Chapter Seven #2
“You’re young now and have the energy to spare, but if you keep doing this, you’ll start running out of gas on the mound. I don’t like this.”
“I don’t much like it either, but like I said, I get nervous.
I try not to, but my stomach always goes crazy, and at a certain point it’s just better to clear it out.
” He tapped his thigh, his gaze dropping.
“I threw up once on the mound, okay? In high school. There’s a video on YouTube if you want a good laugh.
I guess I should be glad it’s not in HD. ”
“I wouldn’t laugh.” Jake’s heart hurt for him. He could only imagine how mortifying it must have been.
Nico’s smile was razor-sharp. “Everyone else did. Even the guys on my team. The grounds crew was the school janitor, and the game was delayed half an hour while he cleaned it up and a teacher wheeled out some fresh dirt.” His face flushed beet red.
“I was humiliated, my dad was horrified—it was the worst.”
“God, I’m sorry.” Jake squirmed thinking about it.
“Before my next start, Dad told me to throw up before I went out if I couldn’t handle my nerves. It works. It’s no big deal.”
Jake gaped. “No big deal? Your dad told you to do it?”
Nico raised his eyebrows. “Dude, would you stop looking at me like I’m a messed-up teen in a crappy Lifetime movie?”
“Sorry. But winning isn’t more important than your health. I’m sure your dad would agree.”
Nico sighed. “My health is perfectly fine. Look, there’s no way I’m letting it happen again.” He shuddered. “No way.”
“It was one time. You were a kid.”
“I can’t risk it. End of story. I have my game plan and it works.”
“You put too much pressure on yourself. We do our jobs, and what happens happens.”
Nico’s brows drew together. “‘What happens happens’? Is that seriously your mantra these days?”
“It’s done pretty well for me,” Jake replied defensively, his mother’s voice echoing in his head. “You can still dream, sweetheart.” He quickly diverted the subject back to Nico. “Speaking of mantras, have you tried yoga or meditation to relax?”
“Yes, and I suck at being zen. I’ve tried a hundred times, and it just stresses me out more because I can’t shut off my brain and breathe the right way or whatever.”
“Okay. I get that. It’s honestly not my favorite thing either. So how do you unwind at home? If you have a day off and you just want to relax.”
Nico seemed to think about it. “Listen to music, I guess. Clean stuff—do something mindless and repetitive.”
“What kind of music?”
“Rap or metal. Rock if it’s loud.”
“So you can lose yourself in it.”
“I guess.” Nico shrugged again. “It’s stupid.”
“No it isn’t. Not at all. Look, we should get out there, but let me think about how to incorporate some rock and roll relaxation into our game plan. Okay?”
Nico’s little smile didn’t show his dimples, but it lit up his face all the same.
The plan had been going so well.
Before Nico’s next start five days later, Jake had arranged a relaxation session in the bowels of the supply area. Mike the bullpen catcher had said it was way beneath their pay grade, but agreed to give them a couple bags of pearls to scuff.
Tucked away in the corner of the concrete bunker where the team’s uniforms, equipment, dry food, and boxes and boxes of other mystery things were kept, Jake set up his little portable iPod dock and speaker system and blasted Metallica while he and Nico dipped into the mud and scuffed balls.
There really was something soothing about the repetitive movements, and the driving music pumped Jake up for the game. Nico said he felt okay, but still went to vomit. It was an ingrained habit now, and Jake knew they wouldn’t break it in a day.
Jake had watched the video of little Nico throwing up during the game in high school. He’d been sixteen, still skinny and awkward, zits visible on his chin even at a distance. Just after he’d issued a walk, he’d bent in half, heaving his guts out in the dirt, falling to his knees.
The laughter in the bleachers from his classmates had been raucous, even though an adult voice could be heard telling them to knock it off. On the shaky video, Mr. Agresta had stalked out to the mound before the coach could even get there, hauling Nico to his feet.
Jake’s heart broke for that kid, and he was determined to help Nico now.
He hoped that if they stuck to the plan and tried to relax Nico before starts, his stomach would be settled enough.
Some game-day nerves were normal and not a bad thing at all, but he was going to give himself ulcers and drain his energy too much.
Despite puking, Nico had been on fire, in command and racking up strikeouts aside from two runs on a homer.
Jake was certain the ball scuffing had still had a positive effect.
