57. Till It’s Gone #5
He steps left, glove down, scoop, and a lightning-fast throw across the diamond.
First baseman catches it with a pop.
The umpire’s arm pumps the air:
Out.
From the girlfriend section,
Mrs. Robinson cups her hands around her mouth, yelling down at the field. “Good job, baby. You got this!” She claps.
I narrow my eyes over my shoulder, wanting to drag her down the bleachers by her hair, take a bat, and beat her face in with it.
Back at shortstop, Andrew paces,
his eyes a burning laser on me.
Then the dome’s tension peaks
when Gino steps up to the plate.
He wastes no time and steals every opportunity, pointing the end of his bat at me. “So, Allison, huh?” Gino calls out. “That’s your name? It’s pretty. Suits you, sweetheart.”
I don’t react, don’t feed it.
Across the infield,
the ice on Andrew’s face shatters,
breaking into a chilling, hateful grin.
He ducks his head for a split second, swiping his nose with his sleeve to bury an I’ma-fuckin’-kill-him laugh, before he locks his eyes back onto the batter’s box.
The next pitch leaves Danny’s hand,
and Gino takes a swing.
The bat connects with a nasty shrill, the sound splitting through the rafters of the dome.
The ball’s a white rocket, screaming straight toward Andrew’s chest.
Andrew doesn’t flinch, lifting his glove, catching it easy, eyes still on Gino, holding the tension for a brutal beat as he drags his thumb over the raised laces of the ball.
Ump calls out, and Andrew casually underhands the ball back to Danny—an insulting little toss, treating the entire Bronx lineup like they belong in Little League.
When the second inning starts, Gino walks out to the center of the diamond, his cleats chewing into the rubber of the pitching mound, and I can feel all the blood drain from my face.
Oh, fuck. He’s the pitcher.
A cold wave of fear slams into my chest,
my eyes darting from Gino,
who’s firing off a few warm-up throws,
to Andrew,
who’s stepping up to the plate first,
his stare fixed on the center of the field.
Gino greets him with a toxic smile. “Someone’s askin’ for another spankin’.”
The ump gives a tired shake of his head.
My knee’s bouncing again, ‘cause I have no control over the situation,
no way to protect him,
no way to help him.
I don’t like this feeling.
I don’t like it at all.
Andrew’s expression stays detached,
the grip around the bat tightening.
Gino takes his sweet time,
holding the ball behind his hip,
lingering in the moment,
adjusting his cap over a satanic smirk.
Finally, Gino sets up the pitch,
and the ball leaves his hand too fast—
Andrew swings.
Striiiike one, the ump calls.
Gino catches the return ball.
“Allison, sweetheart.”
He points two cocky fingers at me.
“That one was for you.”
The other team laughs.
Andrew doesn’t break his stance,
but a terrifying, unhinged calm takes over him, his knuckles turning bloodless-white around the grip of his bat.
I can feel him vibrate.
I can’t sit anymore.
I push up from the chair.
C’mon, Drew. Don’t let him get to you.
Gino paces a slow circle around the pitching rubber like a trapped wolf. “Gotta say, she’s real beautiful, man.” He sighs, a theatrical display of appreciation. “Really, like, fuck.” He blows a sharp breath. “When I made that promise to you? Didn’t think it’d come with perks.”
He stops to stare down the line,
rolling the ball between his fingers,
smiling around his gum.
“She must be fire for you to give it all up.”
Andrew’s eyes snap to me, then sweep the field, a hair-trigger away from losing it.
“Hey! Harding! Let it go,” Peter shouts from behind the line, his Boston trying to bring him back. “Don’t let him get into ya head.”
Gino cuts a wicked, trash-talking grin at Peter. “Don’t worry, bro. That’s not the head I’m after.”
“Man, shut the fuck up,” Andrew spits,
forcing his cleats back into the box,
resetting his stance.
Gino doesn’t waste another heartbeat.
He unleashes the next pitch, the ball splits the air white-hot, abandoning the strike zone and aiming for Andrew’s ribcage.
My heart jumps into my throat as Andrew hurls himself back, the turf kicking under his cleats, barely escaping the ball.
His eyes dart to Gino,
a pitch-black glare.
The return ball snaps in Gino’s glove, and he cocks his chin. “That do it for you?”
Whatever human was left in Andrew is gone, replaced by something cold and homicidal.
Andrew steps out of the batter's box.
Chaos breaks as he heads right for Gino, twirling the bat in a slow, threatening circle.
People scream across the turf from every direction.
My hand flies to my mouth,
my other hand over my chest.
I’m trying to find my way around the net.
Peter vanishes into a sprint after him. “DROP THE BAT! DROP THE FUCKIN’ BAT!”
Andrew flings the bat sideways soon as his foot hits the pitcher’s mound. The next sound that tears through the dome is his knuckles meeting the bone of Gino’s jaw with a sickening crack, sending a spray of spit across the field.
And it’s the last thing I see before the benches empty, both teams rushing to the center of the field, burying the fight in a wall of bodies.