Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Logan
Here’s what people don’t know about the playoffs.
They’re so much more stressful than normal games.
Oh, wait, everyone knows that.
I’m simply not sure anyone feels it as intensely as I do.
Half the guys in the clubhouse are joking around, laughing, even dancing. A few are playing cards. Some are on their phones while others—like Rojas—are reading something. My catcher is holding his cross necklace with one hand and his Bible in the other.
And I’m cool as a cucumber, not stressing a bit about how Georgie is meeting with Jane today and definitely not worried at all that over the last week, we haven’t had a chance to talk about that thing she was supposed to tell me because she keeps bringing up other things, and I let myself get caught up in them for too long until I realize how good she is at deflecting.
Why is she deflecting at all?
I’m afraid it’s because she’s seeing more and more how difficult it is to be in a relationship with a professional athlete.
I’m afraid that as much as we love each other, it won’t be enough.
I’m afraid that all of my roads led to her, but she’s finished the journey and is ready to chop down my tree and turn my trunk into a boat—
My head is a super fun place to be right now.
Jake comes up next to me, wearing his street clothes.
He’s always the first to the clubhouse, but he has some ritual where he sits in the stands before every game and eats a pretzel with Scottie, who’s his player coordinator and practically his sister, which is why them fake dating to rehab his image was both so believable to the public and so gross to them.
“What’s up, Fisch?” he asks. “You pitching today?”
“If it goes that way.”
“How’s the headspace?”
“Great,” I lie. “So good.”
“Bro,” he chuckles, kicking off his shoes and starting to change into his uniform. “‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’”
Rojas looks up from a nearby bench and gives Jake a nod, and I look between them. I haven’t seen them even talk before.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
Jake snickers. “You don’t just borrow trouble, you hunt for it like it’s treasure. You’re a trouble hunter.”
Have I mentioned before how much I loathe Jake Rodgers?
“Yup.” It’s all I can think to say that won’t make Doug mad at me. The man hates clubhouse drama so much, it almost cost Lucas and Scottie their careers.
Speaking of Doug, when I get up to refill my water bottle, I spot him in Joe’s office. The door is open, which tells me they either don’t care if anyone overhears or they have too much on their minds.
“Coop’s never looked better,” Joe’s saying. “Jake too. I’m not worried about our hitting.”
“I’m worried about Kirby hitting one of them,” Doug is saying. The starting pitcher we’re facing today is a famous headhunter.
“That’s always possible,” Joe says. “I’m more worried about our pitching, though. Lucas is solid. Logan …”
“So much promise,” Doug says. “If he can reach it, we’ll buy out his arbitration years with a three-year deal.”
“And if not?”
“We’ll trade him. He’s got Major League stuff. Someone will want him.”
Three years guaranteed with the Firebirds if I can keep it together. Or a trade to whatever team needs an arm in a clubhouse I don’t care about in a city I don’t love.
No pressure.
They’re still talking when I walk back to my locker, where Lucas and Coop are joking around with Jake.
Jake gives me a once-over. “Someone peed in your Cheerios?”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Then don’t eat the Cheerios, buddy. You’re full enough as it is.”
Coop and Lucas look at each other and then at Jake and me. “Everything okay?” Lucas asks.
“Just trying to remind Fischer here that he can’t be anywhere but where he is. Worrying won’t change a thing.”
***
It’s the bottom of the third inning, and we’re up four-zero. Afternoon games are usually bright and sunny, but today, storm clouds loom overhead, weighing and pressing down on the field as Chicago’s famous wind whips in from the lake.
It’s a cold, miserable autumn afternoon as Coop steps up to the plate, and even from the bullpen out in right field, I can tell how upset the opposing pitcher is. Kirby spits and gets into position before shaking his head at his catcher once, twice, three times.
We have two runners on base already—including Jake, who’s batting lead off this afternoon. Jake’s in scoring position at second, and with Coop coming up, Kirby looks more than nervous.
He looks angry.
His first pitch is a wicked curveball, and Coop has the perfect read on it.
He swings and hits it right in the middle of the bat with a loud crack.
The ball sails high into the air along the third base line, and the crowd is losing their minds.
But Coop pulled when he hit it, and it hooks right before the foul pole, dropping into the stands in foul territory.
Strike one.
Kirby should be happy about that, but no way is he. Coop owned that ball.
