Chapter Seventeen
A charity game designed to raise money for sick children probably isn't the right time to face down against Jared.
That jerk has been acting like he owns the diamond and the stands and all the fans who've come here for some fun.
I'm standing on the mound, preparing to throw another wicked pitch, when I spot Amy in the bullpen again.
She's not looking at me, but I can feel her presence like a steadying hand on my shoulder. Her clipboard is clutched tight against her chest as if she's counting every pitch. Even from here, I can see her lips moving silently, running through strategy or maybe just willing me to kick Jared's ass.
I roll the baseball between my fingers, feeling the familiar seams. This isn't about Jared right now, though. It's about these kids watching from the stands, some in wheelchairs, others with IV poles. They're the real MVPs today.
"Just throw the damn ball already, Braddock!" Morris shouts from the opposing dugout. "Those kids wanna see some action before their next hospital visit!"
My grip tightens on the ball. A flush of heat crawls up my neck, and for a split second, I consider firing the ball at Morris instead of the plate. But I catch Amy's eye, and she shakes her head almost imperceptibly. Message received.
Then a little boy—maybe six years old—comes barreling out of the dugout. He's grinning and waving at me, shouting something that I can't quite make out. Amy sprints after him wearing a sheepish grin.
The little guy flings his arms around my waist and grins up at me. "Charlie Braddock. You're my favorite player of all time."
"Wow, that's quite a compliment." I ruffle the kid's hair. "What's your name, buddy?"
"August Murphy."
"Did you come here on your own?"
He shakes his head. "My mom and dad are in the dugout. It's so cool that I get to watch you play. Mostly, I'm stuck at home 'cause I've got cancer. It's in my brain."
My throat constricts. This adorable kid loves me. He ran out here just to meet me, despite his illness. He's amazing. And I need to do something for my biggest fan, don't I? So, I sweep August up in my arms.
A woman rushes over to us, panting from exertion while also smiling. "Mr. Braddock, I'm sorry August surprised you that way, but he really does worship you. I'm Jill Murphy, August's mom. My husband is saving our seats for us. I hope our boy didn't mess up your pitch."
"No, not at all. Any kid as brave as August deserves a little something special." I bend forward until my head touches his. "How would you like to throw a pitch with me? All your friends will be super jealous."
August grins again. "Please, please! Let's do it!"
With the kid in my arms, we both wind our arms back together, his small hand nestled inside mine. The ball feels right between our shared grip. The crowd goes wild as we launch the ball toward the plate—not the fastest pitch of my career, but definitely the most meaningful.
"Strike!" the umpire calls, playing along perfectly. He even waves at August.
The kid erupts into cheers, bouncing in my arms. "We did it! We threw a strike! Can't wait to tell Dad about it."
Now the entire stadium is on their feet, clapping and cheering—even some of the opposing team. Everyone except Jared, that is, who leans against the dugout rail with a sour expression. Guess that jackoff won't give up his hatred of me even for a kid with cancer.
"That's my boy," August's mother says, tears glistening in her eyes as I set him down. She whispers to me, "Thank you."
I wink—and she kisses my cheek. In a chaste way, naturally.
Amy leads August and his mom back to the dugout, but not before giving me a look that makes my heart skip. Pride, warmth, and something deeper that I can't quite name. It's almost like she's seeing a different side of me—not just the pitcher with a wicked fastball, but something more.
When I turn back to the mound, I'm suddenly laser focused thanks to August Murphy. I'll win this game for him. The crowd noise fades to a distant hum as I glance toward Morris, who's now pacing in the opposite dugout. For once, his taunts can't penetrate my concentration.
My next pitch is a screamer. The batter doesn't even swing—just watches it sail past.
"Strike one!" The umpire's call rings clear across the diamond.
I catch the return throw, roll my shoulders, and reset. August is watching from the dugout, his small face pressed against the chain link. I'm not just throwing for me anymore. I'm throwing for him, for all these kids who need heroes to believe in.
Jared gives an exaggerated eye roll.
Oh, I want to pitch the ball straight at his smug face instead of the plate. Yeah, okay, I won't kick Jared in the balls—today.
I turn back to the batter. The kid's maybe eighteen, wearing an Admirals jersey that hangs off his thin frame. His arms look like twigs, but his eyes are fierce with determination.
