Chapter 2 #2
"He's just being polite," I mumble, but my traitorous hand waves back.
The national anthem plays, the lineup is announced, and Jay takes the mound for his warmup pitches. His motion is smoother than in college, more controlled. The surgery and rehab made him rebuild everything, and he came back better.
"So explain what's happening," Megan says as the first batter steps up. "I know nothing about baseball."
"Well," I start carefully, "the pitcher throws the ball, and the batter tries to hit it."
Jay delivers his first pitch—a fastball that paints the outside corner for a called strike. His velocity is up from last week. Must be the extra rest between starts.
"Was that good?" Megan asks.
"Very good," I say, then catch myself. "I mean, I think so? The umpire put his hand up, so... probably?"
Jay strikes out the first batter on four pitches. Then the second on five. By the time he's mowed through the first inning on eleven total pitches, I'm gripping my scorecard—wait, when did I get a scorecard?—so tightly it's crumpling.
"He's doing well, right?" Greg asks. "Seems like their batters can't hit anything."
"His fastball's really moving tonight," I say without thinking. "And that curveball is filthy. He's getting great break on it, probably because—" I stop, realizing everyone is staring at me. "I mean... the ball does seem very... curvy?"
"Tracy." Megan's voice is flat. "Did you just say 'filthy' about a baseball pitch?"
"Is that... not right?"
"And you're keeping score." She points to my scorecard, which is indeed meticulously filled out with Jay's pitch count, locations, and results. "You're actually keeping score."
"I'm just... making notes. For fun. Random notes."
"You marked that last pitch as a backdoor slider for a swinging strike three."
I look down at my scorecard. Yep, there it is in my handwriting. "Lucky guess?"
Jay strikes out the side in the second inning. Then again, in the third. The crowd is getting louder with each out, and I'm trying so hard not to react like I know what's happening. But when he hits double-digit strikeouts in the fourth, I can't help myself.
"Come on, Jay," I mutter. "Keep it low, he's a low-ball hitter."
The batter grounds out weakly to first.
"How," Megan says slowly, "did you know he was a low-ball hitter?"
"I... ESPN?" I try weakly.
"You think they cover Triple-A scouting reports on ESPN?"
"Maybe?"
"Oh my word. Just stop it."
I slump in my seat. "Fine. I might know slightly more about baseball than I said."
"Slightly more?" She grabs my scorecard. "You have his pitch count broken down by type and location!"
"It's really not that complicated once you understand the basics?—"
"You were his good-luck charm!" The revelation hits her like a lightning bolt. "Oh my gosh, you were the girl who sat behind home plate at every game! The one in his jersey!"
"Megan, please?—"
"The one who made those signs! 'K Counter' with the little tally marks!"
"That was a long time ago?—"
"No wonder he's been so weird about you all week," Greg interjects. "He mentioned he had a bad stretch after college, but wouldn't say why."
I wince. I know exactly what bad stretch he means. I was there, hiding in the visitor section, watching him fall apart on the mound after we broke up. He kept looking for me behind home plate, and I kept sliding lower in my seat.
Jay strikes out the side again in the fifth. Fifteen strikeouts through five innings. The stadium announcer mentions it's a career high, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from correcting him—Jay struck out sixteen in the conference championship junior year.
"This is incredible," someone behind us says. "He's unhittable tonight!"
I know why. It's the same reason he pitched lights-out in college when I was there. The same reason his best games always came when he knew I was watching. Some athletes have physical tells when they're on—Jay gets this tiny smirk after each strikeout, like he's sharing a private joke with someone.
He's doing it tonight. After every K, that little smirk aimed at our section.
"I need air," I announce, standing abruptly.
"But it's the seventh inning!" Megan protests. "Don't you want to see?—"
"Bathroom. Back in a minute."
I flee up the stairs, but instead of the bathroom, I find myself at the concourse railing where I can watch without being watched. Jay's at nineteen strikeouts now, one away from the league record. The crowd is on its feet.
He steps back on the rubber, and I see him do it—the thing he always did before the biggest pitches. He touches his glove to his chest, right over his heart, then looks toward our seats.
I'm not there. But I'm watching. I'm always watching.
He throws a curveball that breaks so sharply the batter's knees buckle. Strike three. Twenty strikeouts. A new Austin Stars single-game record.
The crowd erupts. His teammates mob him. And I'm crying behind a concrete pillar at a minor league baseball game because Jay Talley just pitched the game of his life, and I can't even hug him.
I make it back to my seat for the ninth inning, eyes hopefully not too red. Jay's still dealing, his pitch count getting high but his stuff still electric. When he gets strikeout number twenty-one to end the game, the fireworks start immediately.
"That was amazing!" Megan shouts over the noise. "We have to go congratulate him!"
The team is doing a victory lap, high-fiving fans along the fence. Jay reaches our section, accepts congratulations from Greg and the guys, signs baseballs for kids. When he gets to me, he holds out a ball.
"For you," he whispers. "Figured you might want to start a new collection."
I take the ball with shaking hands. He's signed it, but not with his current number. He's written "22"—his college number. The one I have on a jersey in a box under my bed.
"Thanks," I reply.
"Thank you," he says, and I know he's not talking about taking the ball.
The fireworks boom overhead, and the team heads back to the clubhouse. I stand there clutching a signed baseball while my sister pieces together five years of secrets in real-time.
"So," she says as we file out with the crowd. "Twenty-one strikeouts. Is that good?"
"It's perfect," I say, not even trying to lie anymore. "He was perfect."
She links her arm through mine. "Want to tell me why you know his college number?"
"No."
"Want to tell me why he looked at you before every big pitch?"
"No."
"Want to tell me why you're crying?"
"Definitely no."
"Okay." She squeezes my arm. "Want to tell me what you're going to do about it?"
I look down at the baseball in my hands, at the number that means he remembers everything too. "I have absolutely no idea."
"Well," she says as we reach the parking lot, "good thing we have five more days to figure it out."
Five more days. Five more days of pretending I'm not completely in love with Jay Talley. Of him being perfect and kind and still looking for me in the stands.