34. Briggs
brIGGS
Two weeks later…
“He hits you, and I swear to God, Kerrigan, you walk off that plate, I’m going to work you so hard you’re going to be sore for the rest of your life.”
Rival game.
Gotta love them.
Somehow, the Charleston River Otters have been holding on, and to say Coach Davidson is anxious is an understatement.
I can’t afford not to play until this all ends.
No matter what happens.
If I get suspended again, he’ll have my ass, but my team will step up when needed, and I don’t have to ask.
They’ll just do it.
I nod, acknowledging what he said, but when I step out of the dugout to get into the batter’s circle, he clutches onto my forearm.
Hard.
“Need words of confirmation,” he grounds out, irritated. “Got it?”
“Understood, Coach,” I deadpan before he promptly releases me so I can get to it.
Patiently, I wait for Thompson at bat; he strikes out and throws his bat to the ground in frustration before striding angrily toward the dugout.
I don’t tell him to chill because this is a big Series for us and, if we lose, we’re battling ourselves at this point.
Charleston shouldn’t be where they are but, by some voodoo magic or spell, they are.
And I know Cruz is going to have his boys try me every single game.
Approaching home plate, I stretch my back by pulling at both my arms, then settle in to position myself for my turn.
Pfifer Morrison.
A better pitcher than Cruz, in my biased opinion, but he throws a fastball like a bullet. They’re hard to catch, and he knows exactly where to place them.
Extending his leg and bringing it into his body, he hurls his first pitch to me without blinking, sending it across the plate with no hopes of blasting that one out of the park.
I think I’d rather go up against Cruz right now, honestly.
The catcher tosses it back as I take a step to regain composure and consider how I’m going to approach the next one.
We’re in Charleston, so the crowd is not in our favor, but that doesn’t matter to me. Someone yells out that I’m a bitch who can’t hit, but that’d be funny if his main pitcher didn’t try to hit me instead.
Morrison gives a curt nod to his catcher, acknowledging whatever signal he was given when the next pitch appears to be inside. I time it, swing, but the damn thing curves and thuds right against my arm.
I instantly drop the bat on a muttered fuck as I grip my limb to find out where the hell he hit me.
It’s completely numb, it fucking kills, but out the gate, I can’t determine what specific part hurts.
Men run past me, I can feel the air shifting with them, and I don’t need to bother to glance up to know the dugout has emptied with my team.
And it’s another Memphis versus Charleston fight all over again.
“Can you move your arm?” I hear one of our trainers, Max, ask, gently touching my other arm to get me to focus on him and not the scene happening on the field.
I extend it without an issue, but it still fucking kills. “Yeah.”
“Fingers?” Wiggling them around, he doesn’t wait for me to verbally confirm because he’s already inspecting it gently. “Swelling, it’s going to bruise like a bitch. Let’s get you in for an X-ray just in case—”
“I’m fine,” I cut in, knowing it’s protocol, but I don’t want to be out of this game. “I can play.”
“A ninety-eight mile per hour ball isn’t light work, Kerrigan. Coach is gonna want to make sure you didn’t fracture anything or—”
“I’m fine.”
“Kerrigan!” I hear Coach Davidson bark out, and I immediately grimace because he’s going to pull me out. “Get downstairs. We can’t have you playin’ on a hurt arm and makin’ it worse. The quicker you go, the quicker your back.”
Son of a bitch.
Glancing over to the field, it’s wild that he’s paying more attention to me than our players tussling and getting broken up by the umps and other players with more moral standing.
However, I know that no matter what, I’m still getting looked at, and it better not be anything serious or Morrison is next on my list.
Begrudgingly, I go with Max so I can get this over with.
If my playoff dreams are dead, I’m going to go on a killing spree.