Chapter 5
Lukas
TWENTY YEARS OLD
Athick bead of sweat drips down my back, rolling a slow path between my shoulder blades, nearly tickling once it hits the center of my spine.
It’s a fucking miserably hot day, record high temps for September, they say.
I adjust the brim of my ball cap, eyes laser-focused on the catcher, Diaz, squatting sixty feet away from me. His hands work in quick motions.
Fly ball.
I shake my head no.
Fastball.
I shake no again.
He gives me the middle finger, and the corner of my lip twitches.
He motions again for a fastball, this time on the outside. I ponder it for a second, then shake my head. None of them feel right.
Coach Carter calls a timeout, and I let my shoulders relax. Peeling the damp ball cap from my head, I run my wrist and forearm over my forehead before slipping my cap back on. My eyes briefly dart to the stands, wondering if her flight came in on time.
It’s been six weeks and three days since Magnolia and I have seen each other in person.
We’ve spoken every single day, and shared plenty of late-night video sessions to get us through the distance.
She was going to fly out to Florida after her afternoon practice today, and she thought she might get to see part of the game.
Maybe that’s why my focus is out of whack.
I keep trying to look into the stands. My eyes peek out the sides for a head of light blonde hair and for that smile that stops me in my tracks.
I rub at the invisible ache rooted inside my chest. We’ve been at this long distance thing for two, almost three, years now, clinging to our phone calls, text messages, and the occasional naughty picture to get through this distance.
We knew it wouldn’t be easy going into it, but knowing, expecting it to be hard didn’t make it any easier.
We knew the sacrifice we’d be making and the strain it would take on our relationship, but we’re both getting to live out our dreams. Not many people can say that, let alone two people from a no name town like ours.
“Hart!” Coach Carter barks once he’s within range. Diaz stands a foot behind him, biting his lips to temper a smile since he knows I’m about to get my ass reamed.
“Yes, sir.” I smile, doing my best to look as serious as I can be.
“You freezing up on me, son?” He comes to a halt with his hands on his hips.
Coach Carter must be sweating balls, wearing a cut-off sweatshirt in this heat.
It’s his lucky sweatshirt, he told us earlier.
He only pulls it out for special occasions, and today is one hell of an occasion because if we do this right, if we clinch the victory today, then our team proceeds to the championship tournament.
And more than that, if I keep pitching like I have been, I’ll get pulled up to Double-A, and then I’ll be knocking on the door of the Majors before I turn twenty-two.
Getting to pitch even a few games in the Majors would be life-changing.
One game with them would earn me more money than a month with the Minors.
“No, sir, definitely not freezing.”
“So, why did I have to peel my arthritic ass off the bench and come talk to you in the middle of a goddamn heat weave?” He spits a wad of sunflower seeds to the side, narrowly missing my feet.
“No idea, sir, I was just about to tell Diaz that we’re good with the fastball.” I look behind the coach at Diaz, and he rolls his eyes at me, already spinning to make his way back to home base.
My mind takes that second to wander, and I peer over to my left, zigzagging along the rows of fans.
Coach says something, barking at me to move this way or that, but it’s all a haze.
My ears ring, and I instinctively take a step toward the stands when I see the tall blonde holding up a pink paperboard sign that reads,
My Hart belongs to #7
Fuck me.
She made it.
A whirlwind of emotion takes over, from excitement to nervousness, a little sadness mixed with euphoria. She’s here, only a few hundred feet away from me. After weeks of missing her, I’m tempted to say the hell with it all, to drop my glove, spring over to the stands, and pull her into my arms.
She must notice too, because she lowers the sign, and with an exaggerated movement, she points right to me.
I can see from across the field that her eyes are wide, and she’s mouthing, “Don’t you dare,” to me.
My feet still, and the crowd be damned, I raise my glove to my mouth, covering it as I blow a kiss, and reach my arm out in the air toward her.
