Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
Hayes
It’s hard to concentrate knowing Leighton and the kids are in the stands.
Between every inning, I smile over at them when I make my way back to the dugout.
Lake looks mostly disinterested, Lincoln is on the edge of his seat, and Monroe usually has her back turned, talking to the people in the row behind her.
Even though I feel more pressure with their presence, I like having them see me in my element. It gives me a little extra jolt to show off.
My first time at the plate, I got a double to right field that was just on the line. Even Lake was on her feet, cheering. I should’ve been looking at the dugout, but I looked at Leighton first.
Things have been so good since we crossed the line.
Her insatiable sex drive is addictive as hell, but it’s not only that she’s just as into the sex as I am.
It’s everything else too. Coming home to her after a home game, snuggling on the couch with her legs swung over mine, the fact that we figure out dinner together.
She gave me a phenomenal thank-you blow job the other night after the kids went to bed when she came home from work and I had finished the laundry and dinner was on the table.
And turns out her hands are good at a lot of things, massages included. My legs have never felt better.
Ian drives me in with a single, and as I cross home plate, I glance in their direction. They’re all cheering, and I give them a wave.
“Man, you’re on fire,” Decker says when I reach the dugout.
“It’s the power of Leighton,” Easton says.
“That the girlfriend?” Drew asks.
“Yup.” I pick up my drink and take a swig.
“You should think about getting one, they’re good for the mojo,” Easton says, turning around from the railing to smugly smile at Drew. “You could use a little luck.” He points at our makeshift board. Right now, us infielders are ahead on bases for the month.
Drew scowls at him. “I don’t need a chick to make me play well.”
Easton goes at him again. “If you had one, maybe you wouldn’t have struck out today.”
“The umpire has a shit zone,” Drew snipes.
“It’s always something, right?” Easton winks at him.
Thankfully, Ripley waves me over and I get a reprieve from the Easton versus Drew battle.
“What’s up?”
Our new manager was on the staff in Seattle, and at first, I wasn’t sure if he’d hold last year against me, but he doesn’t seem to be.
“What do you think about Taz? How’s he doing?” He never takes his eyes off the field.
I glance down the dugout to look at Taz. He was a little off the last inning, but I think he has more in him. “I’d say one more.”
“Me too. You two will go back out there, but be prepared for relief.”
I nod. “Sounds good.”
“You’re hitting great lately.” He nods toward the stands. “That your family?”
“Yeah, my girlfriend. She just got guardianship of her nieces and nephew.” Saying it that way is easier than trying to say cousin once removed and explaining the whole situation.
He nods and glances at me. “You seem really… good.”
“I am.” And I am. It makes me a little afraid that something bad is coming my way.
He smiles briefly, then dismisses me by not talking anymore and concentrating on the game.
I get the rest of my gear on and get ready to go.
When the inning ends, I jog out and meet Taz on the mound.
He shakes me off all the time, but since this is likely his last inning in this game, I’d like us to be on the same page, even though he thinks he knows more than I do.
It pisses me off, as if I don’t do my research.
“You don’t have to visit me. I want to start with the curve,” he says.
“Your sinker is looking good today. I say we start with the sinker and then go into a slider.”
He’s shaking his head before I’ve finished my sentence. “Curve, four seam, slider.”
“No sinker?”
I hate dealing with pitchers like him. Makes me miss Foster. He was by far the best pitcher I ever caught for. When he was at the mound, it felt a little more like a partnership. He always took my opinion into account.
“Not unless I’m at full count,” Taz says.
I lower my mask to hide my expression. “You got it.” On the way back to the plate, I grumble, “And I bet you last one fucking batter.”
I squat in place. I still call the sequence I want, but Taz shakes me off, so I purposely give him two more pitches just to piss him off.
I get ready for the pitch, and he throws a curve that hangs too long. Bedard is too good a hitter not to grab hold of it. I hear it echo off the bat, and Taz is already hanging his head before the ball sails past the ivy wall and into the bleachers.
And that makes Milwaukee down by one, which means we’re in trouble.
Ripley walks over to the mound right away, shaking his head. I jog over, as does our infield.
Easton and Decker glance at me because they know the problems I always have with Taz.
“Interesting call on the first pitch.” Ripley doesn’t look at Taz or me, and I hope he saw Taz shake off my suggestion. He holds out his hand, and Taz puts the ball into his palm with a little more force than necessary and walks off the field.
We all pat his back, but he pouts as he always does. Such a fucking baby. He’s been in the league long enough to be pissed but know he still has to act mature about it. He pitched a great two innings in relief, and now the closer will come in and finish it off.
All the fans clap for Taz as he heads to the dugout, and we remain circling the mound, waiting to see who is coming in from the bullpen.
The lights of the stadium go out, and we all look at each other.
Ripley fights a smile. He definitely knows what’s about to happen.
The stadium lights come back on slowly just before the Jumbotron flashes ALL ABOARD!
in bold, blinding letters. A train engine bursts from the shadows on the screen, wheels sparking as it barrels down tracks of pure lightning, racing straight toward the fans until it feels as if it might crash through the screen.
“Oh shit,” I say under my breath.
Easton’s eyes widen, and he turns to me.
I shake my head. I had no fucking clue.
“What the fuck?” Decker shouts over the music.
The music volume comes down a bit.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the stadium announcer says, “it’s closing time. Please rise and welcome to the mound the Chicago Colts’s newest closer… number fourteen… FOSSTTEERR ‘The Reaper’ DAVVIISS!”
Foster jogs out of the bullpen and stops at the edge of the infield to let the umpire check his hands and glove for any illegal sticky shit.
We’re still in disbelief as he approaches us. This is going to change the entire dynamic of the team, but I can’t say I’m not happy to see him.
When he reaches us, the bad boy of baseball fist-bumps all the guys, his full sleeve of tattoos on display. I realize, to no surprise, that he’s added to his neck tattoos since I last saw him.
When he gets to Decker, Foster nods. “Happy to see me?”
Decker says nothing, clenching his jaw, and goes back to third base.
“I’ll take that as a no.” Foster’s smile is wicked and dangerous, and he’s getting way too much pleasure from this surprise.
“What the hell?” I say.
We don’t have time to talk right now, so he smiles and says with a shrug, “Got traded.”
“But…”
“I’ll tell you after. Let me shut this game down first.”
“What—”
“Let’s have some fun.”
I nod and head back to the plate, but I turn around to make sure I’m not imagining that Foster Davis is now a Chicago Colt.
I squat to catch his warm-up throws, and I spot Decker standing at third, staring a hole through his twin brother. They’re fraternal twins, and besides not looking the same, they couldn’t be more different.
This won’t be good for the camaraderie of the team, but it’s nice to have my best friend back.