Chapter Six
“No, seriously. This idea’s going to make a million.” Banner cleared his throat dramatically, sitting forward on the couch. “Did you ever wish you could get the latest scores and stats on your favorite team or player in an instant?”
Nico watched as the new second baseman, Diego Garcia, replied, “I’m pretty sure we can already do that. It’s called Google.”
“No, no, this is different!”
Pacing by his locker, acid churning his stomach, Nico tuned out the details of Banner’s newest app idea.
Garcia had apparently heard enough too, since he walked over to the other side of the room, where Jake was finishing a protein bar.
Garcia leaned in and said something, and Jake laughed, a low rumble that went straight to Nico’s dick as if it had ears.
Jake and Garcia seemed to know each other, and a quick search had turned up that they played together for most of a season in Philly years ago. Garcia’s Wikipedia page also said he was married with kids, so Nico tried not to glare as the guy clapped Jake’s shoulder.
Fingers twitching, Nico glanced at the huge clock above a TV on a pillar in the middle of the room.
The clock was apparently broken, because no time had passed, and it had to have been at least ten minutes.
But the clock stubbornly read 6:10. Game time was 7:05.
In one corner, guys sat around a table playing cards.
Others leaned back in their leather chairs by their lockers, playing video games or whatever on their phones or tablets.
Baldoni, the backup catcher, strummed a guitar, playing an old Eagles song. Some of the guys were in the video room reviewing their swings from the previous game or scoping out the opposing pitcher.
But Nico could only pace, a few feet one way, and then the other.
At the locker beside him, Crowe said, “Shit, son. You know that carpet’s still pretty new.”
“Huh?”
Stroking his bushy red beard, Crowe laughed. “I was implying that you’re going to wear a hole in it.”
“Oh. Right.” Nico stood still, tapping his thighs with his fingers.
Crowe leaned over and gave Nico’s hip a good-natured slap. “Kid, do whatever you need to do. I’m not trying to bust your balls. But maybe you shouldn’t get here so early. Makes for a long-ass day. As long as you’re here for whatever you want to do in the bullpen before team stretch, you’re good.”
Nico’s father had drilled into him to always be at the stadium by one p.m. for a night game. And Nico was well aware of the unwritten rules of the clubhouse—rookies show up early, and if they want to use the training room, they’d better get their asses in there before the veterans arrive.
Crowe had been playing in the majors seven years, so it was easy for him to say. Nico simply nodded. Some of the vets were early birds too—it just depended on the player.
Every club had its own variations on the schedule, but when the Caps were at home, team stretch was around four o’clock, followed by some catch and then batting practice at quarter to five.
During batting practice, Nico and the other pitchers joined the outfielders shagging fly balls.
Some of the pitchers did more chatting than anything else, but Nico enjoyed running down flies to get out some nervous energy, especially on a start day.
He waited five minutes, staring at the clock until it was time, then headed to the bathroom. Glancing around, he slipped into the very last stall. With the seat lifted, he bent at the waist, hands braced on his knees.
Over the years, he’d become an expert at puking without making much of a sound at all. He inhaled hard through his nose, staring at the white porcelain and clenching his gut muscles in just the right way.
When he was in high school, he’d vomited all over the mound during the most horrific, humiliating game of his life, and the terror of doing it again had his stomach roiling predictably now.
The remains of breakfast and lunch emptied into the toilet with a little splash, and he coughed once, getting out a little more before wiping his mouth with a wad of toilet paper. Standing straight, he flushed and leaned back against the stall door.
The relief was immediate, and now he could relax a fraction knowing he wouldn’t toss his cookies in front of thousands of people and on national TV to boot.
He’d sip Gatorade during the game to keep his electrolytes up, then wolf down dinner after.
Well, if he got the win or at least pitched well. If not, he usually went right to bed.
By the sinks, he splashed his face with cold water and toweled off, avoiding looking in the mirror. Then it was back to the locker room and eight—he checked the clock—no, seven minutes to wait.
On cue around 6:30, the music, games, and chatter dropped off and a focused quiet descended, guys going into their pregame routines and rituals.
