44. CADE
CHAPTER 44
CADE
“ S tarr, come here.”
I lower the water bottle I’m drinking from and swallow. First check: Beau’s face is normal, therefore I must not have done something wrong. Second check: everybody in this damn dugout is watching, so they’re probably wondering what I did wrong, which means literally no one could’ve given me a warning.
“Yes, sir.” I set the water bottle down on the bench. There are enough people between the barrier and the bench that walking through is a struggle. I twist this way and that, and might not be super deliberate in avoiding my girlfriend who stands by the bench.
“Sorry, sorry,” I mumble, lowering my face to give her a lightning quick wink that means I am not sorry at all. Kudos to her for remaining impassive.
Finally, I stand before the team manager and he says, “I’m subbing you out after this inning. Do you know what that means?”
My eyebrows rise. I may not be the brightest tool in the shed but I catch the hint right away—it’s actually what I was thinking about before he called me over.
“This is the team’s last chance to get Miguel Machado out?”
“That’s right.” He nods while chewing mint bubblegum. “If you succeed in keeping Machado to no runs this inning, the pressure on Williams is going to get to him and cause a mistake or two.”
Which would mean either he gets subbed out in defeat right away, or he hangs on for the rest of the game and gives us more opportunities to score on him. We’re currently up by a single run in a game that has felt more like a season game against the Denver Riders, than the last game of Spring Training that it actually is.
What Beau is asking of me is huge, though. I have no idea if I can do it, but I sure as hell want to try.
“Key words if you succeed ,” Kim says from somewhere behind me, making me roll my eyes.
“Cade’s got this,” Lucky argues. “You can’t tell me he doesn’t deserve pizza with the way he’s playing today.”
Straightening up, I whirl around and point at Kim’s annoying face. “If I strike Machado out you buy me pizza for the rest of the year.”
“One month,” he shoots back.
“You guys are kidding, right?” Larry Socci, the main pitching coach, asks with a frown. “Starr shouldn’t eat that many carbs as the season’s about to begin. He’s our starter pitcher.”
It’s funny how somehow life gives you exactly what you wanted but with such little fanfare that it’s hard to celebrate it. I’ve dreamed of the starter pitcher position my entire life, and this is how I get it? Because of pizza?
I tilt my head slightly to make eye contact with Hope. Her barely contained grin confirms I did just hear what I thought I heard.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “One week?”
“Deal.” Kim nods.
But Socci shakes his head. “Only tonight.”
“Fine.” I sigh and all Kim does is shrug.
The umpire calls for the last out of the inning, so it’s time to switch. I wish I could get a kiss good luck from Hope—our pizza dinner is at risk here—but I can’t do that with all these sharp eyes around.
Grabbing my glove from the cubbies, I nod at Beau before stepping back out. O’Brian returns from his at bat and he gives me a fist bump as we pass. Kim catches up to me and walks in eerie silence.
I break it. “What’s your deal? Aren’t you gonna tell me something that will piss me off so I get to the mound all fired up?”
“You don’t need it this time.” He bumps his glove against my chest and veers left where I have to go right.
Only being a professional baseball player with six years in my belt allows me to keep a straight face, when all I really want to do is gape. Who the hell is this guy and what did he do with the real Logan Kim?
Whatever. I head over to a gross, messy mound. Williams is progressively leaving it more uneven with every inning. I don’t know if it’s because he’s getting tired, or just actively trying to get in my head.
While I even it out with my foot, I lift my eyes to the Riders’ dugout and spot him right away, the former starter pitcher of the Orlando Wild. His attention is trained solely on me and I have no doubt that in this whole stadium filled mostly with Rider’s fans, Ben Williams is still the person most interested in me screwing up. His sense of superiority is riding on the line.
Joke’s on him, though. I don’t think he ever cared to know me enough to understand that I thrive under pressure. And I don’t know any other definition of it but this moment.
The fans go absolutely feral as Miguel Machado steps up to the plate. You’d think he’s Babe Ruth come back to life or something.
He’s not as big a guy as my own catcher is, for example, but Machado is still a wall of muscle capable of batting the ball out of the stadium with the wooden bats he prefers. I don’t know a single pitcher who isn’t terrified of him, and there are actually at least two who have developed the Unmentionable Illness, the one that finishes professional baseball players from time immemorial and starts with the letter Y.
Am I scared of him?
Sure. The same way I’m scared of getting into a traffic accident in this damn city packed with terrible drivers. I still get in my car everyday and drive, though. This is no different.
Especially when I have Logan Kim in my arsenal.
He signs for a fastball close to Machado’s chest, which is basically a declaration of war against the top slugger of the league.
I’m in.
