Chapter Twenty-One
Another day, another chance to show Jared Morris that he's not the sultan of baseball.
But this evening, things haven't been going great for me.
The Altitude switched to their pinch hitter, and he's damn good.
We're on Game Five tonight, so I've got at least two more chances to beat Morris into the ground.
Can't say which team is doing the best because, so far, it's been a toss-up.
Come on, man, don't let the Altitude guys wreck your game. Gotta focus on the ultimate goal—winning the World Series .
I grip the bat tighter, watching the pitcher's eyes narrow as he winds up. The fastball comes screaming toward me at ninety-five miles per hour. Time slows. I watch the seams rotating, calculate the trajectory, and—
Swing and a miss. Strike three.
"Dammit," I mutter, trudging back to the dugout where twenty-four pairs of eyes avoid looking at me directly. Another strikeout. My fourth this week.
Amy stands at the edge of the dugout, arms crossed over her Jacksonville Admirals polo. Her expression is unreadable, but I feel the weight of her disappointment dragging me down. Not that I'm blaming her. But I need to get worries about whether I'll screw up out of my head.
"Braddock," she says casually as I pass by her. Just my name. Nothing else needed.
I slump onto the bench, tossing my batting helmet aside.
Maybe I'm subconsciously worried I've lost my touch.
But no, that isn't the problem. It's Amy.
Every time my gaze wanders to her, I lose my focus.
Every time I step up to the plate, I'm not just thinking about hitting the ball.
I'm thinking about impressing her. Proving I'm still worth the contract.
After all, I still have the threat of being traded hanging over me.
"Hey, Charlie, you gonna sit there all day looking like someone stole your puppy?" Martinez slides in next to me, bumping my shoulder. "It's one at-bat."
"One of many lately," I grumble, grabbing a water bottle and taking a long drink.
From across the field, I spot Jared Morris grinning at me from the Altitude dugout. Even from this distance, I can read the smugness in his posture. He mouths something that looks suspiciously like "washed up."
That dirtbag.
"Don't let him get in your head," Amy advises, coming up behind me. I hadn't noticed she'd moved. Her voice is hushed, meant only for my ears. "That's exactly what he wants."
I grip the water bottle so hard the plastic crackles. "I'm well aware of his tactics."
"Then stop playing into them." Her attention shifts to Morris before returning to me. There's something in her gaze I can't quite read. "You're better than this, Charlie."
Before I can respond, Coach Bennett calls the team together for a quick huddle. He's the head coach, and everyone listens to him. We're down by two in the seventh inning. Not impossible to overcome, but we need to do better.
"All right, listen up," Bennett tells us, his weathered face creased with concentration. "Martinez, you're up next. Braddock, you're on deck after Reynolds."
I need to get my head straight before I'm up again. So in my mind, I prepare to recite the mantra Amy had taught me. But I don't get the chance.
Amy walks by me, her hand briefly touching my shoulder. "Wake up, Charlie. Gotta stay focused."
"What? I am awake—and very focused."
But she's already gone. I caught only a glimpse of her face as I watched her ambling away. Amy and I, we both have jobs to do. She's my coach, and so much more—but on the field, we're strictly business. I love her, and she loves me. That's all the encouragement I need.
Martinez settles into his position at the plate, and I focus on his stance. He connects with the first pitch, sending it soaring into left field. The crowd erupts as he makes it safely to first base.
"That's how it's done!" someone shouts from our dugout.
Reynolds is up next, and I grab my batting helmet, ready to be on deck. I take a few practice swings, feeling the familiar weight of the bat in my hands. The rhythm helps clear my head, pushing out thoughts of Morris and whatever jackass move he might make.
Then Reynolds connects on the third pitch—a solid hit that advances Martinez to second. The crowd's energy surges, and I feel it flow into me as I step toward the plate.
"Braddock's up!" someone shouts from the stands. A mix of cheers and nervous murmurs follows.
I take my position at the plate, digging my cleats into the dirt. The pitcher eyes me warily, and I stare back, refusing to blink first. In my peripheral vision, I see Morris shifting in the outfield, probably hoping I'll send one his way so he can make a play.
Not today, you rat snake .
I block out everything except the pitcher and the ball. Focus. Breathe. This is what I've trained for my entire life.
The first pitch comes in high—ball one.
But the second pitch catches the outside corner—strike one.
