Chapter Eleven
This might be the biggest night of my life.
Sure, I've pitched my fair share of awesome fastballs but tonight feels different—special—for reasons both good and bad.
If I can't convince Phil and Ray to keep Amy as my coach for good…
I don't know what I'll do. She could be my groupie, I guess. But that's not too appealing either.
She wouldn't go for that, anyway.
But for this one day, this one last time, Amy will serve as my coach. If I can win this game for my team and make it a blowout, maybe she will change her mind about leaving.
I tug my cap on and scan the crowd gathered here tonight.
I love a good night game. The cool air, the bright lights, the crowd, it's everything I love about the game.
As I breathe in the smells, from grass to hot dogs, all of it bolsters me like nothing else can.
This is my world. Once both teams are on the field and the fans settle into their seats, I feel the rush of adrenaline kicking in—almost enough to tune out the tension between my shoulder blades.
The Aspen Altitude are in town. Not all of those guys are dicks, but quite a few are.
Jared Morris has his own clique within the Altitude roster.
These games always get heated, which is exactly what I need tonight to rev me up.
I take the mound and toss a warm-up pitch.
The ball smacks into the catcher's mitt with a satisfying thud.
Good start. Phil and Ray are watching from the sidelines, whispering to each other like they're picking out a puppy—or they're deciding which minor league team they want to dump me in.
"Focus, Charlie," Amy calls out from her spot near the dugout.
"Hey, shouldn't you be home knitting a sweater?" I yell back with a smirk.
Her lips tighten into a line, but I catch a flicker of humor in her eyes before she turns away. That's right, Amy, watch what I can do. If I've still got my mojo, then Amy will pounce on me the second the game is over. Hot sex for Charlie tonight? Damn, I hope so.
But Amy swore she'd quit being my coach after this game. I'll prove to her she can't quit. Somehow, some way, no matter what Phil and Ray might've said.
The batter steps up to the plate, and I struggle to maintain a neutral expression when I actually want to grin at Amy and make rude faces at the Assitudes.
Yeah, that's a little childish. But I'm feeling the groove for the first time in months, and the vibe is amazing.
It takes a second for me to realize who's facing off with me.
It's Jared Morris, batting in the number one spot tonight.
Someone's gotten cocky. His smirk tells me without words that he thinks I've lost it. But before he can open his smart mouth, I wind up and hurl the ball with everything I've got.
The satisfying sound of a strike zipping past him fills the night air. Jared's grin fades just a bit as he turns to Amy in mock surprise.
"Looks like you taught him more than knitting," the jackass quips loud enough for everyone to hear.
Oh, it's on now. I throw another fastball, watching Jared flinch ever so slightly before he swings and misses.
The crowd eats it up, roaring with every pitch. My shoulder protests with a dull ache, but I tune it out. You're in good shape, Charlie, but don't get overconfident.
My next pitch is the one Jared's been waiting for, and he smacks it toward left field.
I hold my breath as our fielder bolts for the ball, snagging it just before it hits the ground.
Jared jogs back to the dugout, shaking his head like it's all a big joke.
Meanwhile, Amy's watching me with an expression I can't read.
Satisfaction? Concern? I'm going with satisfaction.
The next few batters are a blur of strikes and easy outs. Every successful pitch boosts my confidence. We're up by three runs by the end of the second inning, and my self-assurance is soaring. If we keep up this pace, Amy won't stand a chance at saying no to staying with me.
Then, maybe ten minutes into the third, I feel it—an insistent throb moving through my shoulder and right down to my fingertips. The ache I was ignoring. It's back with a vengeance.
Fuck .
Amy catches my eye from her spot on the bench and taps her head, the signal to use my brain.
Slow down, pace yourself, don't be an idiot .
I give Amy a curt nod and then hurl another pitch with everything I've got.
The bat connects, a line drive past second base.
Jared's on first, looking back at me with that stupid, knowing grin.
My shoulder screams for me to stop, but I don't care.
The stadium lights seem brighter suddenly, making it hard for me to focus on the catcher's signals.
My vision blurs slightly, and for the first time tonight, anxiety creeps in.
Don't doubt yourself now, just power through it . But every pitch loses some heat. The next batter walks. Then another hits. Double play keeps us alive for a few outs before we're finally back in the dugout. I can't even look at Amy as she calls me over to her.
"You need to slow down, Charlie," she urges, grasping my arm. Her voice is firm but laced with worry. "It's not worth getting injured again."
My throat tightens as I pull away from her grip. Am I ignoring the truth I don't want to admit? That I'm afraid I'll never get back to what I used to be?
"I'm fine," I insist, almost growling the words. My vanity won't let me say more.
She gives me a long, searching look that feels more like a lecture than any words could convey. "Phil can call in someone else."
"Not happening." I grab a water bottle and guzzle down the whole contents, keeping my eyes anywhere except on her.
But inside, I'm panicking. Me, the fastball king.
This was supposed to be my comeback, the night when everything falls back into place.
Instead, every inning drags me deeper into self-doubt.
The fourth inning starts off rocky. My velocity's way down, and the Assitudes take full advantage.
Three runs in quick succession before we finally put a stop to their rally.
My shoulder feels like I have hot coals imbedded in there, and my mind's flooded with worst-case scenarios.
Cut from the roster. Shipped off to God knows where.
Amy leaving, just like she said she would if I can't make my pitches count.
I slump onto the bench after the disastrous inning, avoiding eye contact with everyone.
I can feel their judgment burning into me and I can taste my own failure in the air.
Jared makes the rounds in their dugout.
"Not bad for a dude with one arm!" he shouts across the field, riling up his teammates further.
The asshole's not wrong.
"Charlie," Amy calls out, but I shake my head before she can remind me to be smart and strategic.
"I need one more inning," I announce, cutting her off, barely recognizing my own strained voice.
"No—"
"One more inning!" Shouting isn't enough to convince her, but desperation might be. "I can come back from this. You know I can."
She watches me carefully, trying to gauge if it's bullshit bravado or if there's anything left in my tank worth fighting for.
"Okay, one more." Her tone makes it clear it's a reluctant concession. "But Charlie, I swear—"
I'm already halfway back to the mound.
I focus on stretching my arm, anything to dull the pain. If this inning craters too, I'm done for, and Amy's out the door. The first batter digs in, confident in a way that shoots anger straight through me. He fouls off two pitches before popping an easy fly ball into our center fielder's glove.
One down.
By the fourth batter, I'm running on fumes.
I fire another pitch, ignoring the shooting pain when Jared smashes a double into left field.
He stands there with that same conceited grin while I grind through three more hitters.
Finally, we're out of the inning, but just barely.
The score's tied, and I've got nothing left.
As soon as Phil pulls me off the mound for good, I stumble toward the locker room, drowning out the crowd's chant of the new pitcher's name.
No one says anything as I limp down the tunnel, but I can practically hear their thoughts.
Washed up. Done for. Lost the fire.
Once I'm inside the locker room, I slump against a locker and let out a shaky breath.
My shoulder feels like it's been smashed to pieces.
Maybe it has. Amy's words echo in my head— you need to slow down, it's not worth getting injured again —but I've ignored her so many times she probably thinks I'm a lost cause.
I throw my glove across the room and watch it bounce off a wall with a hollow thud.
My heart sinks when Amy walks in. The drawn look on her face tells me how this conversation will go down.
"Charlie," she says softly, but there's firmness in her voice too. "We need to talk."
My shoulders slump even more. Because I'm screwed.