I nod and raise my glove, twisting the ball to grip it in a basic four seam. Sometimes you don’t even have to be fancy. And sure, Machado could bat it, but as close to his chest as I’m gonna throw it this will be a hit at most.
For the pizza , I think to myself and wind up.
The ball flies out of my hand in such a satisfying way, I’m already closing my fist in victory before I land. Kim’s glove makes the loudest thud as the ball connects with it, and Machado doesn’t move a millimeter.
“Ball!”
I press my lips tighter. That should’ve been a strike, but whatever.
I check the bench. Beau touches his nose and then his chin, the sign for calm your man boobs, son . His words, not mine. I nod at him, my man boobs are very calm. The calmest they’ve ever been.
Kim throws the ball back at me and gives me a look I can’t interpret, especially because it’s not followed by any man-boob-calming signs. He crouches back down and calls for another fastball, this time by Machado’s knees.
It should be an easy strike and I throw to the precise spot his glove waits at. But… “Ball!”
What the—Is this umpire drunk?
Now both Beau and Socci touch their noses and their chins. I do the same, telling them to stop freaking out.
There’s no damn way I’m walking Machado. He’s going on three outs no matter what.
“Do it for the pizza!” Lucky screams behind me, and more voices rise from the in- and outfield to remind me that pizza is at stake.
That actually more than pizza is. That our revenge on Ben Williams is in my hands—or well, in Kim’s until he throws the ball back. That the public’s attention depends on this at bat. That this game will set the tone of our season much more than the opening game will.
And that it’s all on me.
I raise my glove so I can hide the savage grin on my face. Kim lifts his mask and narrows his eyes at me like he knows exactly what’s going through my unhinged head. He shakes his and finally tosses the ball back to me.
In a fraction of second, I drop my expression back to blank and catch the ball. Kim crouches down and signals for a run off the mill curve at level with Machado’s waist, close enough to him that it will still be annoying. I like the idea. I still wait until the pitching count almost runs out to throw it.
This time Machado reacts. I grow tunnel vision as his bat swings. My leading foot lands. The ball dips inward. He whiffs it.
“Strike!”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” I mutter to myself when I catch the ball back from Kim. And because I enjoy being a little shit, I make direct eye contact with Williams as I raise one finger so the fielders know we have one strike.
His molars grind, and that makes me feel so warm and fuzzy.
The next one is another ball that should’ve been a strike if the umpire hadn’t partied too hard last night. If I throw one more ball, I’m going to walk Machado. And if one of the next batters gets him home, I’m not getting pizza on Kim’s dime tonight.
Speaking of him, he makes the sign for me to throw another curve at the lower corner by Machado’s knees. That’s a risky spot. The umpire hasn’t liked any of the pitches we’ve thrown too close to Machado, but he’s choking up on the bat like he expects one of the fastballs that the umpire called as balls.
My heart rate is high, like it would be after pitching six full innings and starting a seventh. But it’s not exceptionally high like it would be if I was truly afraid of the batter, or if I was gassed.
I’m gonna trust Kim’s call and give it my all.
Nodding, I wind up, my body acting like a whip that draws force from motion. The ball slides off my fingers and follows the right path.
Machado connects with it.
As I land, I turn to watch the trajectory and my eyebrows rise. It goes up into the blue sky of the early afternoon. Fans rise from their seats to catch it—but they’re all in the foul post section.
“Foul!”
“Wow,” I mutter, watching Kim under a new light. That asshole orchestrated a strike via a foul. He knew Machado would bat it to that exact position the second he choked up on the bat and played him like a fiddle.
This is why Williams made the wrong call by moving to the Riders. No matter how many more millions they pay him, he just doesn’t shine without a catcher that polishes him. A catcher that is now going to buy me pizza.
I raise my index and pinky fingers for the fielders. Two outs, baby.
Also three strikes so… full count, I guess. Full pressure.
My blood boils in excitement. This is the moment I’ve been preparing for my whole freaking life. Since I started playing in the street in front of the orphanage with the other kids. Since I was officially allowed to join the pee wees because they played in a ballpark literally a block from the orphanage. Since my middle school coach started teaching me different ball grips. Since my high school coach told me that I had what it took to go all the way. Since I rubbed two neurons together and figured Williams’ departure was my opportunity.
And of course, this is when Kim signals for the cutter. Straight to the center.
I agree that we should go for broke. We’re not a battery of cowards.
I turn my face to the Orlando Wild dugout and fully ignore the manager. My eyes fall on Hope’s face as it pokes from over the barrier. She nods at me, also telling me to challenge the batter.
What else can I do but obey my woman, huh?
Facing Kim again, I nod and this time I don’t wait out the pitching count. That’s not the mind game we’re playing on Machado here. He’s in for a lil treat.
