Chapter Sixteen
Today is the annual charity game, and I should be focused on that.
But my mind keeps rewinding to that night in Cooperstown, and how Amy responded after I told her I'm in love with her.
She stared blankly at me for so long that I almost thought I'd abruptly lost my hearing. But no, that wasn't what happened.
"Did you hear me, Amy? I said—"
"I'm exhausted, Charlie. Let's go to sleep."
With that, she flipped over onto her side, effectively ending the conversation.
In the morning, the situation did not improve.
Ever since, she's been all business—talking to me like I'm a rookie in a slump instead of her, ah…
boyfriend? That term doesn't seem appropriate.
Amy isn't in the bullpen, but I assume she will show up. She's my coach, after all.
Don't think about her. Focus on the game .
As if my girl problems weren't enough, the Admirals will be facing off against the Altitude once again.
I'm not exactly thrilled by the prospect of meeting up with my old buddy Jared Morris.
But I'm determined to exact my revenge on that dickwad once and for all.
Okay, a charity match might not be the best time.
But I absolutely need to whup his ass in monumental fashion.
Morris is going down hard this time.
The charity game is about to start, and I'm standing in the bullpen, trying to focus on my warm-up pitches. But Amy's voice keeps cutting through my concentration as she discusses strategy with Coach Rivera nearby.
"His fastball's looking good today," Amy announces, not even glancing my way. "Let's see if he can maintain that control for two full innings."
Her statement stings more than I would've expected. Not because she said something critical, but because of how detached she sounded. Like I'm just another project for her, not the guy who bared his soul back in Cooperstown.
I wind up and fire another pitch, harder than necessary. The bullpen catcher's mitt smacks loudly.
"Easy, Braddock," Dave Lawrence calls. "Save some for the actual game."
"Sorry. Guess I'm picturing Jared Morris's face instead of a catcher's mitt."
The stadium is full today, buzzing with energy beyond these walls. Kids from the local youth programs are getting tours of the dugout, and that's what this is all about. I need to remember my personal drama with Amy and my beef with Morris aren't the objective today.
"Two minutes, Braddock," Coach Rivera reminds us.
I nod, taking a deep breath as I prepare for my final warm-up pitch. The ball flies out of my hand with perfect rotation, hitting the catcher's mitt dead center.
Amy almost smiles, finally acknowledging I exist—sort of. "That's what I like to see."
Her gaze holds mine for a second. Whatever it was, it vanishes in a flash as she turns away. "Remember your mechanics. Don't overthrow."
"Got it, Coach ." Emphasizing her title didn't phase her at all. Rats .
When I step onto the field, the crowd's reaction is mixed—some cheers, some skeptical murmurs. They've all heard about my injury and my struggles. I survey the crowd briefly before focusing on the mound. The familiar dirt beneath my cleats grounds me. This is where I belong.
Then I see him , and my jaw tightens.
Jared Morris is warming up in the opposite dugout. When he notices me, he smirks while pantomiming a throwing motion that mocks my injury. Then he taps his shoulder with exaggerated concern.
"Feeling fragile today, Braddock?" He kept his words hushed, but I heard his snide remark.
I shake my head and turn away, refusing to take the bait. Not today. Not when there are scouts in the stands and kids looking up to us.
Not when Amy is watching.
The first batter steps up to the plate—some Altitude rookie I don't recognize.
I get the sign from the catcher and nod.
The weight of the ball feels perfect in my hand.
I wind up, channeling all the frustration of the past few weeks into my mechanics, not my velocity.
The pitch flies true, right at the corner of the strike zone.
The rookie's eyes widen a fraction before he swings late, missing by inches.
"Strike one!"
A murmur ripples through the crowd. I don't react, keeping my face neutral despite the satisfaction warming my chest. The catcher tosses the ball back, and I roll it between my fingers, finding the seams.
Just like Amy taught me.
Two more pitches and the rookie is walking back to the dugout, shaking his head. One down.
"You're on fire, Braddock," someone shouts from our dugout. I don't turn to see who it is, but it sounds like Dante Roberts.
The next batter steps up, a veteran I've faced before. He fouls off my first pitch, then watches the second sail by for a strike. On the third, he makes contact—a sharp grounder that our shortstop scoops up effortlessly before firing to first. Two down.
