Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Logan
Just like that, we’re back where we left off. I’m on the mound; Rojas is behind home plate. Top of the fifth with two runs, thanks to the guy I walked and the homer I gave up. The Firebirds are up by one still, but I have zero outs and a baseball in my hand.
I check the ball before anything else, rolling it in my palm, feeling the seams and the weight. My fingers are weaker than usual, still catching up from earlier … which is actually a good thing.
For the first time maybe ever, my hands simply don’t have it in them to grip too tight.
I laugh to myself as I run through my checklist.
Fingertips, nails in, knuckles out.
Check, check, check.
The air’s dropped since the delay started. It’s cold enough that I can see my breath when I blow into my hands. The crowd’s thinned out and I notice a lot more hoodies—looks like the team sold some real merch to the holdouts who care more about cheering for their team than being comfortable.
I’ve never loved fans more.
The ump yells, “Play ball!” and I get in place, looking at the sign from Rojas. He flashes two fingers.
He wants the knuckle curve.
I don’t throw my knuckle curve often, because when my knuckleball’s working, it’s working.
It wasn’t working earlier today, and I have to actively choose to trust Rojas more than I second-guess myself. I ease into the stretch, wind-up, and thwap.
Strike one.
Rojas throws the ball back to me, and the pitch clock starts again. He flashes two fingers, and I nod. Another knuckle curve.
Rojas knows his stuff. It’s not an indictment on me that he wants a pitch I throw really well. It’s a compliment.
I remind myself of that while I throw. The batter swings and makes contact—a foul ball, up and away. I don’t like that he got a piece of it, but it’s still strike two.
Rojas calls for another knuckle curve, and I feel a pulse of panic that the batter has a read on me.
But—that’s not panic.
That’s my job. If I disagree with Rojas for a good reason, it’s my job to tell him. That worry that the batter knows what’s coming isn’t about anxiety. It’s about pitching.
I shake my head.
Rojas flashes four fingers for my knuckleball.
Another pulse of panic, but this one because I know I have to do it right now. The lingering rawness from earlier has me on high alert, but I can recognize this for what it is instead of letting it run the show. Fingertips, nails in, knuckles out. No palm.
Check, check, check. That last check remains to be seen.
We’re sitting at two strikes.
Another strike would look good to Doug—
Just pitch, I remind myself. You’re not in a meeting with Doug; you’re on the mound.
Right. And the pitch clock is counting down.
I stretch. Wind up. Throw.
The knuckleball floats weirdly, and then a gust of wind comes and blows it even weirder. The batter has to jump back out of the way so it doesn’t get him in the shoulder.
Ball one.
The batter looks at me menacingly. He may think this was retribution for Kirby hitting Coop, but it wasn’t.
Whether or not it should be …
No. Coop isn’t here. I’m not looking for revenge. I’m looking for a strike.
I bring my glove up and breathe in. Hold it. Stare at the lacing. Then I drop my glove and my vision relaxes—near to far—everything blurring at once. The lights get almost hazy, the infield chalk looks smeared, even the sound lowers and flattens, like someone turned the knob down on the crowd.
And my eyes are out of focus; the only thing vying for their attention a fuzzy halo of honey-blonde hair.
It catches the stadium lights exactly the same way it did in August, in a different city, under a different sky.
She’s here.
I don’t know how, but she is.
That fact swells in me, big and overwhelming, trying to make me focus on her, see her, let her know I see her.
But that’s not what this moment is about, so instead, I take that knowledge and take her presence and love and all the worries I have about our future and feel it all … and then release it.
The pitch clock ticks down.
My instincts scream to slide the ball all the way into my palm, to grab it tight and protect it. My hands don’t have the strength for it—not really—but the urge is as strong as ever.
I keep my fingers curled, my knuckles high. No palm.
Open my hand.
And I let go.
The batter swings. Misses.
Strikeout.
One down, two to go.
I exhale and slap my hand in my glove, and then Rojas and I do it all over again. Strike out another batter.
I’m here. Nowhere else but here.
Weeks ago, Dr. Chang asked me why I chose the knuckleball, why I chose a pitch that takes years to master, a pitch that delayed me getting called up. He said if I figured that out, maybe I’d figure out the rest.
