Chapter Nineteen
Cheers erupt all around us in a deafening display of team spirit, from the players and the fans.
Their sheer joy has infected the stadium.
Why? Because for the first time in my career, I'm on the winning team.
The Admirals have made it to the summit of baseball.
We'll go head-to-head with the Altitude, and by extension, Jared Morris.
This time, I'll be ready for the jackass.
Amy throws her arms around my neck, her feet hovering above the grass. Her exuberant grin spills over into my expression too. "We did it, Charlie! We're going to the World Series!"
My coach kisses me so passionately that I'm wondering when a cop will show up to arrest us for public indecency.
The team swarms around us, laughing and slapping each other on the back. Amy moves out of the way, clearly realizing my teammates want to express their happiness. That means they're now practically tackling me in their fervor.
"You did it, Charlie!" Mike Tanner shouts. Our rookie shortstop has been looking at me like I hung the moon ever since spring training. "That fastball in the eighth? Pure fire, man!"
I laugh, trying to catch my breath as more bodies pile on. "We all did it. Every damn one of us. That's why it's called a team sport."
Our top batter, Dante Roberts, gets in on the action too, smacking my shoulder while laughing. "That breaking ball you taught me saved my butt today. You're the real MVP, Braddock."
The celebration moves from the field to the locker room in a blur of champagne sprays and thunderous music. Someone's blasting "We Are The Champions" at a volume that would make my ears bleed if I wasn't riding so high thanks to adrenaline and victory.
I catch glimpses of Amy through the chaos, her hair damp with champagne, cheeks flushed with excitement as she accepts congratulations from management.
Even Phil and Ray are ecstatic. Amy belongs here as much as any of us—more, even.
Her father's legacy and dreams live on in her coaching.
She's carried his dream forward with a determination that still leaves me in awe.
When Amy's eyes meet mine across the room, everything else fades away.
The noise, the crowd, the sticky floor beneath my cleats—it all dissolves into background noise.
Her smile, the one reserved just for me, sends a jolt through my system that rivals the adrenaline rush of striking out the final batter.
I weave through the celebrating bodies, dodging champagne streams and ignoring the calls for another toast. When I reach Amy, I don't hesitate. I pull her into a secluded corner of the locker room, away from the cameras and prying eyes.
"We're really doing this," I whisper, my forehead pressed against hers. "The World Series."
Amy's fingers trace the Admirals logo on my champagne-soaked jersey. "Against the Altitude, no less. Poetic, isn't it?"
I groan. "Those assholes have had it coming for years."
"Language, Braddock," she teases, but there's no irritation behind it. We both know exactly what the Altitude means to us. Not just a rival team, but the ones who nearly ended my career last season.
"You know what this means, right?" I trace my thumb along her jawline. "This is our chance to close that chapter for good."
"For the team," she agrees, "but mostly for you. Jared Morris should never have gotten away scot-free after what he did."
"No proof he did it on purpose. But I know he was trying to take me out of commission."
I remember that day as if it happened last night. The fastball that went wild, the collision at home plate, the months of rehab that followed, the doubt that plagued me through every painful step. And all of that happened because of Jared Effing Morris.
"Hey." Amy's voice pulls me back to the present. Her hands frame my face, forcing me to meet her gaze. "You're not the same pitcher you were then. You're better."
Before I can respond, Phil's voice booms through the locker room. "All right, you animals! Management wants everyone cleaned up and presentable for the press conference in thirty minutes. Try not to look like you've been swimming in booze!"
I glance down at my soaked uniform and grin at Amy. "Too late for that."
"Go get changed," she laughs, pushing at my chest. "I'll see you in the press room."
With one last quick kiss, I reluctantly let her go and head to my locker.
The guys are still celebrating, but there's purpose in their movements now as they towel off and change into fresh clothes.
I strip off my champagne-drenched jersey, tossing it into the laundry hamper before grabbing my shower kit.
