Chapter Eighteen Alex #2
At least this Moretti asks first , I thought sardonically as I pulled out my phone.
Together, we found open spots in our schedules to connect in secret. I didn’t feel an ounce of betrayal to Rome. This was certainly going to surprise him in the best way. And I didn’t need money to do it.
?
The top of the first didn’t go as well as expected.
Three flyouts in a row. Rome didn’t have a chance to bat and the Riders ended the top of the first without any hits.
I chugged two bottles of water during that time, completely unaccustomed to the oppressive heat.
I couldn’t even imagine how the guys on the field felt in the middle of this.
The bottom of the first set the mood. First to bat was a home run that sailed over Rome’s head far in the outfield.
I couldn’t see his face from so far away but could picture the consternation, how his brow pinched together, somehow angry at himself for not having wings to fly up and catch the ball.
The Lone Stars almost scored another run after the second batter tripled, and the third singled.
Rome sprang into action with the third batter, who singled on a line drive down centerfield.
The speed at which he threw that ball to the catcher still amazed me.
The inning closed with Lone Stars up, one to nothing.
My guy was the first to bat at the top of the second.
He ended up walking after four fouls, an easy stride that started with his hands on his hips, then shifted into a light jog.
Again I could picture the regret on his face, the fact that he missed an opportunity to go further.
Things became interesting when the second batter, Bridges, singled on a line drive to right field and Rome rounded past second and slid feet-first into third.
I was on my feet then, cheering him on, practically the only one in the entire stadium shouting, “ Ro-mo! Ro-mo! ” I stayed on my feet as the third batter grounded out to the first baseman and Rome stole for home.
Finally, the Riders scored. I felt more at ease as I took my seat.
Unfortunately, the excitement stopped there.
Joe and I made light conversation out on the viewing platform while the third, fourth, and top of the fifth inning passed without any scores or notable plays.
Rome was out there, of course, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.
Even after so many games, his athleticism still encapsulated me, like I saw him for the first time every time.
The bottom of the fifth came in with a bang.
The Lone Stars scored two, bringing the score to three and one.
I wondered if the heat started to get to Rome.
Whenever the jumbotron focused on him, his face revealed nothing, as if he wasn’t in his body.
Austin scored again from a forceout and the insidious scoreboard for Texas went from three to four while ours stayed mockingly at one.
They scored again when a batter tripled, sending two across home plate. After a pitching substitution, the Lone Stars scored another run. The pitcher seemed to get his wits about him, finally, and managed to strikeout the next two batters.
“Seven to freaking one,” I said quietly to myself, although Joe heard.
“Still early,” Joe assured me. “Don’t forget the Riders shine when they’re up against the wall.”
And the Riders stayed up against the wall for the next two innings.
Another stretch of innocuous plays and substitutions.
I wanted to leap from the balcony, sail down to the dugout on feathered wings, and give Rome something to take his mind off of the rut I knew it had slunk into.
The thought gave my anxiety a brief reprieve as I realized that two months ago I had been ignorant of the Riders and their journey to postseason.
Now? It consumed me. Gone were the weeks of photography shoots ahead of me that would need to be rescheduled.
Gone was the budding foundation Joe and I had formulated.
Gone was Ricky’s insidious earworm threatening me.
All I cared about was that the New England Riders clinched this win.
The stadium buzzed with antagonizing energy during the seventh inning stretch.
My fingers itched to grab my phone and text Rome as he entered the locker room for their respite.
Instead, I relegated myself inside the heavenly air-conditioned suite to snag a stiff drink—7 I had already drained half of my drink.
The Lone Stars called for a defensive switch as well as a pitching substitution, as if they were lining up battleships along the coast to blockade anyone from leaving.
First to bat was a player named Waters, someone I hadn’t seen play that often.
He singled on a soft line drive to the second baseman.
Second to bat was another player I didn’t see much, Lin, who singled on a line drive to the left fielder. Waters made it to second.
Next to bat was Garcia, who singled. Waters now on third, Lin on second, and Garcia on first. Oh, how the burning in my soul wished for Rome to head to bat so that he got all the glory if he could smash a home run.
Alas, Martinez came up instead, but I waited on the edge of my seat as if it were Rome anyway.
The ball came at Martinez and my untrained eye had no idea if it was good or not until he stepped into the pitch and swung his arms. Crack!
A line drive to the Austin center fielder.
Waters dashed like a cheetah for home with Lin hot on his heels.
We were on our feet and screaming as Waters crossed home plate.
Our voices rumbled thunderously as Lin slid into home.
Garcia made it to third and Martinez was now on second.
Seven to three , I thought. The whole thing passed in a flash, as if all the plays happened in the same moment of time instead of sequentially.
Austin called for a pitching substitution.
Kaminski was up to bat and singled on a line drive to left field.
Garcia scored, bringing us to four runs, as Martinez reached third base.
Joe and I were on our feet, drinks forgotten, as our hands locked around the railing of the balcony.
I was sweating and it wasn’t from the Texas heat.
The next batter was out on a sacrifice fly to left field. But Martinez made a break for it and crossed home plate.
“Holy shit. Seven to five,” I said in disbelief. “Only one out.”
Joe nudged me with his elbow. “Back against the wall, remember? All right, here’s your guy.”
My guy . Rome stepped up to the plate. I threw the entirety of my will and focus on him, as if he could reach out with preternatural senses and feel my arms around him.
You got this , I willed. You’re the best fucking player in the majors. You got this .
Strike.
Fuck .
Strike.
Fuck!
Third pitch… crack! My heart leaped as Rome’s immaculate body charged into a blurring sprint.
But no. The ball didn’t sail far. It grounded to the third baseman who scooped it up with ease. The instant flash of recognition processed the data for me—Rome wouldn’t make it to first in time. The third baseman threw…
But his aim was off. Way off. The ball sailed past the first baseman.
Rome rounded first base and kept going .
I had never seen him move so quickly, like a runaway train with all the speed and power behind him.
Fuck, the power in those legs, his arms pumping at his sides.
I wanted all of him as I watched his blue uniform-clad body slide into second base, safe.
I heard the announcer call it a “throwing error,” something I hadn’t witnessed before. Joe informed me that by all rights, Rome should have been out because that was an easy throw, yet the baseman messed up. Rome was at second with Kaminski now on third.
Singh was up next and stepped to the plate like a killer. Cold, focused, determined. He singled on a line drive to left field.
Kaminski scored. Bringing us up to six. And…
My mouth dropped open. Romolo fucking Moretti stole for home.
I thought he had moved like the wind before, but now he was lightning made flesh.
A Sicilian blur of blue zipping past third base and practically teleporting to home plate.
The outfielder had whipped the ball to the third baseman, who deftly caught, spun, and rocketed the ball to the catcher.
My eyes went wide, taking in as much info as my brain could comprehend as time crashed and everything went molasses-slow.
Rome dove as the ball came up fast behind him. His arms splayed out, uniform dragging enough dirt to fill a beach. His body slid across the pristine white plate as the ball connected into the catcher’s glove. Too close for me to call, to even see…
The umpire’s hands went out. Safe!