As if it’s muscle memory, which … hell, it practically is since it was my calling card to her every single high school game, she reaches up, catching my imaginary kiss and pulling it down to her chest, right over her heart.
“Alright, love birds, now that we got that lovey dovey shit out of the way, are you ready to play some real ball? Gimme three more outs with that golden arm, Hart, and the game will be won, and you can go play house with the wifey.” Coach doesn’t wait for my answer.
Instead, he gives a quick swat with the back of his hand against my side and turns to make his way back to the dugout.
I don’t correct him that she isn’t my wife. Hell, I like the way it sounds.
Giving Mags another lingering look, I turn back to the mound, the roar of the crowd picking up, and I’m sure the jumbo screen has been locked on us with the entire stadium watching me make googly eyes at my girl.
The dirt on the mound shuffles under my feet. I grind my cleats in the dust, twisting my heel just right. With my hands curled around the ball, my gaze flows down the field to Diaz. This time when his hands fly, I shake my head no, then with a newfound certainty, agree to a backspin fastball.
Straightening my spine, I blow out another heavy breath, the stagnant air nearly strangling me. I swipe the sweat from my face with my sleeve, and then it’s go time. Arms locked. Back taught. I push off with my left foot, pull my knee up, and stretch my right arm back.
It’s a fluid motion. Perfect symmetry as my arm rolls forward, wrist snaps and the ball leaves my fingertips with enough force that it spins and then rises. To the audience, and to everyone watching on television, it happens so fast. But to me, that split second stretches into several slower ones.
My eyes are on the batter, watching the muscles in his arms, waiting for one to pop, one that might tell me he’s getting ready to swing. I watch his eyes, and with this particular move, I wait for him to look upward, expecting the ball to drop as it normally would.
The smile is already curving my lip before he realizes it’s too late. His eyes widen, and he abruptly swings anyway, but it’s too late, because the ball has already slammed into Diaz’s glove with a thud that echoes back toward me.
The crowd bellows, fans are on their feet, and I cheer right along with them, screaming out in glory as I pace the mound.
Mags whistles from the stands, and then I hear her voice call out, reminding me to sink two more. My heart hammers in my chest, and I bite back a smile, trying to keep my game face on, but it’s no use.
As I swipe my shoes in the dirt, I take a peek over my shoulder at my girl back in the stands.
The crowd beside her has realized who she is, or at least know she’s someone special to me.
They’re trying to get closer to her, shouting something over her shoulder, and she’s turning, nodding to whoever she can and shaking hands with anyone who’s excited to meet her.
Two more.
Two more, I tell myself.
The sun has started to set, and the slight change in heat brings a much-needed relief to the field. I roll my shoulders back, nodding again at Diaz.
Slider.
No.
Curveball.
I pause at that, rolling my shoulder again to see how badly it’s screaming at me. I could do a curveball. I dip my head side to side at him, letting him know I’m considering it, and he twists his hand to indicate a knuckle curveball.
Bingo.
His bat barely flinches when the ball flies by; the sound of another strike hitting Diaz’s glove brings a smile to my face.
The roar from the crowd is deafening. Our league hasn’t had a season like this in years.
It seems like every time the championship is within our grasp, we fall short.
An injury. Illness. Everyone has an off day at the same peak time.
Every post-game interview includes the same questions—What does this feel like? Do we think we’ll make it? Am I ready to pitch for a higher league if I get called up?
Every answer has been a resounding, “Hell yeah,” from my mouth, but when I pace the mound, getting my head in gear for the next—and hopefully, final—throw, I notice a small pinch in my shoulder that I had hoped I wouldn’t feel.
Tucking my glove under my opposite arm, I bring my hand up to squeeze the joint. My eyes dart to the dugout where the athletic trainer now stands next to the coach; both of them look ready to step that first foot onto the field.
A few months ago, I started to notice a clicking in my shoulder joint when I threw a particularly fast fastball.
I brushed it off at first, trying to take care of it myself.