"You got this," I mouth to him, nodding encouragingly.
Then I wind up and deliver a pitch with just enough speed to challenge the kid without overwhelming him. He connects with a solid crack that sends the ball sailing over the shortstop's head. The crowd erupts as he takes off running, his face split with a grin so wide it must hurt.
"That's it! Go, go, go!" I find myself shouting, pumping my fist as he rounds first base.
Amy gives me a thumbs-up sign and mouths, "Fastball fever!"
Her expression is filled with…love.
And suddenly, I feel ten feet tall. I'm not just Charlie Braddock, struggling pitcher trying to make a comeback. I'm August's hero. And maybe, just maybe, I'm worthy of that look Amy just gave me.
Another batter approaches the plate. I wind up again and deliver a fastball that sings through the air, popping into the catcher's mitt with a satisfying thwack.
"Strike one!"
The crowd roars. I can pick out August's voice among them, squealing with delight. I glance at the radar gun: 98 mph. Not bad for a charity game.
"Lucky pitch," Jared calls from the dugout. "Let's see you do it again, has-been!"
I ignore him, focusing on the feel of the ball in my hand, the weight of it against my fingertips. The seams are perfect ridges beneath my skin. The smell of freshly cut grass, the hot dogs from the concession stand, and the faint scent of chalk from the baselines grounds me to this moment.
My next pitch is even faster. The batter swings—a second too late.
"Strike two!"
The crowd is on their feet now. I can see August jumping up and down, his small hands pumping the air.
His parents are beaming, their arms around each other, watching their son experience pure joy.
For a moment, I forget about my failed marriage, about Alicia leaving, about all the nights I spent wondering if I'd ever find my way back to the mound.
This moment—right here—this is what matters.
I wind up for the final pitch, feeling the energy of the stadium wrap around me like a warm embrace. The batter sets his jaw, determined not to strike out. I respect that fight.
I deliver a changeup that seems to hang in the air for an eternity before dropping like a stone just as he swings. The bat whooshes through empty space.
"Strike three! You're out!"
The stadium erupts. I pump my fist, allowing myself a moment of pure, unfiltered celebration. My gaze finds Amy first—always Amy—and she's beaming at me with those expressive eyes that see right through my defenses.
When I jog back to the dugout, August high-fives me with such enthusiasm that I worry he might hurt his small hand.
"That was awesome!" He's practically vibrating with excitement. "Can you teach me how to throw like that?"
"Sure thing, buddy."
"You've got the fastest fastball ever!"
I chuckle. "Not quite. But I'm aiming for it."
Jared stalks up to me, fuming so hard I swear steam is rolling out of his ears. "You might've beaten our team, but you aren't the fastball king anymore. Those pitches were practically softballs."
"Go suck a lemon, Morris. Nobody cares about the outcome of a charity game."
He snorts. "Oh, this wasn't about winning for myself. It was about showing everyone that you're washed up, Braddock. Your shoulder's shot, and we both know it."
I grind my teeth so hard I half expect them to crack. The worst part is that on my darkest days, I've had the same thoughts. But today isn't one of those days. I know Jared is full of shit, but I won't argue with him now. "Don't spoil it for the kids, hey, Morris? This is their day, not ours."
"Charlie!" August tugs at my uniform. "Don't listen to that mean man. You're the best pitcher in the whole wide world!"
Something loosens in my chest at the kid's unwavering faith. I ruffle his hair again and bend down to his level. "Thanks, buddy. That means a lot coming from you."
When I straighten up, Amy is there, positioning herself subtly between me and Morris. "Great pitching today, Charlie."
She said that loud enough for everyone to hear.
The color commentator informs everyone in the stadium that it's time for the players to meet with the children. I'm looking forward to that, and August will be my guide. He really is the sweetest kid. Once all the players have left the field, August waves for me to follow his family.
But Amy is jogging up to me, so I call out to the kid, "Be there in a few minutes, buddy!"
She halts only a foot away from me. For what feels like forever, she stares at me as if she doesn't know what to say now. I'm about to open my mouth when she finally speaks.
"I'm in love with you too, Charlie."
My grin must look stupid, but I don't give a hoot. I drag Amy into my arms and kiss her like there's no one else in the entire world except the two of us.