I adjust my grip, rolling my wrists slightly. The crowd noise fades to a distant hum as I lock eyes with the pitcher. He winds up and releases a curveball that starts high then breaks sharply downward.
I see it coming. Time slows again, but this time I'm ready. I swing with everything I've got, feeling the sweet spot of the bat connect with the ball. The crack echoes through the stadium like a gunshot.
The ball rockets toward right-center field, sailing over Morris's outstretched glove.
He stumbles backward, cursing loudly enough for me to hear it as I round first base.
Martinez scores easily. Reynolds is sprinting toward home, and I'm pushing for a double.
The crowd jumps to their feet with a thunderous roar.
I slide into second base just as the throw comes in, kicking up a cloud of dust.
"Safe!" the umpire signals, and our dugout erupts.
I scramble to my feet, brushing the dirt from my uniform, and can't resist glancing toward Morris. His face is twisted with frustration, and he deliberately turns away when our eyes meet. The satisfaction that floods through me is sweeter than any home run.
"That's what I'm talking about, Braddock!" Coach Bennett yells from the dugout, clapping his hands.
But it's Amy's reaction I'm searching for. She stands at the periphery of the dugout wearing a smug smile. She gives me a sly nod, and I swear I can read her thoughts: You've still got it. You always did.
As another batter steps up to the plate, I take my lead off second base, ready to run.
My heart is still pounding, not just from exertion but from that look Amy gave me.
She's earned that look. My coach worked harder than anyone in the MLB last summer, when I was recovering from my shoulder injury.
She refused to let me lie down and give up.
Her tactics pissed me off at first, but I quickly realized she knew exactly what she was doing.
"You can't baby an injury like this," she'd informed me back then, her hands firm on my shoulder as she guided me through exercises that made me sweat and curse. "You have to challenge it, or you'll never get back to where you were."
But now, my thoughts return to the present.
The pitcher winds up, and I edge further from second base.
The ball connects with the bat, sending a grounder toward third.
I take off, rounding third base as the third baseman fumbles the ball.
The coach is waving me home frantically, and I dig deep, pumping my legs harder than I have all season.
The throw comes in from the outfield, a bullet aimed straight for home plate.
I can see the catcher positioning himself, glove ready. It's going to be close.
I don't slow down. Instead, I lower my shoulder and launch myself into a headfirst slide, my fingers stretching for the plate.
The catcher lunges, ball in glove, and I feel the tag brush against my jersey as my hand slaps against home.
For a moment, everything goes silent as the umpire hovers over us.
"Safe!" he bellows, thrusting his arms out wide.
The stadium erupts. My teammates pour out of the dugout, and suddenly I'm surrounded and being pounded on the back and shoulders. We're up by one. The momentum has swung our way.
As I untangle myself from the celebratory dogpile, my eyes find Amy again.
She's hanging back, maintaining her professional distance, but her smile says everything.
I've never wanted to kiss someone more than I want to kiss her right now, but there are about ten thousand witnesses and a strict no-fraternization policy that would get us both fired.
We ignored that policy on the night when we fucked each other like mad in the dugout. After hours, but still…Maybe it was wrong. It felt so damn good, though. Amy promised me the best sex in the history of the universe—her words—if I won us the World Series.
I trot back to the dugout, and she hands me a towel without a word. Our fingers brush, and that familiar spark ignites between us.
"Nice running," she says, her voice neutral but her eyes gleaming with humor.
"Nice coaching…coach," I reply, keeping my tone equally neutral. Sarcastically so.
The game continues, and we manage to hold onto our lead through the eighth inning.
When we take the field for the top of the ninth, the energy in the stadium is electric.
The fans are on their feet, stomping and clapping in rhythm.
Three outs. That's all we need to take Game Five and push ahead in the series.
I jog out to my position, feeling lighter than I have in weeks. My hit and run might have breathed new life into me and into the team. Morris glares at me from across the field, and I can't help but grin back. Nothing pisses him off more than seeing me succeed.
The first Altitude batter steps up. He's their leadoff man, known for his patience at the plate.
Our pitcher, Rodriguez, goes through his familiar routine—adjusting his cap, touching the rosin bag, gazing up at the sky briefly.
The first pitch is a strike, painting the outside corner. The second is fouled off.
The count is 0-2.
Now it's time to go for it all the way.