Under the hot spray, I close my eyes and let the reality of what we accomplished sink in at last. We're going to the World Series. Against the Altitude. Against Jared Morris. You are going down, asswipe, going down hard.
The water sluices away the sticky residue of champagne, but it can't wash away the resolve that's been building inside me since the day I hit the ground at the Altitude's home plate. I've been waiting for this moment—this exact matchup—for so long that I can almost taste it.
As I towel off and pull on my team-issued suit for the press conference, Dante appears beside me, freshly showered and grinning.
"You ready to face Morris again?" he asks, adjusting his tie.
I meet his gaze in the mirror. "More than ready."
"Good, because word is he's already running his mouth about you. Some reporter caught him after the game saying you got lucky with your comeback."
My jaw tightens. "Lucky? I worked my ass off for months."
"We all know that, man." Dante claps my shoulder. "And we'll be right there with you when you shut him up for good."
The press conference is packed when we arrive. Cameras flash like lightning, capturing our sloppy grins for posterity. Phil handles most of the opening statements, talking about team spirit and perseverance, but everyone knows the real story they want.
Me versus Jared Morris.
I'm sitting between Amy and Dante when a reporter finally asks the question hanging in the air.
"Charlie, you'll be facing Jared Morris for the first time since your injury last season," Seb Hudson helpfully reminds me, as if I don't know that already. "Any thoughts about that matchup?"
The room goes quiet. I can feel Amy tense beside me, her hand finding mine under the table and giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"Baseball's a game of second chances," I tell Seb, choosing my words carefully. "I'm grateful to be here with the Admirals, heading to the World Series. That's what matters."
"But Morris has been quoted saying your comeback was more luck than skill, and that facing him again will expose the—"
"I don't concern myself with what Jared Morris thinks," I cut him off, more tersely than I'd intended. "My stats speak for themselves. The Admirals speak for themselves. We've earned this opportunity."
Amy's thumb traces small circles on my hand under the table. It grounds me, keeps me from saying what I really want to about that smug bastard. Jared is the King of Jackassery.
"Will your history with Morris affect your pitching strategy?" another reporter calls out.
I lean forward, making direct eye contact with the camera. "My strategy is the same as it's always been—pitch the best game I can for my team. Nothing else matters."
The questions continue, but I barely register them. I'm going to make Jared Morris eat every arrogant word he's ever spoken about me.
When the press conference finally wraps up, I'm drained but wired at the same time. The team heads out to continue the celebration at our usual spot downtown, but I hang back, needing a moment to process everything.
Amy finds me in the empty hallway outside the press room. She leans against the wall beside me. "You okay, Charlie?"
"Yeah, of course." I run a hand through my still-damp hair. "Just taking time to process that it's really happening. Our team is going all the way. Even if we lose—which I doubt—it'll still be something none of us will ever forget."
"That's true." She nudges me in the side. "But you're thinking about Morris."
I laugh humorlessly. "Am I that transparent?"
"Only to me." She slides an arm around my waist. "The others just see their ace pitcher ready to dominate. I see the guy who spent months in physical therapy to be able to throw again."
I tilt my head to look at her, this woman who's seen me at my lowest and still believes in me. "You know what's crazy? A year ago, I thought facing Morris again would be about revenge. About proving something to him."
"And now?" Amy asks. "How are you feeling? Confident?"
"Yeah, I realize it's about proving something to myself.
" I tug her closer, craving her warmth and softness.
"I'm not defined by that injury anymore.
I've become more than just the guy who got taken out by a dirty play.
And two weeks from today, I'll get my chance to show the world what a dirty bastard Morris is—and how fast I can pitch these days. "
Amy rests her head on my shoulder. "You've already proven that, Charlie. The whole league knows it."
"Maybe." I press a kiss to her temple. "But I need to face him on that mound. I need to look him in the eye when he's at the plate and show him exactly who Charlie Braddock is. I'll wallop him with a pitch so fast he won't be able to see it coming."
"I know you will." Amy smiles sweetly. "You've got fastball fever. We both do."
That magic fastball is waiting for me.