Chapter 22
— Scout —
Pregame nerves hit hard, taking me back years to when I was a rookie in my debut season. I didn’t welcome the pitch and roll of my stomach, or the urges I fought yet failed to suppress.
Hanno clapped me on the shoulder. “All good, Gats? You’re looking a little greeeeen, brother.”
I forced a snicker and rolled out my neck and shoulders. “All good, dude. Just ready to get this underway.”
“Good to have you back, man,” he reaffirmed while hanging up his collared shirt in the locker next to mine. “Been a while, eh?”
“Too damn long,” I replied, then excused myself for the bathroom.
I’d held off the ill feeling for long enough, and while my body and my head warred over right and wrong, I locked the stall behind me and leaned forward over the toilet bowl. My heart told me to stay strong, to not give in to the toxic urges that plagued me in times of stress.
With one hand braced on the cistern, I leaned a little lower and thrust two fingers into my mouth. The familiar grip of my gag reflex cramped my stomach and throat. Waves of gagging contractions rippled with each flick of my fingers, and tears gathered in my eyes as the first surge of bile rose.
With each purge, I spat the burning liquid into the bowl, then braced my hands on the back wall to catch my breath—just like every other time before this.
I didn’t understand why I wanted to throw up, other than it started off as a way to ease the queasy pitch in my gut after that horrific night of the party. It had escalated from there.
I wiped off my mouth with toilet paper, flushed once more, and exited the stall. I stood before the mirror, glassy-eyed and looking worse for wear while washing my hands. The mouthwash I had in my pocket before each game was thoroughly put to use before I chucked a stick of gum in my mouth and rejoined the team in the clubhouse.
Most of the guys ignored me. Some nodded in acknowledgment. They all knew I vomited before each game. They just didn’t know the sordid details surrounding why.
Coach stood in the center of the room and clapped his hands. “All right, guys. Now that Gats has had his pregame vomit, you’ve got ten minutes before we head out to warm up.”
I laughed and flipped him off despite swallowing down the uneasiness that lingered. Facing my locker and pulling on the jersey I’d missed for the last two months was like coming home. The uniform defined who I was, both in and out of the ballpark. I dreaded the day I’d have to hang it up.
Shaking off the thought before it sent me to the bathroom again, I rolled out my shoulders, then shoved in my earbuds. The first beats of Wiz Khalifa’s “Black And Yellow” hit with a welcomed spike of adrenaline. I chewed hard on the gum while dancing on the spot to my hype song. Worked every damn time.
Hanno clapped me on the shoulder and indicated for me to give him an earbud. With it lodged in his ear, we grinned at each other while silently mouthing the words, slinging hands, and bouncing to the beat.
The ghosts of my hollow mood evaporated. Pure, unadulterated adrenaline spiked, just as my choice of song was designed to do. It surged through my veins, giving me a flood of adrenaline.
When the guys started rolling out, Hanno handed me back my earbud and shoved his own in. I settled my cap on my head and fell into the flow that took us through the maze of winding corridors below the stadium.
Stepping out of that tunnel and into the ballpark kicked me square in the chest. The sight punched the air from my lungs. I stared at the gathering crowd from within the dugout and inhaled deeply, absorbing the energy vibrating from the thousands already lining the stadium. Like a glorious end to a long journey, I was finally home.
A tap on my arm broke my focus.
I raised my brow at Ned, our PR manager, then glanced onto the field when he pointed.
One of the game presenters stood nearby holding a portable mic with a cameraman hovering beside him, looking at me with anticipation.
I flicked out my earbuds and jogged up the dugout steps. “Hey, man. What’s up?”
“Do you mind sparing a few minutes for a pregame interview?”
“Sure thing, dude.” I slid my hand into his offered one.
“Cavan. Nice to meet you, Scout.”
“You too.”
Standing with my feet hip-width apart, I steeled myself for his first question, which took my focus and shook it violently: “Are you concerned you’ve come back too soon after your elbow injury?”
~
An hour later with my mind reset, a serene sense of internal hush fell over me as I prepared to run onto the field to start for the first time in many long weeks. And right on cue, “Black and Yellow” started playing through the stadium speakers, creating a roar from the crowd that consumed my senses as I jogged to the pitcher’s mound.
I stopped tossing the ball from hand to hand and scuffed my feet against the pitcher’s plate. My fingertips ran along the stitched seam of the ball. The crowd noise dulled. Each breath became deliberate and slowed. My vision blurred at the edges yet sharpened in the center, homing onto the batter’s box where my first opponent swung his bat, warming his muscles for a final few times before the pitch.
When the music faded out, another huge cheer rose from the spectators. It lit me from the inside out. Poured gasoline on the already burning fire in my veins. Made my entire body thrum with the rush that never grew old. That thrill was an addiction. I was hooked on it. Couldn’t get enough. Fucking craved it when the buzz wasn’t fulfilled.
Chomping at the bit, I angled toward home base and eyed Tanner, our catcher, crouching behind it.
With a confirmation nod from him, the batter, then myself, I rocked back on my right leg, separated my hands, then unleashed a fastball that had been brewing since the day I was benched.
Strike one, down.
Strike two came from a sneaky little splitter.
And after a change-up pitch that wasn’t great, the final strike was a well-placed slider that sent the batter back to the dugout.
Fuck yeah, baby. Scout Gatlin was back and unstoppable once more.