Chapter Twenty-Two
I adjust my grip on the ball, feeling the familiar seams against my fingertips. The stadium lights catch the sweat beading on my brow as I stare him down from the mound. Jared's signature cocky smirk is firmly in place, and his bat is twitching slightly as he waits for my pitch.
"Come on, Braddock," Jared taunts, half whispering. "Show me what you've got. Or are you still throwing those marshmallows you call fastballs?"
I clench my jaw, refusing to take the bait. Amy has often warned me about letting Morris get under my skin. That's his specialty—not just hitting home runs but hitting nerves.
The catcher pops his mitt open and shut, waiting for me to throw. The noise from the stands fades to a distant hum as I focus on my task. This moment, right here, is everything I'd been fighting for during long months of rehab.
I wind up, muscle memory taking over as the ball flies out of my hand in a blur, cutting through the air with a kind of precision I haven't experienced in ages. For a split second, I see doubt flash across Jared's face.
Perfect. Let the jerk worry.
He swings—too late.
The satisfying smack of leather echoes as the ball hits the catcher's mitt. The umpire's arm shoots up.
"Strike three! You're out!"
The crowd erupts, and I allow myself a small fist pump. Nothing excessive, nothing that would give Jared the satisfaction of knowing how much this matters to me.
"Lucky pitch," Jared snarls, glowering at me as we pass each other.
I don't dignify that with a response and let my pitching speak for itself. Three up, three down—a perfect inning to end the fifth. I'm feeling good tonight. Better than good, actually.
Coach Martinez slaps my back as I descend the dugout steps. "Superb, Braddock. You're dialed in."
"Thanks, Coach." I snag my water bottle and collapse onto the bench, stretching my shoulder. No pain. Just the good kind of fatigue that comes from working hard.
"Keep this up and we might just have ourselves a comeback story," he says with a wink before turning to address the batters who'll be up next inning.
I take another swig of water, observing as our offense takes the field. From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a familiar figure leaning against the railing near the entrance to the locker rooms. It's Alicia.
What is my ex-wife doing here? Sure, we're friends these days. But Alicia knows I'm with Amy now.
The woman I adore walks into the dugout, sitting down beside me, and I forget all about my ex-wife. Amy rubs her cheek against my shoulder. "You're amazing today, Charlie. I can almost taste victory coming our way. And that's all because of you."
"It's a team sport. I'm one spoke in the wheel, that's all."
She leans closer to whisper, "After the game, let's go back to your place. I bought the massage oil we saw in that little shop…"
"Mm-hm." That's all I can say, since two of my teammates just sat down beside me.
Amy wanders back to the bullpen. I enjoy the view of her sexy ass while she walks away.
"Eyes on the game, Braddock," I mutter to myself, forcing my attention back to the field where Rodriguez has just connected with a fastball, sending it deep into left field. The crowd roars as he rounds first base, and I'm on my feet with the rest of the dugout, pumping my fist in the air.
"That's it, Rod! Keep going!" I shout as he slides safely into second. The momentum is building, electrifying our team. This is what we've been working for all season.
Coach Martinez signals from his position, and Rodriguez nods, understanding the play. Our next batter, Sanchez, saunters up to the plate.
I roll my shoulder, feeling the pleasant burn of muscles that have worked hard but aren't giving out.
Not anymore. My gaze drifts back to where I spotted Alicia, but she's gone now.
Probably for the best. I need to stay focused, especially with Amy keeping a close eye on me.
She gives me a thumbs-up sign, smiling sweetly.
Then she mouths, "Take it all the way!"
Knowing Amy is there, following every moment, makes me feel a hundred feet tall.
"Hey, Braddock," Johnson, our shortstop, nudges me. "Your ex is here with some guy. Thought you should know."
"Uh-huh." As if it matters to me who my ex-wife hangs out with.
I keep track of the plays as best as I can. But my gaze perpetually returns to Amy—her profile lit up by the stadium lights, a slight smile on her lips. She's beautiful, so damn beautiful.
Two more runs in the sixth inning put us up 5-1.
When I take the mound again in the seventh, I'm riding high on adrenaline and confidence.
The first batter goes down swinging. The second batter hits a weak grounder to first—an easy out.
Then Jared Morris waltzes up to the plate again, and the voltage on the field just got dialed up to a dangerous level.
"Ready for another strikeout, Morris?" I shout, because I just can't help myself. The words poured out before I could stop them.
Jared's gaze narrows. "In your dreams, Chucky."
Amy catches my eye again, grinning and fist-pumping. Just seeing her again gives me the biggest boost ever. Not only a hundred feet tall, but a thousand feet for sure.
I shake off the first signal from my catcher, then the second. I want my fastball for this—the pitch that's working like magic tonight. When I get the sign I want, I nod, wind up, and release.
The ball rockets toward home plate, but even as it leaves my fingertips, I know something's off.
It hangs just a fraction too high, and Jared's eyes light up like it's Christmas morning.
The crack of bat meeting ball echoes through the stadium, and the high I've enjoyed starts to dwindle.
Time slows as I watch the ball sail toward center field, climbing higher and farther.
Our center fielder backpedals, then stops and watches helplessly as the ball clears the fence.
Jared takes his time rounding the bases, arms raised in triumph. He makes sure to throw a cocky grin my way as he crosses home plate, pointing directly at me before high-fiving his teammates.
"That's how it's done, Little Chucky!" he calls out, his voice carrying across the field.
