33. Briggs
brIGGS
Three weeks later…
I stare down the pitcher, silently suggesting that he better make this pitch a good one or I’m cranking that out of the park with his playoff dreams trailing right after it.
We’re two games down from winning the division and, if the first-place team wins their series—and they’re playing right now—we’re still in the running but the pressure will just mount even higher than it was before.
It’s the last inning, two on base, and we’re tied.
I don’t want to go into another.
Coach Davidson has been on one since I came back from being suspended, silently hinting that the reason why we’re not the number one spot is because I decided to break Cruz Weston’s arm.
And I’m going to shatter both his legs if he decides to go against the league, my lawyers, and throw his pride in the way with announcing my marriage to Layla Jean.
The MLB has conduct rules and his acting a fool and dragging my personal life through the media could be conduct that is detrimental to the game.
Now, the league loves to sell tickets.
However, I’ve threatened to leave if my ass gets put on blast and my girl is harassed.
Not only would it become public drama—because, again, I would put him in a wheelchair—it would affect team operations and it’s harassment.
And I’m not going to deal with it, nor will I put Layla through the media frenzy of bullshit.
The pitcher exhales then lifts his leg to make his pitch, and I see the ball perfectly.
Throwing all my weight into my front foot, just the sound of the bat tells me everything I need to know.
That ball is gone.
Jogging to first base, I watch it descend before it makes its way into the stands.
The crowd erupts, and the game immediately ends.
I know I’ll be interviewed by reporters on how I feel, what I was thinking at the plate and if I’ll be watching Salt Lake while hoping for their downfall.
They’ll win the Series, there’s no doubt about it.
Not only are they the number one team but they’ve been on our asses all year. We’re going to need to put in work like never before.
Rounding third base, my team is already on the line, already there to congratulate me on the home run.
We knock elbows and hands, before one of the coaches motions that I need to run up to one of the big broadcasters and get interviewed briefly.
I wipe the sweat off my face with my jersey as Natasha Burns approaches, a regular and one of the leading sportscasters from a local channel comes up to me.
She beams, wearing a tight navy blue dress, and always the picture-perfect canvas for her viewers.
“Hey, Briggs,” she greets excitedly. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” I inhale and look out at the crowd still cheering, vibrating the outdoor stadium with excitement.
“Three questions and then you’re on your way.”
I’d give her four just because she’s so respectful of my time, but I nod when the cameraman signals we’re on.
It’s the same shit, like I said.
“What were you thinking when you got up to the plate with two men on?”
“Did you know off the hit, it was going to go out where it needed?”
And, of course, “Are you going to watch Salt Lake tonight? They’re in the bottom of the sixth.”
My answers:
“Just concentrated on what I needed to do.”
“I didn’t.” I did.
“Absolutely, we need to keep eyes on the competition.” I’m not.
I know most of the guys on the team will stay in the locker room and sitting areas to watch what goes down but they’re only working themselves up.
We have another game tomorrow with the team we just won against, and I want to get to my phone.
When I do, after a few stops from fans and members of the staff, I power on my cell and see two text messages.
From her.
LAYLA JEAN: Damn, boy. You really wanted to diminish their spirits.
LAYLA JEAN: Do it again tomorrow.
brIGGS: You know I will. That was for you, Short Stop.
LAYLA JEAN: Keep me humble. No extra things.
brIGGS: I’m always extra when it comes to you.
brIGGS: And I know how to keep you grounded. Not worried about that.
LAYLA JEAN: Then I shouldn’t tell you about the bourbon cherry pie I made that sold out by the end of the day.
LAYLA JEAN: Man, did I feel like a complete badass.
brIGGS: You are a badass.
brIGGS: And you should’ve brought me a piece.
LAYLA JEAN: Pies don’t sell themselves, Briggs Kerrigan. My pretty face does.
brIGGS: Oh, is that how you’re so successful? You bat your eyelashes at every middle-aged man in town?
LAYLA JEAN: And woman.
brIGGS: Of course.
brIGGS: And your uncle says I’m the dangerous one.
LAYLA JEAN: Keep my secret or else.
brIGGS: Or else what?
LAYLA JEAN: Find out and see.
brIGGS: You gonna block me again?
LAYLA JEAN: Maybe.
brIGGS: Go ahead and find out what’ll happen next if you do. I’m not above flying out and missing training to fuck you back into your right mind. It’s only an hour flight when I’m in Memphis.
LAYLA JEAN: But you’ll be in Los Angeles in two days. Sucks to suck.
brIGGS: My batting average and making you come several times says different.
LAYLA JEAN: Cocky.
brIGGS: And it only wants to be in you, Layla Jean. Remember that.
LAYLA JEAN: Focus, lover boy. You need to shower and get some sleep.
brIGGS: Only if you sleep with me.
LAYLA JEAN: No can do. Last time we did that, you just wanted to have phone sex and I got maybe 3 hours of sleep.
brIGGS: One time and then we sleep.
LAYLA JEAN: Shower. Bed. In that order.
brIGGS: Don’t you want to hear my voice?
LAYLA JEAN: No.
Fuckin’ brat.
I’m still going to call her anyways.