Chapter 7 Ozzie
OZZIE
Chicago felt different the moment we stepped off the plane. The “Windy City” air was biting, a sharp contrast to the humid tension we’d left behind. We were here to play the Chicago Blue Sox, and the pressure was mounting. The standings were tight, and the scouts were everywhere.
The team bus ride to the hotel was an exercise in pure willpower. I sat near the front with the rookies, while Ryan was tucked into the back, the shadow of his cap obscuring his face.
My phone buzzed in my lap every few minutes.
RYAN: Look out the window to your left, baby. We’re passing the stadium.
I looked. The iconic marquee was lit up, the steel structure of the park looming over the neighborhood.
ME: It’s huge. You ever played here before?
RYAN: A dozen times. The wind is tricky for baseball sometimes. Don’t worry, I’ll be watching your back from center field. Like always, my rookie.
I bit my lip to keep from smiling. We were getting good at this—the text flirting, the secret glances reflected in the bus windows, the way we moved in a choreographed dance to ensure we were never in the same frame for a fan’s photo.
* * *
The locker room at the Blue Sox stadium was old, cramped, and smelled like decades of pine tar and sweat. It made hiding things even harder. Chicago smelt like NYC.
I was at my locker, taping my wrists, when Miller walked by and bumped my shoulder. “Hey, Ford. You’re looking a little distracted lately. You seeing some girl back in Rock Hills or something? You’re glued to that phone.”
Shit.
I felt the blood drain from my face. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ryan freeze while he was putting on his cleats three stalls down.
“Just family, Miller,” I said, my voice only shaking a little. “My mom’s obsessed with the stats this season.”
“Right,” Miller grunted, looking skeptical. “Well, tell ‘Mom’ to let you focus. We need those double plays today.”
As Miller walked away, Ryan caught my eye for a split second. He didn’t smile, but he adjusted his cap—the signal we’d agreed on. I’m here. We’re okay.
* * *
The wind was whipping off the lake, turning every fly ball into a chaotic dance. By the eighth inning, the score was knotted at 1-1. The tension in the stadium was a physical weight, the Blue Sox fans screaming for a strikeout.
Ryan was on second, having hammered a double to start the inning.
I stood in the batter’s box, my heart pounding a rhythm that matched the “thump-thump” of the bass over the speakers.
I looked out at Ryan. He was leading off the bag, his body coiled like a spring.
He caught my eye and gave a sharp, imperceptible nod. Bring me home, Oz.
The pitcher threw a 96-mph heater, inside and tight. I swung with everything I had.
The crack of the bat was like a gunshot. The ball soared over the shortstop’s head, dropping perfectly into left-center field. Ryan didn’t even hesitate. He rounded third like a freight train, his eyes locked on the plate. The left fielder scooped the ball and fired a rocket toward the catcher.
“Slide!” I screamed from the dirt, my lungs burning.
Ryan hit the dirt in a cloud of Chicago dust, his hand swiping the corner of the plate just a millisecond before the catcher’s tag.
“SAFE!”
The dugout erupted. I sprinted toward him, the adrenaline overriding every “Wingman Protocol” rule we’d written. Ryan stood up, slapping the dirt off his thighs, his face lit up with the raw, jagged joy of the lead.
As I reached him, he didn’t just give me a high-five. He grabbed my jersey with both hands, pulling me into a rough, brief shove of a celebration—a classic “baseball bro” move to anyone watching, but I felt the way his fingers lingered on my chest. I knew what that meant.
“That’s my good boy,” he growled under the roar of the crowd, his face inches from mine. He reached out and brushed a smudge of dirt off my cheek, his thumb grazing my skin for a fraction of a second too long.
My breath hitched. In the middle of the stadium, with 40,000 people watching, that tiny touch felt like a lightning strike.
“Get back to the bag, Ford,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, private register as he patted my shoulder and turned away. “We’ve still got an inning to close out.”
I was so screwed.