I grip the baseball tighter in my hand, fighting the urge to hurl it at his stupid grinning face. Amy jogs up beside me, her hand extended for the ball. "Shake it off, Charlie. One run doesn't lose us the game. Just take a few slow, deep breaths, and then shake it off. Remember the mantra."
"I had him, Coach. I just—"
"I know. Your fastball was working perfectly—until it wasn't."
I inhale deeply, following her guidance despite the frustration boiling in my gut. And I recite the mantra— forget the world, forget the pressure, stay calm and balanced and the game is yours to win.
"Just do that thing we've been practicing. Find your center, and refocus," Amy reminds me. She hands me a new ball with a reassuring nod. "You've got this, Charlie. I'd kiss you for good luck, but that might give Morris a chance to harass you again."
"I won't let him get to me ever again."
She moves closer as if to kiss me but stops halfway there. Instead of giving me a smooch, Amy speaks in a fierce tone. "Now, you go get that rat bastard Jared Morris and grind his face into the dirt."
"You're so hot when you go demonic on Morris." I drop my voice to an even softer whisper. "We'll definitely use that massage oil later."
Amy smirks over her shoulder at me as she jogs back to the bullpen.
I roll my shoulders and find my stance. A new batter is waiting and ready. I erase thoughts of Jared's home run from my mind. One bad pitch doesn't upset me. Not anymore.
The next batter goes down swinging on four pitches. Even with Morris's homer, we're still up 5-2. Not bad at all. I head back to the dugout with my head held high, teammates patting my back as I descend the steps.
"Don't sweat it, Charlie," Phil advises, offering me a cup of water. "We're still up by three."
"I know." I gulp down a long drink. "Thanks, Phil."
Amy jogs into the dugout—to check on me again, I'm sure. Amy Keller might be a tough coach, but she worries about me a little too much. Still, I love that she fusses over me. It's a sign of true love or something like that.
Okay, I secretly love it. And I need to marry that woman as soon as possible. She's my North Star, keeping me aimed in the right direction.
Coach Martinez eyes me from the other side of the dugout. "How's the shoulder feeling, Braddock?"
"Good." And I'm not bullshitting. It's true. No twinges, no shooting pain, just the normal fatigue. "I can go another inning, Coach."
"He's right," Amy concurs. "Charlie's in better shape now than he was before the injury."
Martinez nods, apparently satisfied. "We'll see about another inning. Depends on how our offense does."
Once I'm back on the field, for the eighth inning, I scan the crowd again. There's Alicia, back with the same guy—some tall dude in an expensive-looking suit. They're sitting a few rows behind our dugout. She waves to get my attention. I give her a slight wave too but keep my focus on the game.
The scoreboard shows we've added another run. Six to two—a comfortable lead, but baseball has a way of turning on a dime. I've seen too many late-inning collapses to get overconfident.
"Braddock, you're up for the eighth," Martinez confirms. "Keep it tight, son."
"Will do, Coach." I stand and start my warm-up throws, feeling the pleasant stretch in my shoulder muscles.
Amy approaches with her clipboard, professional as always when others are watching. "Your release point was a little high on that pitch to Morris. Keep your elbow tucked just a hair more."
"Got it." I make the adjustment with my next practice throw. "Better?"
"Perfect." The corner of her mouth twitches into her patented half-smile. "Now go show them what Charlie Braddock is really made of."
I take the mound for the ninth inning with renewed determination.
The first batter steps up to the plate, and I struggle to restrain my self-satisfied smile.
It's Jared Morris. This is no time to get ahead of myself, though.
But as I catch a glimpse of Amy in the bullpen, I feel taller and stronger—only for a second or two.
I can sense I'm about to vanquish my enemy at last.
With my fastball.
I adjust my grip on the ball, staring down Jared Morris with a focus so intense everything else blurs around the edges. The roar of the crowd fades to white noise as I wind up. This pitch matters. This moment matters.
The ball leaves my hand like a rocket, blazing toward home plate with the kind of heat I haven't thrown since before my injury. Morris's eyes widen a fraction. He wasn't expecting this kind of velocity from me. Not anymore.
He swings hard but connects with nothing but air.
Strike one.
The crowd goes wild, and I allow myself the briefest smile before refocusing. One good pitch doesn't win the battle. I need two more.
"Lucky pitch," Morris calls out, tapping his cleats with his bat. His petulant expression tells me everything I need to know.
I ignore him, rolling the new ball between my fingers. The catcher flashes the signal—slider, low and outside. I nod, wind up, and deliver. The ball breaks sharply at the last moment, and Morris lunges for it, off balance.
Strike two.
"Still got your number, Morris."
His expression darkens, and his knuckles whiten around the bat handle. "Throw your best, Braddock. I'm waiting."
I prepare myself for the hottest pitch of my life, knowing deep inside that I will wipe out anything Morris has ever done. My fastest pitch ever will destroy my nemesis.
I can feel Amy's eyes on me, her tension mirroring my own.
I center myself the way she taught me, repeating my mantra in my head.
The catcher signals for the fastball again.
My bread and butter. I nod, set my stance, and channel every ounce of strength and technique I've rebuilt over months of grueling rehab.
The ball explodes from my hand, a white-hot streak blazing through the humid night air.
Morris swings with everything he's got—and misses by a mile. The satisfying smack of leather as the ball hits the catcher's mitt is the sweetest sound I've ever heard.
"Strike three! You're out!"
But how fast was that pitch? A radar gun will decide. All I can do is wait for the verdict. What do I know for sure? I got my fastball revenge against Jared Effing Morris.