Wild Pitch (Dominating the Diamond Book 1)

CHAPTER 28

Bottom of the third inning, I really should be more concerned about the fact that we’re down by three runs and only holding on at all because their pitcher is struggling almost as much as Ramirez. This game is critical to our chances at the post-season, but my focus on the woman on the mound is about more than our season record.

Barry calls ball number four, and I nod at the man taking an easy jog toward me. It should have been a strike–could have gotten the call if I’d been the one behind the plate. Williams is doing nothing to frame her pitches, and for the life of me, I don’t know what the team management sees in him. The way he’s calling pitches and catching the balls on the edges of the strike zone without pulling them in, he’s just as responsible for our inability to hold the other team’s offense. Not that his performance will be the one that gets ripped apart on the post-game shows.

She is taking way too long between pitches–standing there going back and forth with Williams, those aggressive, little shakes of her head becoming a tell to everyone in the stadium. It’s no surprise when the runner on the bag beside me makes a break for it, stealing second with ease as Williams fails Ramirez yet again.

Williams manages to catch the next batter”s foul-tip for the out. When the man on second takes advantage and makes another break for third, Ramirez is ready for him. She needs the out–anything to bring back her confidence–and I find myself rooting for her. Not for the team or because we need to end the inning to stem the bleeding. I am rooting for Sierra Ramirez over feelings that I have no idea if she reciprocates.

The throw that should have brought her head back into the game sails over Dante’s head. By the time he picks up the ball and sends it home, the runner is safe, his team is celebrating, and Williams is kicking dirt at the backstop.

For the first time in this awful game, Williams finally approaches the mound. I can’t tell what Skip is telling Ramirez, but her, Get me out of the game, is clear as the cloudless sky beating down on us. So is the way Williams is shouting at her from behind the glove that hides his words but not his attitude.

“Get back on your base!” Skip shouts, but Ramirez turns to look at me with eyes round with panic and anxiety written on her face.

I approach the mound; damn the consequences to hell.

“Get me out of the game,” Ramirez is pleading when I reach them.

“Put me behind the plate,” I say. I want so badly to squeeze her arm. To take her hand. To cup her face in search of ways to reassure her.

“Fuck off, Reyes.” Williams is predictable, if nothing else.

“Maybe I could if you’d learn how to call and frame a pitch–”

“Right.” Williams rolls his eyes and stops bothering to hide his mouth behind his glove. “I know aging out is hard, and clearly you’ve got a weak spot for the girl, but I’m not the problem out there.”

“Both of you shut up,” Skip says. “Ramirez, pull it together. I know you’ve got the arm; you’ve been around long enough for us all to see that. But you can’t fall apart on the mound the second Reyes isn’t behind the plate. If you can’t make it without him, you aren’t going to make it, rookie.”

Her face goes ashen. She opens her mouth, but the plea to be replaced by a relief pitcher doesn’t come. Her lips seal tight, and she nods in strained submission.

Williams jogs back to home plate, but I’m not ready to leave her. No one has said a damned thing to shore up her confidence. All they’ve done is put more pressure on her, and I don’t know what they think they’ve accomplished.

“Breathe, rookie,” I say as Skip takes a step back but doesn’t leave the field.

“Half the time, I can’t even see his signs. The other half, they make no sense–”

“I know.” I don’t want to interrupt her, but we don’t have much time before the umpire cuts us off. “Trust your gut. Choose your pitches as wisely as you can. Tune everything else out, and pretend that I’m the one you’re looking at. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

Her shoulders rise. Her whole chest heaves beneath the white jersey. But when she opens her eyes and looks at me, they’re clear.

“It’s still a close game, alright?” I tap her chin with my glove and watch a small smile spread in spite of her nerves. “Keep your head up, and remember, I’m right behind you.”

I run back to the bag just as the umpire starts jogging toward us to tell us time’s up.

Ramirez steps back onto the mound. I watch Williams flash a pitch sign that I can’t read at this distance. This time, she doesn’t shake her head. She doesn’t wait for another call. She shakes out her arm, takes a deep breath, winds up.

And throws a perfect strike. Right down the center of the plate, she catches the batter looking. He clips the next ball foul. Strike three is a swing and a miss, and I can only hope her confidence will accept that boost.

The next player makes it on base with a grounder that takes a nasty bounce. When the runner beside me gets a big lead-off the bag, she pivots and hurls the ball to me with such smoothness that it’s hard not to believe we’re in sync.

I don’t get much chance to talk to her during the bottom of the inning. It’s my turn at bat, and it’s neither my family in the stands or the loaded bases that has me squaring up and preparing to do damage. Her eyes are on me; I don’t have to look at her to know as much.

Our evening at the batting cages floats in the back of my mind. The feeling of my body wrapped around hers–first adjusting her stance, later dancing. The pleasure of batting with her off-tune singing and giggly dancing on the other side of the cage is the only thing I’m thinking of as I wait for my pitch.