Chapter Twenty-Seven
Fletcher
On this warm and lovely day in Millbrook Valley, Nebraska, the apocalypse has finally arrived.
I expect to see demons pouring out of the heavens at any moment.
Maybe I had performed reasonably well on the pitch yesterday, but that was a practice game.
The shot of Thane's whisky those tossers gave me yesterday has worn off this afternoon.
Dominic suggested I should try another swig of that elixir, but I declined.
If I'm going to die today, I might as well be sober.
The players for this match have jogged onto the field. All except me, that is.
Dominic slaps my arm as he hurries past me. "Time to crush the competition, eh, Fletch?"
"Are you out of your mind, you demented bastard?"
Errol Murdoch halts beside me, grinning. "Dinnae fash, mate. You've got the fire starter on your side, not to mention Damian the fortune teller and all three Dixon laddies. We cannae lose!"
If you say so, you raging lunatic.
I do like Errol, but his manner of playing cricket is...unusual, to say the least.
The moment I've reached my position on the pitch, I begin to sweat.
The sun blazes down on us, and I wonder if I can fake a sudden bout of food poisoning to escape this ordeal.
Jennifer waves from the sidelines, surrounded by the American Wives Club.
Even from here, I can see the encouraging smile on her face.
I'd hate to disappoint my bride by making a complete arse of myself.
"All right there, Murgatroyd?" Declan shouts from across the field while tossing a cricket ball from hand to hand with infuriating ease. "You look like you're about to faint."
"Sod off, you wanker. I'm bloody fantastic," I lie, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. "I'm contemplating your team's imminent defeat."
At the periphery of the pitch, I see my family. Henry jumps up and down shouting, "My dad's going to win! Nobody else can beat him!"
I can't resist grinning and chuckling at my youngest son's enthusiasm. What if I let my family down by cocking up this match? No, I could never do that. I'll win this death match for my children.
"Get ready, gentlemen," shouts the umpire, Dane Dixon, who volunteered for duty and seems far too calm about the whole affair. Cricket can be hazardous, after all. "Let's have a proper, gentlemanly match!"
"Since when is cricket gentlemanly?" Damian Petrescu hollers while smirking.
I ignore him and take my position at the crease, gripping Declan's borrowed bat like it's a life preserver.
We're on opposite teams, yet he made sure I had a good bat.
The weight feels foreign in my hands despite yesterday's practice.
My palms are slick with sweat too, and every pair of eyes on the field remains focused on me.
Rory MacTaggart takes the ball for the opposing team, rolling it between his massive hands with the casual confidence of a man who played at university level---but I've heard he never played the sport until recently.
The Scot is built like a bloody tree trunk, all shoulders and arms that could probably launch a cricket ball into orbit.
I swallow hard as Rory settles into his bowling position. When he begins his run-up, I swear the ground trembles beneath my feet.
"You've got this, Fletcher!" Jennifer's voice cuts through the havoc of my thoughts. "Massacre the enemy, baby! I want that grass to turn red!"
When did my wife become a bloodthirsty maniac? Oddly, that turns me on.
I adjust my grip on the bat, willing my sweaty palms to cooperate. The borrowed cricket whites are stiff and unfamiliar. I haven't played a proper match since university.
"Focus on the ball," Dominic reminds me from the sidelines. "Not on MacTaggart's intimidating Scottish scowl!"
Easy for him to say. Dom isn't the one about to be humiliated in front of his entire family. Which MacTaggart was he talking about, anyway? There are several on the pitch.
Rory charges forward, his arm windmilling with terrifying precision.
The red ball shoots from his hand like a crimson blur.
Time slows to a crawl as I track its trajectory, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The ball spins wickedly through the air, heading straight for my middle stump.
Everything my father taught me about cricket floods back to me in an instant.
Keep your eye on the ball. Stay balanced. Don't overthink it.
I swing.
that sweet spot connects flawlessly, sending vibrations up my arms as the ball rockets away from me in a beautiful arc. Holy shit, I actually hit it. Hard.
"Run!" Dominic roars from behind the wickets, and my legs finally remember how to move.
I sprint toward the opposite crease, my heart soaring as I hear the crowd erupting in cheers.
Henry's voice rises above the rest as he screams my name with sheer childlike joy as I pound across the pitch.
Adrenaline is pumping through my veins as the crowd's roar nearly deafens me.
The grass blurs beneath my feet, and for a moment I feel like I'm twenty years old again, invincible and alive with the pure joy of the game.
"Yes!" I hear Errol shout from somewhere behind me. "That's how it's done, Fletcher!"
I reach the crease just as the wicketkeeper collects the ball, and I'm breathing so hard that I can't speak. I'm grinning like an absolute madman. The fielders are still chasing my shot toward the boundary, and I realize with dawning amazement that I might have hit a four.