Rest. Ice. Massage. Movement. It wasn’t until there was a sharp tear-like feeling during one of our practices that my face couldn’t hide it, and Coach called me out.
For the last two months, I’ve been doing physical therapy and working with our trainers to strengthen my shoulder labrum. I play as hard as I’ve ever played, but I rest and recover equally as much.
It’s just sore, I tell myself, shaking off the anxious thoughts.
It’s just the stress of tonight’s game.
I shake my head the slightest amount, not wanting to draw any more attention to the situation. Coach and the trainer pick up on the move, and I avert my eyes to peek at Magnolia in the stands. I can tell by the solemn look on her face that she saw it just the same.
One more, I remind myself, one more
I give myself another inner pep talk, digging my toes into the dirt below me.
Don’t fuck this up, Hart.
One more, this next pitch could be your last; make it count.
Diaz motions again, and I nod with his first suggestion.
Sinker.
This batter is so wound up, the extra excitement from the crowd bleeds into his already open insecurity.
I can see it a mile away. He’s going to expect me to go hard, to rip another fastball or curveball. His bat is already inched higher. The position puts him a bit off-kilter, and I’d almost feel sorry for the sucker if victory wasn’t so close that I could kiss it.
I send up one last silent prayer to the baseball gods before my arm pulls back.
Foot pushes off the ground, knee up, and the ball is tossed.
Once it’s halfway down the line, my feet are already pushing off the mound.
And just as I thought, he didn’t expect it.
His eyes widen, shoulders rise as he lowers the bat.
The ball flies low, so low he barely clips the ball.
My glove is out, running toward what I know is going to be a grounder.
It rolls into my mit, and then I spin, twisting as I throw to first base.
I don’t even wait to hear the ump call him out. As soon as the ball hits the first baseman's glove and the crowd starts to scream, I toss my mit to the ground and take off.
My long strides take me toward the stands, and Mags is already climbing over seats. The crowd is clearing a path for her, and she rests one hand on someone’s shoulder while another fan offers their hand.
She reaches the lowest seat at the same time I do, nothing but a mesh net separating us.
“Hey, pretty girl,” I rasp, reaching for her waist through the net. She giggles when I pull her to me, and her lips find mine through one of the small eyeholes.
“Hi, baby.” She breathes, her hands coming to grip my face. “You’re so sweaty and stinky, and I missed it so much.”
“I can’t believe you’re here, you made it.”
I pull back, and her fingers tangle with mine through the net.
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of seeing you on the field.
” Her eyes flick to the pitching mound behind me, and I watch her take it all in, the orange glow from the sunset turning her brown eyes to a vibrant hazel.
My name is being shouted, and Mags looks over my shoulder. “What happened with your shoulder? Bothering you again?” she whispers, confirming that she caught my move.
“I’m not sure,” I whisper back equally as soft. “It’s been sore lately. Probably nothing, though.”
“You should have someone look at it before we leave tonight.”
“Naw,” I drawl, looking at her up and down through the fence. I’ve just noticed she’s wearing my jersey with a pair of cut-off denim shorts barely peeking out from the bottom. “Who cares about a shoulder, when I’m the lucky asshole that gets you wearing nothing but that jersey later?”
She bites her lip to hide her smirk. “You need to go. You have a crowd waiting, Mr. Hart. And then please meet with the athletic trainer.”
“Fuck the crowd,” I murmur, leaning in for another kiss. “We’re getting out of here as soon as I shower.”
“Hart!” Coach bellows so loud my shoulders flinch.
Mags rises on her toes to kiss me again, the damn net getting in our way. “Go shower, do your thing, the team needs you.”
I know she’s right, but she’s so close, she’s inches from being able to be wrapped up in me, and as much as I want to go have my moment, I’d rather be somewhere alone with her.
I look back at my coach, and I can see he’s pissed. Turning back toward Mags, I slowly untangle our fingers. “Wait for me?”
She tilts her head to the side, winking as she spins to walk away. “Always.”