I’ve never compared my wind ups in much detail but I have the feeling like this is the best one in my life. When the ball releases from my hand, I already know it’s going to follow the perfect course, even considering the warm wind that blows against it. Machado swings, twisting his bat low like he knows this is a curve of some type. My lips start stretching. His bat rotates. The ball keeps spinning. The bat moves in perfect timing.
And then the ball drops sharply.
The thud echoes in the quiet. My feet land, left hand fisting. I grit my teeth but the word still escapes.
“ Yeehaw! ”
The umpire calls, “Strike, batter out!”
My infielders yell. “Yeah!”
The dugouts shout. Complaints from one side. Cheers from the other.
And the stands are quiet.
Machado stops to give me a look, tilting his head like he’s figured something out about me for the first time. I don’t know if about my cutter or if he’s just realized I’m not the worst pitcher in the league, and I don’t care.
“I’m getting pizza!” I shout.
Kim stands up and lifts his mask. “Yeah, okay. Focus on getting the next batters out too, you piece of work.”
His PG rated choice of words for the umpire’s sake makes me grin.
It’s not like getting the next batters out is that much easier. Each one requires a series of chess moves I’m really thankful that I don’t have to make all by myself. But we make it, and I’m floating on air as we return to the dugout.
My teammates jostle me around, congratulating me on the best inning of my life. I’m drenched in sweat and achy, but none of that matters as Beau nods at me. “Good job. Go get iced.”
I’ll frame those words and hang them in my living room. For now, I respond with, “Yes, sir,” and duck into the tunnel, enjoying the booing and jeers from Riders’ fans behind me.
I’m still vibrating with energy as I take off my shirt and toss it on a chair. While ripping off my soaked through undershirt, I start calculating how much the bill will be at my fave Italian restaurant after Hope and I are done later tonight. We’re going to bankrupt Kim and I can’t wait.
“They sent me to ice you.”
I lower my arms, the undershirt still caught in them. A grin takes over my face. “Well, isn’t this my lucky day.”
Hope folds her arms but is smiling. “Stop thinking whatever it is you’re thinking. I’m here on a professional capacity only.”
Gasping in mock outrage, I finish ripping out my undershirt and dropping it wherever. “Excuse me, I was going over the menu at the pizza place in my head. Come here, darlin’.”
“Nope. I have to go get your ice pack from storage.” She pivots away from me and I follow. Hope gives me a glance over her shoulder, probably about to give me another warning, but then her attention drifts lower down my body, and she doesn’t say anything further as I follow her into the storage room.
Inside, she whirls toward me. “Okay, I can’t help myself.”
“Great, neither can I.”
We meet exactly in the middle, our mouths hungry for each other. Her hands grip my wet hair, pulling me lower for a deeper kiss I’m only too glad to deliver. I eat her mouth like it’s ice cream, my hands roaming down her sides, her hips, until I find her incredible thighs.
Disconnecting the kiss, I bend lower to pick her up. Hope cinches her arms around my neck and I walk a few steps to sit her on the table.
“That was amazing,” she breathes out against my mouth.
“What? Lifting you up?”
“That too but I actually meant your cutter.”
“Oh so you like me more for what my body does on the field than what it does for you?”
“I cannot believe those words just came out of your mouth.” She blows a raspberry. “Of course I like your body for both. Please.”
“Good. Then I guess I can do this.” I look down and grab her knees, pulling them apart with no resistance. Like she’s fully on board with this. Smiling, I look back up into her molten eyes. “And this?” Slowly, I slide my hands to her outer thighs, pressing tight so she knows I mean it, until I get to her hips.
“Hmm.” She bites her lip. “Yes, that’s all okay.”
“How about this?” Grabbing her behind, I push her to the edge of the table so she’s pressed against me. My lips hover over hers as I ask, “That okay?”
“More than okay,” she responds in a raspy voice that makes me shudder. Her hands rise up my arms, kneading as she reaches my shoulders and wraps her legs around my waist. “I guess I could massage you first, right?”
“Yes, please.”
I kiss her again and she keeps kneading my shoulders even as our tongues brush, and it’s almost too much. Almost too perfect. Like maybe I forgot that life doesn’t quite like me this much.
Because that’s when someone clears their throat behind us.
Gasping, Hope and I pull away. Instinct kicks in and I bring her face against my chest, trying to hide her. But then I remember that many people know she was sent to ice me.
Swallowing hard, I turn to find Otto Berger behind me. He takes one look at the legs wrapped around me, puts two and two, and says, “I was coming for some Icy Hot but wasn’t expecting to find this hot little scene instead. You do know I’ll have to report it, right?”
The higher the harder the fall and all that, because I come crashing back down to earth violently right there and then.