"Bloody brilliant!" Dominic shouts. "You've still got it, mate!"
I turn toward the sidelines, searching for Jennifer's face in the crowd. When I spot her, she's on her feet, jumping up and down like a woman possessed, waving a makeshift banner that I'm fairly certain she fashioned from someone's jacket.
"That's my husband!" she screams at the top of her lungs, completely abandoning any pretense of dignified spectating. "Fletcher Ralph Murgatroyd, you rock!"
My feet must have lifted off the ground, weightless. It feels that way right now, at least. The terror that gripped me moments ago has transformed into pure exhilaration. I can do this.
The next ball comes faster than the first, spinning wickedly as it bounces off the pitch.
This time I'm ready for it. My stance feels natural now as muscle memory overrides years of rust. I step forward, meeting the ball with a confident drive that sends it skimming along the ground toward the boundary.
"Two runs!" the umpire calls as I sprint again.
I pump my legs harder, every breath coming in sharp bursts as I make the turn and sprint back to my original crease. The fielders are scrambling, but I can see the ball's still a good distance from the wickets.
"Come on, Dad!" I hear Charlotte screaming from the crowd. "Don't let them catch you!"
My gaze flicks to Amelia, who's also screaming and pumping her fists in the air. "Go, Dad! Whup those jerks!"
The wicketkeeper is positioned perfectly, gloves ready, but the throw from the boundary comes in just wide of his reach. I slide into the crease with inches to spare, my whites now decorated with grass stains that I'll wear like badges of honor.
Six runs from two balls. Not bad for a rusty old father of four.
"Show off," Declan mutters from behind me. But it's obvious he's teasing me.
As the game goes on, I manage another boundary, then a solid defensive block against a particularly nasty delivery from Thane Buchanan.
I glance over at Jennifer between balls. She's leaning forward in her seat, totally absorbed in the match. The other wives have draped an arm around her shoulders, and they're all cheering like maniacs. I feel ten feet tall just from knowing she's here, watching.
By the time our side is bowled out, I've managed to score twenty-eight runs. Not spectacular by any means, but respectable enough that I can hold my head high. The children are beside themselves with excitement as I jog off the pitch.
"Dad!" Henry launches himself at my legs. "You were amazing! Like a superhero but with a bat!"
I ruffle his hair. "Thanks, champ. I had a good teacher in your grandfather."
"Did you see me watching?" Charlotte asks, her eyes wide. "I didn't look away once, even when Amelia tried to distract me with candy."
"I did no such thing."
Now it's time to bowl again, and I'm batting the last delivery of the over.
Declan glances my way, winks, and takes his position.
I grip the bat tighter. This is it. The final ball of our innings.
Everything comes down to this moment. The crowd has gone eerily quiet, but I'm not anxious.
No, I'm reveling in the heat of the game.
Declan begins his run-up, his face a mask of determination. Despite us being on opposite teams, there's something almost ceremonial about this moment between us. Two British blokes reliving their youth through leather and willow.
The ball leaves his hand in a perfect arc, spinning just enough to catch the afternoon light.
I watch it bounce once on the pitch, then rise toward me with deceptive speed.
My body moves without conscious thought, stepping into the shot, rotating my hips, bringing the bat around in a smooth, controlled swing.
Contact.
The sound is different this time---cleaner, more resonant. The ball rockets off my bat with a satisfying thwack, sailing high over the heads of the fielders. I drop the bat and run like my life depends on it.
"Six!" Dane Dixon shouts from behind the stumps, and the crowd explodes.
I can barely hear anything over the roar of approval from my mates and my family. My legs feel like jelly as I complete the run, but I'm grinning so hard my cheeks ache. A six! I bloody well hit a six on the final ball!
Jennifer is screaming my name from the sidelines while jumping up and down. The American Wives Club women are all on their feet, cheering as if I've just won the World Cup.
"Fletcher! Fletcher! Fletcher!" Henry chants, his small voice carrying across the pitch as Josh joins in the chant along with Charlotte and Amelia.
My teammates rush toward me, whooping and hollering. Errol reaches me first, grabbing me in a bear hug that nearly lifts me off my feet. And somehow, I wind up on sitting on top of Dominic's shoulders.
"Fletcher Murgatroyd, you absolute legend!" he shouts, spinning round and round. "Did you see that ball fly? It's probably still traveling! Thirty-four runs, mate. You've earned your legendary status!"
Jennifer finally catches up to me, pushing through the pile of sweaty men to get there.
Dom leans over so I can slide off his shoulders.
My bride flings her arms around my neck, lifts herself onto her tiptoes, and kisses me with so deeply it's that's almost indecent.
My teammates whistle and whoop and cheer, but all the noise fades away as hoist Jennifer off her feet for an even deeper kiss.
The best part of all is that my kids think I'm a superhero. Yeah, I can live with that.