I know now.
Maybe it started as a way for me to hold on to being in the minors, for me to delay getting called up so the stakes would be lower.
But that’s not the only reason.
I chose the knuckleball for the same reason I read books instead of watching reels when I have downtime.
For the same reason I switched to online classes so I could stay home with Mom, even though watching her slowly fade away felt like being torn into strips piece by piece.
I chose it for the same reason I searched for months for the girl who brought a book to a baseball game instead of letting her go.
Some things are worth the effort.
Some investments are worth the risk.
Real sacrifice is a privilege, not a punishment.
That’s why I chose the knuckleball.
But there’s one other reason I chose the hardest pitch in baseball.
I grip, ease into the stretch, wind up, and the ball explodes out of my hand in a perfect release.
Because I’m so freaking good at it.
Thwap.
Strike three.
Rojas jumps out of his crouch and pumps his fist before pointing at me.
“My boy!” he yells. “That’s my boy!”
I point back and follow him into the dugout, and I’m greeted with hugs and back slaps like we just won the world series. I laugh off Lucas whooping.
But it feels good. Better than good. It feels right.
Joe gets my attention before I can sit down.
“Think you can do that again in the next inning?”
“I do,” I say.
He nods. “Good. Be ready.”
I sink to the bench between my brother and Rojas and breathe in, letting the noise hit me along with the reality that Georgie’s here.
I can’t believe she came, but I’m so glad. So grateful.
I could step out and see her, but I’m not there yet. Maybe I never will be. Maybe I’ll never be the guy who calls his wife and kids during the middle of the game because that centers him. If I’m the guy who has to be all-in wherever I am so I can be all-in when I leave, that’s okay.
Something tells me Georgie will understand.
***
After we win, I run out onto the field, my eyes finding her immediately.
She’s on her feet, wearing a Firebirds hoodie she must have bought here, my hat stuffed on her head, and she’s screaming, waving her hands, and stamping her feet.
She’s sitting next to someone, too.
Oh, that’s Doug.
She’s sitting next to Doug.
I start laughing as I wave at her, and she beams as she waves back.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Lucas asks me, yelling over the fans. Someone in media relations points us to the reporters waiting to talk to us, probably together.
I’m good either way.
“Yeah, it feels awesome.”
Lucas squeezes my shoulders like he’s giving me a massage. “Are we talking about our girlfriends being in the stands or winning?”
“I don’t think we have to choose.”
He laughs and we walk over to the first reporter.
***
Doug finds me in the locker room before I can hit the showers.
“That was a nice outing,” he says.
“It was dicey for a minute.”
“That’s baseball for you.” He doesn’t let go of my shoulder. “You’ve done well, Fischer. I want you for the long haul. I’ll get numbers to your agent this week, but I wanted you to hear it from me before it goes through him.”
It’s not quite a fireworks display in my chest, but something burns in me bright and steady.
“Thanks, Doug.”
“You’re welcome. Oh, and that’s some girlfriend you have there.
Kayla called me and asked me to give her the royal treatment and then demanded Joanna and I listen to her business proposal.
Joanna’s VP of Partnerships,” he adds. I can’t help but smile.
“Georgiana’s smart. I have no idea how a tweeb like you landed someone like her. ”
I groan. “Liesel told you her nickname for us?”
“I’ve known your sister a lot longer than I’ve known you, and I like her better, so don’t do anything to make her mad, or we’ll have a long talk.”
I hang my head, laughing. “Yes, sir.”
“Georgiana’s waiting in the family lounge with your family. After you finish your interviews, go find them.”
After I finish my last interview, I do just that.
I run through the hallways and jump down back staircases, bolting through the stadium to get to her.
I may never be the guy who can think about his girlfriend or wife on the mound.
But I will always be the guy who runs to find her the second the game is over.
When I open the door, I see my family around Georgie, all of them grinning like fools to meet her. Lucas and Scottie, Liesel and even Coop. He’s sitting with a splint over his nose, sunglasses over his eyes, positively beaming.
Georgie is mid-laugh at something Coop’s saying when she sees me.