Nico watched Crowe tie the laces on his left cleat before the right as always, and when he stood and circled his right ankle, frowning because the laces were probably too tight, he sat back down and took both cleats off, starting over again.
“Hey.” Jake tapped Nico on the shoulder with his glove. “Ready to head out?”
Nodding, he put on his own glove and straightened his cap, tugging twice on the brim the way he always did before a start.
He followed Jake into the tunnel, through the dugout, and across the field to the bullpen.
The crowd was filing in, a low buzz in the stadium, the sun dipping beyond the open dome.
“What’s your process?” Jake asked. “I’m going to guess you don’t have a lot to say before a start.”
Nico laughed softly, a tiny bit of tension loosening. “Not so much. I just… You know. Throw some pitches to warm up. Take the mound. Try to win.”
Must win. Must win.
“Sounds like a plan.” Jake glanced around. “Looks like it’ll be a good crowd.” As they neared the right field wall, some fans in the cheap seats shouted out a greeting and support. Jake gave them a little wave, but Nico kept his gaze on the bullpen.
Once inside, Nico took his spot by the rubber and Jake got into his crouch by the plate.
They warmed up until the anthems, then made their way back onto the field.
The crowd was really buzzing now with Friday night energy and twelve-dollar beers.
Even though Nico had never worked a nine to five job, he noticed a definite difference, people in the stands eager to let go of the week’s stress.
When he took the mound, he wished his stress wasn’t just beginning.
Jake got a ball from the ump and jogged over. “Ready?” At Nico’s nod, Jake deposited the ball in his hand, their fingertips brushing. “You got this. Take it pitch by pitch.”
As he watched Jake return to his position, Nico concentrated on the feel of cowhide in his hand, running his fingers over the red stitches.
Baldoni and other catchers Nico had worked with were great, but there was something about having Jake behind the plate that gave Nico the freedom to breathe a little easier.
Jake was so confident, and Nico knew he was in good hands in a way he hadn’t experienced before.
The ump pointed at him. “Play!”
Crack!
Nico’s heart sunk as the Baltimore DH hit the ball, and he spun to watch its trajectory over the field. Please, please, please. Drop in. Don’t go over. It seemed to soar forever, center fielder Lopez back at the warning track with his glove up, and yes, it was dropping. Thank G—
The crowd groaned as Lopez somehow bobbled the catch and the ball skimmed past the edge of his glove to hit the ground. Nico swore, tension seizing him, the red tide roaring through him, rushing in his ears.
Fucking goddamn it!
The batter Nico had walked earlier was now at third, the DH at second.
Two men in scoring position when the inning should have been over.
Nico breathed hard, muttering to himself and watching Lopez, who stood there like nothing had happened, chomping on his gum. Nico turned to find Jake approaching.
Holding up his glove so no one could read his lips, Jake calmly said, “Stop glaring. You know everyone can see you, right?”
Nico lifted his glove too. “How the fuck did he drop that?”
“We all make mistakes.”
“But he doesn’t even care!” Nico hissed.
“Just because he’s not stomping his foot and pouting doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. Cut the shit. We’re all on the same team here. Lopez didn’t shoot you stink eye when you walked Dibble. Calm. Down.”
He knew Jake was right, but tension ricocheted through him like he was a pinball machine. “I’m trying,” he mumbled.
The hard lines of Jake’s expression softened a few degrees. “I know. Think about the next pitch.” He glanced behind him to where the ump was making a move toward the mound to break up the timeout. Jake gave Nico a pat with his glove and hurried back.
Inhaling forcefully, Nico caught the ball Jake threw him.
The next pitch was a borderline changeup that Jake framed perfectly for a strike, closing his glove around it toward the plate.
Then a ball almost in the dirt, and then another so high Jake had to stick his arm straight up to catch it, the crowd shifting restlessly.
The Caps had scored in the second, but it was only a run. Knowing the tying run was on third and the go-ahead on second sent a tremor through Nico. He couldn’t screw this up.
Breathing hard again, he focused on reading the signs, Jake’s fingers flying between his legs.
Nico nodded and threw the curveball. The batter got a piece of it, grounding it toward the left field gap, where Crowe caught it and stepped on the bag at third base, taking out the DH running from second. The inning was over.