Nico looked absolutely confident on the mound, his uniform hugging lean muscles, socks pulled up to his knees in the throwback style Jake found incredibly sexy despite himself. Nico was in control of the ballgame.
That was until the top of the eighth, when he gave up a walk and then a line drive that allowed the pinch runner to get from first to third with one out. The home crowd murmured, and Jake knew they were wondering if Skip would make the walk out to the mound to give Nico the hook.
Nico had thrown a great game, hanging in for more innings than usual for a starter, his pitch count still fairly low. He had to be exhausted, and there was no shame in letting a reliever take over. But Skip stayed put, so Jake focused on the next batter.
He flashed the signs to Nico. It was another near sell-out—on a Wednesday, no less—and the audience’s restless energy set his hair on end, tension building.
The Capitals were ahead 4-2. If they could hold the lead or better yet keep their bats going in the bottom of the eighth, they just needed three outs for the win in the top of the ninth.
The Atlanta batter, Gerard, was at 2-2, and Nico just needed to throw one more strike.
Jake’s left knee throbbed, and he balanced on his toes in his crouch, his shoulders hunched forward.
With runners on, Jake switched to his hop stance, his feet flatter and positioned at three and nine, ready to spring up and pivot to six and twelve to throw out the runner currently at first if he tried to steal second.
The guy probably wouldn’t since he wasn’t known for speed, but Jake had to be ready.
He flashed the signs and waited for the pitch, the crowd buzzing like cicadas in the surprisingly humid night. It was late June now, and this was apparently a taste of what was to come. Sweat dripped down Jake’s forehead, and he wanted to push up his cage mask and swipe it out of his eyes.
Nico wound up and let the pitch rip, just missing the corner of the plate. Jake held the ball, twisting his wrist minutely toward the strike zone. But the ump behind him, his hand resting lightly on Jake’s back, didn’t say anything as he stood up straight, which meant it was a ball.
Fuck. Full count. If Nico walked the bases loaded, his night was over, and he’d be on the hook if these runners scored in the inning.
Nico’s shoulders were up, his fingers tapping his thigh restlessly.
Jake wished he could communicate with him telepathically and tell him to breathe.
Hell, he wished he could pitch for him, but all he could do was flash the signs and hope.
It was crazy to think Jake had only known Nico again for what, a month or so? Maybe it was the time they’d spent together years ago, because hell if Jake wasn’t rooting harder for Nico than he had for any of his pitchers in far too long.
The crowd roared as the fastball streaked over the plate and hit Jake’s glove, the batter caught looking and the ump pivoting with a guttural called third strike.
One more. Just one more out and they would escape the jam. Pop-up, fly ball, strikeout, groundout. Jake mentally reviewed the stats of the next batter and flashed Nico the sign for a two-seam fastball to try and generate weak contact in the bottom of the strike zone.
Nico nodded, wound up, and unleashed the ball toward the plate.
Just like Jake had hoped, the batter jumped on the first pitch, hitting a grounder to third that ended the inning.
Jumping to his feet, Jake shouted along with the crowd as Nico pumped his fist and walked toward the dugout.
Jake pushed up his mask and joined him, slapping Nico’s butt with his gloved hand.
“Great patience to get the out. Keep it up.”
A grin brightening his face and dimpling his cheeks, Nico nodded. Jake firmly told himself to ignore the flutter in his belly.
But a minute later through the din of the crowd and an old CCR song, Nico’s voice rose at the other end of the dugout. “No way. I want to stay in. I can do it!”
Jake looked over to find Nico on his feet, gesturing emphatically to Skip and Loyola.
Murakami, the closer, was up in the bullpen, and Nico’s face was turning alarmingly red.
Jake wanted to go talk him down, but it wasn’t his place to get involved when Skip was already over there.
The other guys seemingly ignored the fracas, but Jake knew they were listening to every word.
“I can do it! I want the complete game!”
The coaches spoke reasonably, too low for Jake to hear. Nico shook his head emphatically, insistent that he could finish the game, but the decision had been made, and he grabbed a batting helmet and whipped it onto the floor, where it clattered and spun. “Fuck this!”
Jake’s blood pressure spiked with equal parts irritation and disappointment. This juvenile bullshit should have been beneath any major leaguer, and Jake had thought Nico was better than that.