“Lolo!” Coop says, but I ignore him. I ignore all of them, breathless from my run. I sweep Georgie into my arms, thrust my hand into the back of her hair, and pull her in for a long kiss.
She tastes like sunflower seeds and something sweeter underneath—cinnamon, maybe—and she makes a small sound against my mouth that makes me wish we were alone. Her hands grab my jersey possessively. I probably smell like sweat and locker room, but she doesn’t seem to care in the slightest.
Someone nearby whistles, but we don’t stop.
Her fingers find the back of my neck, and she goes up on her toes, and I’m struck with wonder that she’s here at all. That she flew eight hundred miles to cheer me on.
“Aw, Lolo’s in love,” Lucas says.
I hear rather than see someone punch him.
I put my hands to Georgie’s cheeks, draw back, and let my eyes dance between hers. “Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she says. “You look like you ran here.”
“I’ll always run for you,” I say, giving her a wolfish grin. “How did you get here?”
“Kayla Carville-O’Shannan made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“Did she threaten to murder you?”
“No, she offered me use of her private jet,” she says. “What brings you here?”
“I work here.”
“Cool.”
“Cool,” I agree.
“Okay, I really like her,” Liesel whispers.
“Me too,” Scottie says as I pull Georgie close. “Did you know she’s the mastermind behind all of the coffee drinks Lucas sent me?”
“Except for the ones from Pinnacle Perk,” Lucas amends.
“Second tier,” Scottie says dismissively. “I love you, Georgie. I’m Scottie. I’m truly your biggest fan. I miss Meant to Bean more than I miss Lucas sometimes.”
“It’s because we see each other every day, and she never gets the chance to miss me,” Lucas says, his arm around her. “We’re madly in love.”
I feel Georgie’s cheek rise in a smile against my chest. “Well, I have good news for you,” Georgie says. “I presented a coffee-cart proposal to Doug and the VP of Partnerships during the rain delay.”
“YOU DID?” Scottie exclaims. “I love you. Did they say yes? I will kneecap them if they didn’t say yes.”
Georgie looks at me quickly, her eyes wide, before blushing and looking at Scottie.
“Joanna’s going to look at the cart for the games, themselves, but Doug already agreed to let me talk to the team’s nutritionist about offering my cozies and Whip Smarts to the team.
And he wants a dedicated cart for employees—”
“YES!” Scottie cheers, and we all snicker.
Meanwhile Lucas is pumping his fist. “Man, I love those cozies! I used to talk about them on ReelTime all the time! Doug must have seen.”
“I think it was Kayla, babe,” Scottie says, patting Lucas’s shoulder. “She’s recently converted from smoothies to Whips and cozies. I guess all the parasitic diarrhea scares have her spooked.”
Everyone laughs painfully at that.
I look at Georgie. “I thought you didn’t want to leave Mullet Ridge. Is Marlowe going to be okay with this?”
“So, about that,” Georgie says. “I own Meant to Bean. It was my grandparents’ shop and then my mom left it to me when she passed.”
“But Marlowe … you work for her. She runs the place.”
“I thought there were stipulations on the trust, and it turns out my dad and Marlowe didn’t care enough to tell me the whole story. I’ll fill you in on everything tonight, but basically Liv found my mom’s will and I’ve already hired a lawyer. They’re out.”
“Georgie …”
“I know. I should have told you before. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t care about that. That’s so heavy. I’m sorry you were carrying all of that alone.”
“Thanks,” she says. “Think you could carry some of it with me?”
“I’d like that,” I say.
The others are all talking amongst themselves, so I’m able to smile down at her in awe.
“So to recap,” I say, “you presented to Kayla and Jane today, confronted your dad and stepmother and cut them out of your company, flew to Chicago, pitched a huge deal to the Firebirds, and already received an offer?”
“Correct. How was your day?”
I laugh. Hard.
“‘Two roads diverged in a wood,’” I start, “And you said, ‘Nah, I’ll make my own road.’”
“We made our own road,” she corrects.
“Yeah, we did.” I lean down to kiss her, stopping with my lips barely grazing hers. “And it’s just beginning.”