Wild Pitch (Dominating the Diamond Book 1)

CHAPTER 3

They could not have brought Ramirez in at a worse time. I rub my head and glance at the scoreboard on my way out to the pitcher’s mound as she relieves the starting pitcher with runners on first and second and two outs. My skull is still throbbing from the bat I took to the helmet in the fifth inning. More importantly, we are down four runs in the bottom of the seventh, and my pitcher is staring at me with eyes too wide for her face and an ashen hue to her brown skin, made golden by the fading sunlight.

I cover my mouth with my glove. Time for another damned speech. If I didn’t love the game so much, I’d swear I should be in movies instead of out here. It would be a hell of a lot easier on my joints, and I wouldn’t be sweating beneath my chest pads and the July sun.

“Give me the ball,” Ramirez says, that honey-whiskey voice muffled through her glove.

“Hold your horses, Texas,” I say. I turn to glance up at the stadium around us. She’s still staring at me when I turn back to catch her gaze, but the wildness in her eyes has tamed from nervous fervor to passion. Passion, I can work with. “This is your moment, but you don’t get to call all the shots. Not on my team and not on my field. Take a second to enjoy all of this—really enjoy it, without worrying about what comes next. Then, take a deep breath, tune it all out, and focus on me. Got it?”

I hold the ball out between us, and she raises her glove to it impatiently. The leather closes around my hand, but I don’t pull away. Her nostrils flare in impatience, and I jerk my head up toward the stands.

Ramirez follows the movement. She stares up at the crowd, and her chest rises beneath her white jersey. Her eyes shut, and she holds her breath for a long moment. When she opens them again, her dark eyes hit me with such intensity, I take a half-step back before I realize what I’ve done.

I lean into it. Pivot. Grab my mask. Turn that awkward half-step into an easy jog back to home plate, appreciating the stretch in my quads before I squat back behind the next batter.

Dropping into position, I size up the man standing over the plate before I give my attention back to Ramirez. The man’s got to be a good six-foot-five at least, the way he towers over me. He’s a powerhouse who will knock the ball out of the park and increase their lead to eight-to-one if he makes contact. Another reason they shouldn’t have put Ramirez on the mound. If I were any more jaded, I might think someone was setting her up to fail.

Who am I kidding? I am entirely cynical enough, but I don’t have time to think about that now—not that it’s any of my business how differently the woman I saw killing it at that farm league game I went to with Dante’s family has played since joining the Scorpions.

This batter might have the power to crush what passes as Ramirez’s fast ball, but I’ve played against him often enough to know that he’ll swing at anything even remotely close to the strike zone.

Three fingers signal between my legs. A quick tap against my right thigh. I call the first pitch. Ramirez shakes her head.

So much for my speech about her not calling all the shots.

Between the delay and Ramirez’s less-than-stellar record this season, their runner has a huge lead-off on second. I call for a pitch-out, figuring it’s the next best option and hoping it will give her some confidence. She probably won’t get the strike. Even this guy probably won’t chase something wide outside at chest level, but at least I can throw their runner out before he’s in scoring position.

She shakes her head again, and I swallow a deep sigh. I give her the call she’s looking for—the one we’ve all seen her pitch so many times that everyone is expecting it.

The first pitch lands in the dirt. I have to jump to stop the second from reaching the backstop. I tap my mask at eye level and gesture a deep breath before calling the next one.

The third pitch is nearly perfect. The powerhouse tips the ball in a high arc, and I dive to catch it outside the foul-line. The impact shudders through my body, but at least I have the end of this inning to walk it off without letting the whole world know I’m hurting.

With only one out in the eighth inning, Ramirez’s next three balls land everywhere but the strike zone. The third pitch takes a bad bounce in the dirt and sends me racing toward the backstop just to stop a runner on third. It doesn’t make a difference either way; Ramirez throws another pitch over my head. Just like that, the bases are loaded, and she looks more rattled than ever.

“Get me out,” Ramirez says through her glove the second I reach the mound. “I’m all over the place. Get me out of the game.”

“You’ve thrown thirteen pitches. What did I say about calming down and focusing on me?”

“I’ve thrown thirteen awful pitches. I don’t know what’s happening, okay? Just take me out and let someone who deserves to be out here take over.”

“You deserve to be out here—”

“You don’t mean that,” she says. “And that’s fine. I get it. I’m here because I’m a fan favorite for as many reasons that have nothing to do with my ballgame itself as reasons that do. I worked my ass off to get called up to the majors, but I haven’t worked my way up to pitching at the fucking All-Star Game, and everyone knows it. I got my chance, and I blew it; the team got their good publicity. Now get me out, and get someone in who can finish the game.”

