CHAPTER 29
The crowd goes wild. Pretty sure I do, too, but I might be having another out of body experience as I watch Reyes toss his bat aside and take his victory lap around the bases. Three runners come in ahead of him, tying the game and cheering their way into the dugout. Reyes tags home plate, and it’s probably in my head, but I’m sure that I’m the one he locks eyes with first.
“Our boy did good, didn’t he?” Dante says beside me. I want to be embarrassed, sure that he’s caught me fangirling over the team captain, but he raises his hand to fist bump me instead. “One-run lead. We’re back in this game for real, Ramirez.”
I stay by his side and watch the rival team close the inning without another scoring run.
Back on the mound again, I let Reyes’ words block out the stadium noise. Williams is plenty talented, but I ignore him, too. I pitch like my catcher is behind the plate, and my family is in the stands. Simple as it is, the tactic works. The fourth inning goes by uneventfully. Easy outs on both sides. Barely adding to my pitch count.
I’m actually feeling good at the start of the fifth inning. The relief pitcher will come in soon; all I’ve got to do is hold us steady through the end of the inning, and I’ll be happy with how things turned around. We’re at the bottom of their line-up, and the booing from the stands has long since been drowned out by cheers from our fans.
One out and a man on first, and I’m still feeling good about the inning. My fast ball is smooth, but the batter doesn’t miss. The line drive comes directly back at me, fast enough that I know I should dodge. I should let it go and hope one of my teammates is there to pick it up fast enough to stop runners on first and second. My left foot slips in the dirt just as the ball reaches me, and my bare hand is out before I can stop myself.
The pain is immediate. Radiating down my fingers. Shooting through the heel of my palm and up my forearm. It’s excruciating enough, I’m not even sure if I’ve rolled my ankle or merely tripped. All I can do is get my right foot underneath me enough to pivot and throw the ball toward Reyes, praying it finds its mark.
I go down hard, somehow managing to land on my shins instead of flat on my face. If the stands were raucous before, they roar to life now, feet pounding cement until it sounds like we’re at the mercy of an oncoming stampede. The bodies moving toward me are a blur, and I blink hard, trying to clear the involuntary tears before anyone else can see them.
Hands loop under my arms from both sides, and I recognize their scents before their faces. I take an off-kilter step toward the dugout, relieved that my ankle feels fine, and grateful to be flanked by Dante and Reyes.
“Great play, rookie!” Castillo yells and pats me between the shoulder blades as he runs from second base to the dugout.
If I wasn’t sure whether we’d managed the double play or not, now I know. Pride goes a long way toward offsetting the pain in my fingers.
“Get it, girl,” Kitt shouts on his way in from the right field. “You okay?”
“Walk it off, rookie!” Kepler says and smacks my back while Dante waves them both away. “That was badass.”
Skip is out in front of us before we straggle into the dugout. Dante squeezes my arm and disappears with the rest of the team. Reyes doesn’t leave my side. I know he should–that part of me that is terrified of rumors, of special treatment, of all the times I’ve already given into temptation with him. What I know doesn’t change how badly I want him here with me. His hand is still wrapped around my bicep, and only now do I realize that I’m cradling my hand against my stomach.
“You got lucky with this one,” Alejandro says once the team physician clears me. “You know better than to make a catch like that.”
I can’t argue. At least he doesn’t make me feel lectured. The physical therapist has the perfect bedside manner, or maybe it’s just a perfect disposition for dealing with athletes. He pats his massage table and smiles as I hop up. I’m not sure what he intends to do for me. I’ve already got an ice pack on my hand and a reprimand to stay on the bench for the rest of this three-game series.
“You really turned things around out there,” he says when he catches me glancing up at the television playing the game behind him.
“It’s starting to look like it was too little, too late.”
I watch the other team score two more runs on another error in the top of the final inning. The only silver lining is that the mistake belonged to Williams.
“Hey.” Alejandro finishes wrapping my ankle and turns me until my foot is elevated on a cushion. “Don’t let that one killer play go to your head. You are only one member of that team, and you already did your job. Whatever happens now, happens.”
“Thanks.” It’s a hard pill to swallow, no matter how many times I’ve received the pep talk that we win as a team, and we lose as a team.
“Hmm. This is new. An athlete who actually listens to me?” He laughs, and the sound is high, and bright, and musical. “That’s a refreshing change of pace.”
“We can’t all be as stubborn as Reyes.”
“Understatement of the century. I’ve worked with a lot of athletes, but he’s a special breed.” Alejandro turns his attention to my pitching arm, checking my shoulder and elbow and moving me through my range of motion as he speaks. “He’s always been intense, but he’s become even more single-minded the past few years.”
“Why’s that?”
“I probably shouldn’t be saying anything. But you’ve already seen what he’s like after a tough game. With Skip moving him to first more often, it’s not exactly a secret that he’s getting too old to keep catching. And you’ve seen him today; he isn’t doing half-bad on first, and he’d be great if he embraced it. The man’s determined to win that Series ring as a catcher, though. Come hell or high water, it seems.”