I glance toward our dugout, catching Amy's gaze briefly. She gives me a small nod—the closest thing to approval I've seen from her in days. It shouldn't mean as much as it does.
The third batter is Morris himself, of course. This time, I'm ready for whatever he throws at me. He swaggers up to the plate, tapping his bat against his cleats before settling into his stance. His eyes zero in on mine in a deliberate challenge.
"How's the arm, Braddock?" he stage-whispers to make sure no one else hears. "Ready to embarrass yourself?"
I won't respond to his ridicule. He'd love that.
Instead, I take my time finding the perfect grip.
The stadium seems to quiet around us as I wind up, my motion smooth and controlled—exactly how Amy and I practiced it a hundred times.
The ball rockets out of my hand, hurtling through the air with purpose.
It's not my fastest pitch, but it is my most precise—a fastball with just enough movement to catch the inside corner.
Jared's eyes widen for a split second before he swings. Too late. The satisfying smack of the ball hitting the catcher's mitt is followed by the umpire's call.
"Strike one!"
The crowd responds with scattered applause, growing louder as they realize what they're seeing. I'm back. Maybe not at full strength yet, but yeah, I am definitely back.
Morris steps out of the box, adjusting his gloves with a scowl. He mutters, "Lucky pitch."
I ignore him and, instead, focus on my breathing. Amy taught me how to do that during those long rehab sessions. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Center yourself. Find your balance.
The next pitch comes in a bit faster. Morris fouls it off, the ball skipping toward our dugout.
"Getting warmed up?" he says mockingly as the catcher tosses me a new ball.
I roll my shoulders and focus. The third pitch is my slider—the one that's given me the most trouble during rehab. Amy watches me intently, analyzing every movement of my delivery. The ball breaks late, diving away from Jared's bat as he swings through empty air.
"Strike three! You're out!"
The crowd erupts. Three up, three down. I walk off the mound, keeping my expression neutral despite the fire in my veins.
I did it. Holy shit, I did it! First inning back, and I struck out Jared Effing Morris.
Okay "Effing" isn't his actual middle name.
But it should be. I just can't say "Jared Fucking Morris" in polite company.
When I reach the dugout, the team greets me with fist bumps and shoulder slaps. But it's Amy I'm searching for in the crowd. She's standing slightly apart from the others, her expression guarded but her eyes saying something else entirely.
"Good control out there," she states like a true professional coach. "Your mechanics held up well."
"Thanks to you," I say, and I mean it sincerely.
As she hands me a water bottle, our fingers brush against each other, and for a split second, her professional mask slips.
I glimpse the woman from Cooperstown, the one who laughed with me over beers and challenged me to stupid bar games.
The one who kissed me back with all her heart and soul.
The woman I made love to in that bed-and-breakfast.
Then she's gone, replaced by Coach Keller once more.
"Stay loose for your second inning," she advises, moving away. "And watch Morris in the box. He'll be looking to get even."
I gulp down a long drink of water, watching her walk to the far end of the dugout. Coach Rivera slides up next to me, his weathered face cracking into a rare smile.
"That's how you shut up a loudmouth," he says, slapping my shoulder. "Damn fine pitching, son."
"Thanks, Coach." Though I spoke those words, I'm hung up on watching Amy as she studies her clipboard.
Rivera isn't my coach, but Amy hasn't minded taking advice from him. Nobody could be angry about that. Adrian Rivera is the nicest guy on the planet—who can be tough as hell when necessary.
The Admirals are up to bat now, and I should be focusing on our offense, but my mind is still processing what just happened on the mound.
Not just striking out Jared, but the way my shoulder felt.
Strong. Reliable. Like I can trust it again.
But I know I shouldn't expect my shoulder to be one hundred percent healed today.
I'll still have bad moments, though I'm sure those times will be fewer and farther between.
When it's time for my second inning, I roll my shoulders and grab my glove.
As I walk back to the mound, I catch sight of a familiar face in the stands—Alicia.
My ex-wife is sitting behind home plate, probably analyzing every pitch for her next article.
Yeah, I heard she took a job with a big sports magazine.
She'd been a columnist before I ever met her, though only for small publications.
She left me for her career, so I hope it's made her happy.
Great. Just what I need. My ex-wife analyzing my every play.
I don't care about that as much as I thought I would. The moment I catch sight of Amy, I forget all about Alicia and Jared.
I'll win this game for the woman I love, whether she likes it or not.