CHAPTER 27
The stadium is the loudest it has ever been. I swear I hear booing, even though we’re playing in our home stadium. The rival team has a healthy contingent of their fans filling the bleachers, and I did just come centimeters from hitting their star player with my wildest pitch in my second inning of wild pitches.
Williams’ fingers flash too quickly. In the glaring sunlight, I miss the signal. It doesn’t help that my nerves are tight in my chest or that the rookie catcher refuses to paint his nails or even wear the temporary, colored nail stickers for the duration of the game.
The umpire calls the next pitch a ball. I take a shaky breath while the worst batter in the rival line-up advances on a walk. Williams slaps the dirt and tries to argue; the pitch was close–the only one I’ve thrown in what feels like forever that might truly have been in the strike zone–but I’ve thrown so many so far out that I can’t even blame Barry for not giving me the benefit of the doubt.
We’re back to the top of the line-up, and all I want is for someone to take me out of the game. Williams signals for a slider, and I shake my head. I have zero confidence getting that in the strike zone the way my game has been going, and every batter stepping up to the plate knows it. He signals it again, and I shake my head hard enough to make my hat shift.
Seconds tick by, and he refuses to signal any other pitch. He just sits there, staring at me, giving me nothing while sweat drips down my back, and I try not to think about the fact that Reyes would never do this to me. For the first time in over a month, I feel like I’m back on the Scorpions, and the flashbacks do not help.
I give in and throw the slider.
All I can do is stand and watch in horror as the ball hits the batter just above the knee. He walks it off, but there’s still two men on base, both on my mistakes, and I haven’t thrown a single strike this inning.
Skip approaches the mound. Williams just sits behind the plate. I’m sure I’d be able to see his smirk from here if his facemask weren’t on. The pep talk is short. Nothing like the sort of speech Reyes would have made, and I would have given him crap for. The coach refuses to hear my pleas to put in a relief pitcher and leaves me back where I started: staring at a catcher that I’m not in sync with and sweating through my jersey.