And everyone knows he’s going to own the next one, too. It’s in the air the same way we can see lightning over the lake before we hear the thunder. Coop leans in close at the plate, and the way Kirby’s shoulders tense makes my intestines tie themselves into knots.
He steps back, winds up, and whoosh.
The pitch is close—too close. High and inside, and so close to Coop’s face, calling it a brushback is wildly insufficient. He almost took Coop’s jaw off.
“Lean back,” I mutter, as if I can somehow convince Coop to stop crowding the plate.
I can’t. Even if Coop could hear me, he wouldn’t listen. The guy is the best player in baseball—a once-in-a-generation talent. He didn’t get where he is now by letting every pitcher on a power trip push him around.
That doesn’t make me wish otherwise, though. And I’m even more apprehensive when Coop blows Kirby a kiss I can see from here.
Kirby shakes his head at his catcher again and again, and when he finally gives him a nod and gets into the stretch, the tension in my guts has spread throughout my body. I’m so keyed up, my muscles are burning with the need to move.
Kirby releases the pitch, and—
SMACK.
My jaw falls, there’s a collective gasp, and then a chorus of shrieks and boos issue from the crowd at the same time that I throw the bullpen door open. The sound in the stadium is so loud, I can’t even hear my own thoughts as I rush the field along with every other member of the Firebirds.
Kirby hit Coop in the head.
I’m running at full speed to check on my future brother-in-law and one of my best friends, but on the way, I see Kirby, and a blind rage overtakes me.
The benches are clearing, and Kirby is already surrounded by players from both teams, but so help me, I’m going to drive my fist into that guy’s face or die trying.
I’m not aware of anything except keeping track of Kirby as I sprint across the field, adrenaline coursing through me, speeding me up faster than I’ve ever run before.
And that’s when I see someone else launch himself into Kirby before I can.
It’s Jake.
His fist smashes into Kirby’s face, and Kirby’s head snaps back.
He stumbles before whipping around, trying to fight back, but Jake’s already on him.
By the time I reach the mound, it’s an all-out brawl.
The stadium volume is deafening, but the blood rushing in my ears is even louder.
We’re all packed in so tight, there’s hardly room to wind up, let alone hit someone.
Hands grab at me as I push and shove past players to try to get to Kirby.
To pull Jake off of him so I can get a few swings in.
Before I can, though, the umps and managers are on the field, breaking things up, trying hard to cool things off. Someone gives me a shove and yells, “Knock it off!” I try to push past him, but then the guy’s hand smacks the back of my head.
It’s Joe.
“Cool it. You’re no use to us if you break your hand on some idiot’s face,” he barks.
“I don’t care,” I say, trying to peer past him. The fight between Jake and Kirby has been broken up, and the latter looks a lot worse for the wear. Jake’s grinning with a fat lip, but he looks more alive as he spits blood at Kirby, who’s being pulled back by his own coaching staff.
“Fischer, it’s done,” Joe says.
I stare at Joe before giving him a tight nod. Then he moves on to talk to the next moron, and I rush over to join Jake. “Good work,” I grunt over the roar in the stadium.
Jake’s chest is heaving with exertion. “Look at you, joining the throng. I thought you’d be too stuck in your head to get your legs moving.”
“Shut up,” I say, his words bugging me more than they should.
Lucas pushes over to us. I didn’t see where he was during the brawl.
“How’s Coop?” I ask as thunder shakes the stadium.
“Don’t know. They took him out on a stretcher,” Lucas says.
“Did it get past his helmet?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Lucas says, more disturbed than I’ve ever seen him on the mound.
“If it hit his eye—”
“What?” Jake interrupts with a slap to my chest. “If it hit his eye, what will you do? Worry him back to health?”
“Shut up, Rodgers,” I yell, wanting to hit him almost as badly as I still want to hit Kirby.
“Easy,” Lucas says, getting between us.
Before we can talk anymore, the entire coaching staff pushes us back from the mound, pulling Lucas to the dugout and pushing me toward the bullpen.
Everyone scatters except for Jake.
He should be on second, but the umps are looking at him, and an announcement goes over the stadium PA.
“Following the incident on the field, Chris Kirby and Jake Rodgers have been ejected from the game.”
The stadium boos louder than the thunder.
I watch Jake jog off the field backward as a replacement runner comes in to take his place.
