Chapter Six
Razor clicked the elastic straps around her calves and admired the shiny black plastic shielding her knees and shins.
She bent and extended her legs to take some of the newness off—the gear only arrived the previous day—and slapped the plastic guards for good measure.
When she pulled her hands up, there was a slight tremor in her fingers, and she quickly clenched them to stave off the remnants of her panic attack.
Panic attack.
The notion was ludicrous. Razor never had a panic attack in her life.
Not even after San Diego State. But it had happened, in front of Ashton, of all people, which increased her embarrassment.
She’d gone to her truck afterward to grab her gear for practice and took a few minutes to recover.
She’d sat in the cab and willed herself to calm, but all she heard were shrill voices echoing in her brain.
One voice screamed, You haven’t helped me! You’ve made it worse!
Another voice—deeper, gruffer—taunted her. Don’t fight it. It only makes it hurt more.
She’d shivered at those words. That was exactly what Gary had been saying to Haley as Razor busted in and stopped him.
The image appeared in her head and had caused her heart rate to kick up again, so she’d taken an extra few minutes to calm herself before returning to the complex.
Judging by the lockers filled with clothes and backpacks upon her arrival, she’d taken longer than she’d intended and was late to her first official practice.
“Get it together, kid. A memory can’t hurt you.”
She leaned her head against the edge of her locker, a rich, dark-stained floor-to-ceiling wood frame.
The plush couch in the center of the room would work best to ebb her symptoms. Lying down and taking calm breaths always soothed her when her mind and body raced away from her.
A hot shower also helped. The locker room had a lovely new bathroom and would be perfect.
But neither of these remedies would be quick, and that’s what she needed to be.
She dug her palms into her eyes and released a frustrated groan, then slammed her hands on the bench.
Her hand hit something soft, and when she looked to see what it was, she smiled.
She picked up the old, worn glove and covered the four words her mom gifted her.
All the remaining anxiety flushed from her body, and excitement bloomed.
She grabbed the rest of her gear and headed toward the practice field.
Her metal spikes clacked against the concrete in rhythm with the beating of her heart.
The closer she got, the quicker the beat.
By the time she broke through into the light, she vibrated with pent-up energy.
The team gathered at the fifty-yard line.
Razor immediately pinpointed Summer, and judging by the thin, pinched line of her lips, Summer spotted her, too.
She waved and received a dismissive turn away in response.
Razor shook her head and smiled. She’d win Summer over soon enough. Otherwise, why else was she here?
Turning to her right, Razor spotted Courtney, Nancy, and Ashton talking intently and walked over to join in the conversation. She gave a quick smile to Ashton, surprised when it was returned, before turning her attention to Courtney.
“Hey Coach Dyer.”
“Hey yourself,” Courtney replied. She gave Razor a sweeping look and smiled. “I like the new gear.”
Razor looked down at her shin guards, which felt loose after the walk from the locker room. “Thought it’d be good to match the team’s uniforms.”
“Good deal,” Courtney said, then she returned her attention to her clipboard.
“So…” Razor drew out the word. “What’s the plan of attack?”
“You’ll be with me,” Nancy said. “We need to start building that trust between you and Summer.”
Razor nodded and looked over at the team, noticing one particular face missing. “Will Harper be joining us?”
“No,” Ashton replied.
“Why not? She has a pretty good rapport with Summer.”
“Trying to give away your job already, Razor?” Nancy scoffed.
“No, but she’d be a good candidate to take over as catcher next year. Makes sense to have her with us to achieve that.”
“You’re right,” Ashton said. “But Harper isn’t here today because she has rounds at the hospital.”
Razor nodded slowly. “Got it.”
“We do what we can to help her practice as much as she can,” Courtney added. “If you’d like to work with her, I’d love you to do so. In the meantime, I need you to take the helm and catch for Summer. Because Nancy is right. You need to build that relationship.”
Razor nodded. Her nerves kicked up a notch, and she realized how much was riding on being able to work cohesively with Summer. “I understand. Let me get the rest of my gear, and I’ll meet you in the pitching cage.”
Nancy gave a small nod, then stalked away in Summer’s direction.
Razor picked up her chest guard and swung it over her head.
She reached to adjust the straps, but they eluded her with the chest plate continuously shifting.
She was about to remove it when she felt a hand slip under her shoulder strap.
“Need some help?” Ashton asked.
