arm into the opening of the ice pack and hold still as she fastens it, first around my arm, then grabbing the loose strap that goes around my chest. She leans closer to circle the strap around me and I keep my eyes firmly on my lap because I’m a damn gentleman—who still can’t help but notice that she smells like vanilla and something else. Something that should be bottled up and sold for top dollar. My traitorous nostrils expand to catch one last whiff of it as she steps away.
“Any discomfort anywhere?” she asks. I lift my eyes slowly, first stopping at her waist, where her hands rest, finally making one quick swoop up to her face.
“Nope.” I pop the p with gusto.
“Hungry?”
Since I’m a well-trained dog, my stomach gurgles loud enough that I needn’t answer verbally. I grin as Garcia cringes.
“Wow, okay. Gourmet snack coming right up.” Her ponytail swishes as she turns to dig in one of her trunks.
Meanwhile, the team rotates back to defensive positions. I watch as Thomason, another relief pitcher, takes to the field. Or maybe I shouldn’t say another, because right now I’m not one and I’m manifesting that it stays that way. Thomason is a good kid, straight out of the minors, but not among the top of our pitching staff. I have no idea what Beau and Socci are thinking about, but the fielders are gonna be busier now.
“Here you go.” Garcia’s back next to me, offering a brown shake that does not look appetizing at all.
“Wow, looks better than a burger.” Unfortunately that makes my stomach roar again, and I have no choice but to start chugging the weird concoction.
She folds her arms. “So, you wanted to talk?”
I choke. Somehow I manage to not spew a brown deluge out of my guzzler, but keeping it in does make the recovery harder. The good news are that first, I don’t die, and second, nobody seems to care about my close call. Everyone is focused on what’s happening on the field. At least Garcia has the decency of handing me a towel to clean whatever spillage is on my face.
“Yes,” I rasp out. “But not while I could die from it.”
“Pitchers are such drama kings.” She shakes her head slowly, clicking her tongue at the same time.
I grimace. “Shouldn’t you be nicer if you’re the one asking me for a favor?”
Her mouth opens. She takes a seat next to me and places her hands on her knees, all demure like. “Wait, does this mean you changed your mind?”
“Not quite.” I make what I know is an obnoxious pause to drink some more of the protein shake. “I just have one question.”
“Yes?” Her eyes open wide, shining with eagerness.
I slide farther from her because that whole energy’s weird—much more eager than I’m equipped to handle. She slides closer again and I lean away.
“If Lucky hadn’t tried to flirt with you, would you have taken him up as your dating coach or whatever?”
Garcia blinks several times and also leans away. “Yes, probably.”
“So basically, anyone can do.”
“Not anyone. It has to be someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“Don’t you have friends for this?” I ask.
Something hardens her expression. “Not really. Not anymore.”
Oof, there’s a story there. Not that I care, but some weird shit has to happen for a woman to be desperate enough to find anyone to teach her about the dating world. And that’s the problem—as much as I’d rather say no again because I have no skin in this game, she could end up with someone who has ulterior motives. Worse than Lucky, who’s just a harmless flirt.
I rub my chin, feeling the rasp of facial hair. “Fine, let’s talk again after the game.”
“What? I’ve been waiting for this conversation for hours and you want me to suffer for longer? No, say it right now, Cowboy. Are you in, or not?” She presses her lips in a stubborn line and stabs her finger at the bench to punctuate her words.
I have a feeling the next one stabbed will be me if I don’t finish this conversation now. After another swig of protein shake, I say, “Okay, I’ll help you. But there are two conditions.”
Her expression cracks and some panic seeps through. “I was actually kidding when I said I could pay you. I can barely afford rent and my student loans.”
I ignore that and raise my index finger. “First, my priority is baseball, no matter what.” Then I raise my middle finger. “And second, no falling for my southern charm and making this all awkward.”
She sticks her tongue out in the universal expression of yuck . “That’s easy.”
“At least have the decency to look more heartbroken.”
“I’m not one of your Annies, Cowboy.”
I shudder. Unlike the stalker around my neighborhood, Garcia could probably catch up to me and tackle me to the ground.
She frowns. “Okay, no need to look so disgusted at the idea.”
I bark a laugh. This time it does garner a few looks of curiosity. Huffing, Garcia gets to her feet and strides over to her collection of equipment. When it’s clear that I’ve been dismissed, I reach over for a discarded iPad to run through whatever film we got of my pitching while I finish up my drink. The coaches were right in not letting me throw any cutters today, especially because I don’t have the form down pat yet. I’m trying to see if the cutter form has seeped through my normal one when a shadow descends over me.
It’s Garcia again. She grabs my wrist and jerks my hand toward her, slapping a piece of paper on the palm of my hand before walking away. Confused, I rub it open and read.
We’re not in middle school, you bonehead. Here’s my phone number .
Smart girl that she is, she wrote it in pencil. The digits won’t smear with my sweat once I stuff the note in my pocket. I temper my face to hide a smile and focus on the screen again.