“I can’t really blame him,” I say, wondering what choices I would make if I were still at this ten-plus years from now, with nothing but my career, and no championship to show for it.
For the first time in all these weeks, I wonder if Reyes is lonely. Not the sort of lonesome and in need of intimacy that most of us single athletes experience at some point, between the constant travel and the demands of the sport. Not the sort of loneliness that comes from being the only woman in a league that is, more often than not, unwelcoming. But truly, deeply in his bones, alone.
“Figured you would say that,” Alejandro says, but his tone is not unkind. “Now that’s enough gossip before you get my big mouth into trouble. Relax here, and I’ll come back to check on you before you head home.”
On the large flat-screen in the PT room, I watch Reyes brush off post-game interviews as quickly as he can without getting fined. It’s easy enough to play it off as frustration over our loss, and I wonder how many people will speculate that he’s hurrying down to check on me.
Not that I know if that’s what he’s doing. I realize my own assumption with a start and end up blushing alone in the PT room. I’m halfway to the door, ready to grab my things and hurry out of the locker room, when Alejandro yells at me to sit my ass back down and wait.
I don’t climb back onto the massage table, but I concede to dropping onto a yoga mat in the corner. If I’m going to be stranded, I may as well get a stretch in, and I need anything to distract me while I wait.
“Alright, my impatient friend, let’s take one last look at you.” Alejandro crouches on the mat in front of me. He unwraps the tape and removes the ice pack gingerly, and I feel weak for giving into the wince and letting myself hiss.
The swelling is minor, and I doubt the pain will be enough to keep me up tonight once the adrenaline of the game wears off. I flex my hand and wiggle my fingers until I receive Alejandro’s grunt of satisfaction.
“Keep it elevated” He pats my knee and moves his attention down to my ankle. While he’s securing any loose edges where the athletic tape has folded and started to curl, he says, “Are you waiting for me or for her?”
“Her.” It’s half-grunt, half-whisper. A single syllable that’s music to my ears and seizes in my chest.
“Playing first did you some good, didn’t it?” Alejandro says, purposefully ignoring the intensity between Reyes and me.
“Hell of a lot of good it did me when we lost the game,” Reyes says, but he doesn’t sound quite as bitter as I would have expected. His voice is strained, sure, but he’s yet to complain about Williams or the errors that cost us the game.
“Well, you’re good to go. Your ankle looks fine, but stay off your feet as much as you can to be safe. Got it?”
I nod, and Alejandro pops to his feet with the spry agility of a man two decades younger. Or maybe that’s simply how the joints of someone who isn’t beating themselves up on and off the field are supposed to work.
“Sure you’re good?” he asks as he passes Reyes in the doorway.
A curt nod and a, “Thanks, Alex,” are all he needs to disappear into the hallway, likely on his way to the cryo room to check on the rest of the team.
Reyes leans in the doorway a moment longer. When I go to stand, he crosses the room in a few long strides. Concern is still written in the furrow of his brow as he hovers over me, but I hold my hands out for him to help me up without a word between us.
He shakes his head. I’m more hurt than I should be; my brain goes a mile a minute thinking that this is my fault–that this is why I don’t get involved with ballplayers, much less teammates. Here I am, only wanting a hand up as a teammate and friend, and he doesn’t want to touch me or be seen touching me. I open my mouth to say something of the sort, though I can’t figure out what to say without worrying that I’ll make things even more strained.
Reyes is behind me before I can find the words. His hands catch me under the arms, lifting me to my feet as if I’m not a five-foot-nine, solid two-hundred-pound, surprised dead weight. Once my legs are steady underneath me, his hands slide down, but they don’t leave me. The movement is slow and smooth, almost fleetingly light, a tease of fingers and callused palms down my rib cage to the dip of my waist.
“Reyes–”
“You shouldn’t have even tried to make that play,” he says, so close his breath tickles the shell of my ear. “I can’t pretend it wasn’t impressive, though.”
“Hell of a lot of good it did when we lost the game,” I say, quoting him back at himself, partly pouting but mostly in jest.
“Not because of you, rookie. I don’t think you registered it through the pain, but you had the crowd on their feet losing it over that play. It was foolish and reckless, but you did good.”
The compliment shouldn’t affect me the way it does. It goes to my head–that confirmation that my instincts and my fielding were on point. It goes to my heart because the approval came from him.
I turn my head, wanting to see him in more than the distant reflection hovering in the mirrored wall across the room. His mouth is inches from mine as I tilt my face to meet his. So close, I could lean in and give into the temptation of soft lips that taste like the salt of sunflower seeds and a trace of bubblegum. So close, I ache to have my body wrapped up in his.
Shouting and stampeding footsteps echo in the hallway, and we ricochet apart. Reyes clears his throat and looks at the ground. Color flushes his cheeks, and the muscle in his jaw tightens.
It’s all the reminder I need that this can’t happen. He’s too great a temptation.
I have far too much to lose.