A shiver raced up Razor’s spine. Ashton’s voice wasn’t sultry or seductive, which would’ve matched her response.
No, what caused Razor’s reaction was the sincerity of Ashton’s tone.
The tone of someone who didn’t see Razor as a pariah.
It was the tone of someone who cared enough to ask, which Razor hadn’t experienced in a long time.
“Yeah, I can’t seem to reach the strap.”
Ashton pulled the elastic until it tightened. Razor squeezed her eyes shut. There was nothing romantic about the action, yet Ashton’s gentle touch made it feel erotic.
“Not too tight?” Ashton punctuated her question with a tight cinch.
Razor gasped. “Nope. It’s fine.”
Another cinch and Ashton’s hand slid down slowly to smooth out any twists. Goose bumps formed on Razor’s arms. When Ashton’s hands disappeared, Razor sighed in both relief and disappointment.
“How does that feel?”
She slid the padding left and right with minimal give.
“Feels great,” Razor replied. “Will you be joining us today?”
Ashton shook her head. “Nancy wanted to work with you and Summer privately today, so I’ll be assisting Courtney and working with the other pitchers.”
“Of course Nancy wanted that,” Razor said sarcastically. She turned to leave but stopped when Ashton grabbed her arm.
“Hey Razor,” Ashton said firmly. “I know there’s a history between you two, but a lot has changed since you saw her. I happen to believe she’s right in just having the three of you to practice today. Fewer cooks in the kitchen and all that.”
Razor sighed, guilt rushing through her body. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Ashton nodded. “Apology accepted.”
“Mitchell,” Nancy shouted, “get over here! We’ve got work to do.”
Razor turned but stopped again when Ashton called her gently. She looked back, confused, until she noticed Ashton holding her helmet.
“You’ll want this as well. Some balls may be aimed at your head.”
She gave a small “Thanks,” then slipped the helmet on, winked at Ashton, then ran off. When she entered the cage, Nancy and Summer stood on the rubber.
“Okay, Ace, Coach Dyer wants us to work on your curveball today. You’ve got a good grasp of the off-speed stuff, but you’re still struggling with that curve.”
“I know, Coach. I just can’t seem to get the right spin on it.”
“Let me see you throw,” Nancy said, “and I’ll pinpoint the problem.”
Razor took her position behind home plate and watched Summer go through her windup and release. She executed the right grip, weight distribution, and arm movement to throw a curve, but there was one crucial piece missing.
Six pitches, six curveballs, landed in her glove on the outside of the plate. Razor knew the ball needed to travel farther in, but it stayed on the outer third of the plate. She was pretty sure she knew what the issue was.
“Put more pressure on your middle finger,” Nancy suggested.
Summer did as instructed, but the ball moved too sharply to the opposite side of the plate.
“That’s obviously not the problem. Try adding more pressure to your inner finger.”
Again, Summer followed Nancy’s direction. The ball sailed out wide and stayed out instead of curving back in. The process of elimination frustrated Razor, and she couldn’t take it any more.
“You’re not snapping your wrist enough,” Razor shouted.
“What was that?” Summer asked.
Razor stood and walked to the rubber. “You need to snap your wrist more. Right now, it’s coming in behind the ball.
Your hand should be flat and underneath.
” She took Summer’s pitching hand and demonstrated.
“See, the back of your hand needs to be flat, like it’s dusting a table.
” Summer jerked her hand out of Razor’s grasp and glared at her.
“She’s right,” Nancy said. “That was my next option. I just wanted to make sure it was the correct issue to address.”
She instructed Summer to make the adjustment, then grabbed Razor by the arm and pulled her out of earshot.
“Was that really necessary?”
“What are you talking about?” Razor asked.
Nancy sighed and settled her hands on her hips. “I know you teach pitching at Slugfest, but here I’m the coach.”
“I know that. I was just trying to help, and you were taking so long…”
“Did it ever occur to you that I was taking my time intentionally? A curveball requires a multitude of maneuvers to be successful. By having her try other techniques, she now understands certain changes to her grip have certain effects on the ball.”
Razor looked at her cleats and nodded. “You were coaching her how to shift the end point without making it appear like you were coaching her.”
Nancy grabbed her arm, not hard but not consoling either. “Look, I’m glad you’re here. And I know you’ve been out in the real world for a while and think you have it all figured out, but please, leave the coaching to me?”