When Jake spots me, he salutes. I curse under my breath at the idiot.
I’m still humming from the adrenaline and worry over Coop, and now I get to add annoyance at Jake to the list.
Great.
Jake and Coop being out is a brutal hit to our lineup. They’re not just the two best hitters on our team; they’re arguably the two best hitters in baseball.
This game is about to get ugly.
***
Lucas is the starting pitcher this afternoon, and he was on a tear through the first three innings. Normally, he’s as steady as they come.
But he’s rattled now. We found out that Kirby’s pitch got past the helmet and hit Coop in the face, but we don’t know how bad it is yet. My brain has already supplied the answer: It’s his eye. His career is over, and he’ll probably lose his vision permanently.
SHUT UP, brAIN.
My brain doesn’t shut up.
It’s impossible not to worry, whatever Jake says.
Lucas lets two runners get on base, and then the next batter hits a base knock, leading to a run. I can see Joe pacing from the dugout, and when a call comes in, the bullpen coach gives me a nod, signaling I need to get ready.
This is new.
Lucas doesn’t get taken out of games often, and never this early. It’s only the top of the fourth, and he’s probably only thrown sixty pitches.
He throws and the batter makes clean, fast contact, so fast, in fact, that Lucas can’t get out of the way as a comebacker rushes through the air directly at him.
It smacks into him, and he drops to his knee. The second baseman scoops it up and fires home, getting the runner from third by a step. The catcher wheels and throws to second, where the other runner is tagged out trying to advance.
Double play. End of the inning.
I should be able to sigh in relief that Lucas only gave up one run and we’re still leading the game four-one, but I’m too worried about my brother as he jogs off the field.
I nod at the bullpen attendant. “Can you call the dugout? I need to know how Lucas is.”
While I’m waiting for him to get the info, though, I can imagine Jake Rodgers shaking his head at me.
Why, you think all that stress will help him, or are you hoping to worry yourself out of a job?
Here’s the reality: Only one of these is possible.
And it’s not the one I want.
“It hit him in the thigh,” the attendant says to me. “He’s fine. But Joe still wants you pitching in the fifth, so get warm.”
I would have thought I’d feel more relief hearing Lucas is fine.
I warm up in a state somewhere between conscious sedation and pure panic. When it’s time for the inning to start, the sky is so dark, it may as well be night.
My first pitch is wild.
Second pitch wilder.
Third and fourth are an unmitigated disaster.
Yup. I’ve walked my first hitter of the night.
The next guy comes up, and my hand is already slick with sweat that has nothing to do with the cold rain starting to mist over the field.
I roll the ball inside my glove. I want to feel the crisp, knuckle-out grip as I dig my fingernails into the leather, but my hand won’t cooperate.
My palm presses against the leather, wrapping around it, practically suffocating it.
I try to force the ball away from my palm, but the reflex is so intense, I may as well force myself to fly.
It’s the same reflex that has me itching to run to the locker room and call Georgie so I can hear her reassuring me that she’s okay, that she still wants this.
The same reflex that makes me want to grab Lucas and Coop and my career and theirs and hold them all in my fists so they can’t slip away.
So I grip too tight. I pitch.
Ball. Another ball.
It’s fine, I tell myself. But all I can hear is Georgie’s voice from the other night when I asked if everything was okay and she said “it’s fine” too fast, the same way I’d say it to Jake.
I wind up and release.
I can feel in my bones it’s gonna be a strike—
Nope. He knocks it out of the park.
Great.
I feel sick with worry and dread, my mind stuck between past, present, and my pitiful-looking future. Lucas, Georgie, my career—
I can’t do this.
Then there’s a flash of lightning and the crash of thunder before the heavens open up and the rain comes down.
The umps wave their arms, calling a delay, and the grounds crew starts running enormous tarps over the field. Soon, we’re all being called back into the locker room.
Awesome. Now the dread’s going to stretch out.
Normally I would read, but I grab my phone to see if I can fully numb myself with some mindless game.
I have a text from Georgie from an hour ago—as safe a time as any to text me, considering we can’t access our phones until after the game.
Or until there’s a rain delay and we have nothing to do for the next, what does the forecast say? Four hours?
Georgie
Can you call me after the game? It’s been a week.
<3
Normally that sideways heart does a lot for me.
Now it does about as much as a pillow blocking an arrow.