The head coach beside me sighs and rubs his brow, but I’m not about to let him call her out of the game yet.

“Listen to me, rookie. We all work our asses off. We all have the talent and the work ethic. But you know what? None of us gets here on our own by earning everything we’re given, every step of the way. Luck played a role in every single career out here, even if some of us don’t like to admit it. The difference between someone who becomes great and someone who fizzles out in one season, is who steps up to take those unearned chances whether we’re ready when they come or not. Granted, most of us don’t get that chance in the All-Star Game; you’re right about that. But you have one hell of a team to back you up, and the rest is up to you.”

“Right. Like you’ll all be backing me up when the next batter scores four runs because I can’t hit the strike zone with a fifty-foot pole—”

“Not with that attitude. Look, maybe you’re right about that, too. Not everyone on this field is your biggest fan, and I’m sure some of them would be happy to see you fail. But I am the only one you’re looking at from this mound, and I have your back.”

“Okay, but—”

“No buts. I don’t know how you do things in Texas, and frankly, I don’t really care. You need to start trusting me when I call the pitch. That’s all you’ve got to do. Trust me and trust yourself—one pitch at a time.”

She’s silent long enough that I start to wonder if I’m losing my touch. Glove still pressed over her nose and mouth, her eyes give nothing away.

“Alright, Coach. Let’s hurry things along, folks,” the umpire yells.

“I’m just going to need one more minute, Barry,” I shout over my shoulder.

“One minute. That’s it.” Barry grumbles, but he walks back to his post.

“What’s it gonna be, Texas?” I ask. “Your minute’s running out. Are you going to trust me? Or are you going to throw your career away before it even gets started because you weren’t ready to seize the opportunity of a lifetime?”

“Stop calling pitches I can’t give you,” she says, but she takes a step back toward the mound. “It isn’t about trust.”

“I’ve watched you pitch. I know what you can throw,” I say, pulling my mask back down. “Trust me to know what you can do, and trust yourself to do it. Are we good?”

She nods. Once. Hard.

I don’t let her see me eyeballing the loaded bases. One finger taps my left thigh. I can tell she doesn’t like the call. Her fastball will never match the velocity of the other pitchers in the league, but I need her to acknowledge that I know that and trust me.

Her chin dips, and I suppress a smile.

The ball connects with a thud that splinters the bat inches from my face. I don’t have time to look at Ramirez, but I can feel her face fall, judging herself before she sees what I see.

It”s a line drive straight to first base, and our player catches it with ease a step away from the bag. I’m ready and waiting, catching the ball at home plate and launching it toward third to end the inning.

“What did I say about trusting me?” I jog to Ramirez’s side.

She glares at me sidelong and rolls her eyes so hard I think they might stick that way.

“Ramirez. Stay warm,” Skip snaps when we reach the dugout.

Her poker face is good, but I see the tic in her jaw when the head coach’s words are met with less-than-subtle complaints from the rest of the team. I peel out of my gear in a hurry and take a seat beside her as she pulls her jacket over her pitching arm.

“Ignore them.” I don’t bother to speak quietly. The boys can be mad at me all they want, but alienating her isn’t going to help anyone, a fact they’d know if they could remove their heads from their own asses long enough to put strategy ahead of their egos.

“What do you think I’m doing?” she snaps. “This is your first time with a girl in the dugout, but I’ve been the only girl in them my entire life. This isn’t anything new.”

“I get it,” I say. “They’re being assholes. But you can’t play this game alone, and you need to stop trying. You’ve got the arm. No amount of good publicity would have gotten you called up without it. Trying to play as your own silo, with all your walls up and no support is what gets you into trouble.”

“Loud and clear, okay?” She adjusts her cap, and I catch a whiff of something sweet in this space that smells overwhelmingly of sweat, grass, and a maelstrom of deodorants. “I’ll trust your calls next inning.”

“This isn’t just about me,” I say. “What can I say? You aren’t totally annoying, I guess. Rivals or not, I’d like to see you make a real career out of this and prove anyone who doubts you wrong.”

“You aren’t totally annoying either. You know, when you aren’t giving speeches that are really more for you than anyone else.”

“You wound me, Texas.” I put one hand over my heart as I pull on my helmet. “And right before I bat? All insults and no good luck kisses?”

“Good luck kisses? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Oh, calm down,” Smith says, grabbing my head in both hands and planting a noisy kiss on the top of my helmet. Santos and Kitt line up to do the same while I adjust my gloves. “You aren’t always special.”

“Shut up, Smith,” I say. “No need to be a dick about it. Your kisses are so sloppy, I’m sure it counts as enough good luck for two anyway.”

I leave Ramirez sitting in the dugout with her head thrown back in laughter.