1. Killian
KILLIAN
“You’ve got a bad case of sticky balls, Haynesy! You need an ointment for that?” The heckle comes from somewhere near first base, but I try like hell to tune it out. Stupid fans say all kinds of dumb shit during games.
We’re up three to one in the bottom of the fourth and I just pitched two balls in a row.
Bishop gives me the sign for a curveball again but I shake my head.
My curve’s been garbage all night, and Bishop knows it.
That familiar twin look of annoyance crosses his face from behind his mask.
I know it well. I’ve seen it a few thousand times over the years.
It’s not that I don’t trust my brother. He’s been my catcher ever since I can remember. We grew up playing together and moved up through the ranks side by side. He knows the game and he knows my strengths and weaknesses. He never fails me even though I fail him left and right on the regular.
I wipe sweat from my brow with my forearm.
The late afternoon sun is doing its thing because the diamond feels ten degrees hotter than it did even an inning ago.
I’m aware of every single person in those stands in a way I shouldn’t be.
There’s a guy in a yellow shirt three rows behind the dugout, a kid with a foam finger near third base, and a woman with bright red hair behind first. Ten thousand people and not one of them is here to watch me fail. They want to see a home team win.
And that’s all on me.
I nod and wind up trying to focus on the grip of the ball in my hand and nothing else.
Just the grip. It feels slick in my fingers.
Slicker than before. My release is a fraction too early and the pitch hangs in the air like it’s got nowhere to be, fat and slow and obvious.
I know before it even gets there. The Rattlers’ cleanup hitter knows before it gets there.
Hell, the kid with the foam finger even knows.
The crack of the bat is less a sound than a feeling in my back teeth.
The ball soars over the left field fence and the crowd splits in half—cheers on one side, groans on the other—as the runner takes his sweet time around the bases, tying the game.
Fuck my life.
“Jesus Christ, Killian!” Bishop yanks off his mask as he storms toward the mound, his catcher’s gear clanking with each angry step. Daniels, the pitching coach, is already halfway out of the dugout before thinking better of it and stopping.
“What the hell was that?” Bishop asks once he nears me.
“Bad pitch.” I keep my eyes on the dirt in front of me. The crowd’s already letting me have it.
“Bad pitch.” He repeats it back to me like I said something stupid. “You hung it, bro. You hung it and you knew you were going to hang it before you even let go.”
“And you’re the one who fucking called it when I told you not to! I shout back at him, my blood pressure rising. “You know damn well my curve has been shit today but you couldn’t let it go.”
Bishop’s the only person alive who can say something like that to my face and still be standing there a second later. He’s also the only one I know who will willingly take my shit when I turn it back on him.
Brotherly love and all.
He’s not wrong though, which is even worse. I fucked it up and knew it would happen before it left my hand and he called me on it. I should be apologizing.
But I’m in the middle of a fucking game and I’m the ace pitcher for this team, not him. Killian Haynes doesn’t fucking apologize.
“I’m fine. Just let it go.”
“Uh huh. And I say you look great, so we’re both lying.” He holds my gaze for a beat, long enough that I have to look away first, which I hate. The umpire circles a finger in the air and Bishop tucks his mask back under his arm. “Is Daniels going to pull me out?”
The last thing I want is to be pulled in the fourth inning. I know I’m having a bad night…okay, a bad string of nights, but I need to do this.
“If you keep pitching like you just did? Fucking right he will.” He taps my arm once with his glove. “Come on, man. You’re Killian fucking Haynes. Act like it.”
My brother walks back to his position and I take a deep breath, trying to find my center, but the tightness in my chest only worsens.
The next batter steps up to the plate, a cocky rookie who’s been trash-talking the entire series.
I need to shut him down, show everyone I’m still the ace, still the guy who can handle the pressure.
Bishop is right. I’m Killian fucking Haynes, the starting pitcher for the Portland Lagers, and I’ll be damned if I let this rookie take me out.
Though my fingers feel numb as I grip the ball, I wind up and release, and the pitch sails high and outside.
Ball one.
Fuuuck.
The crowd’s gripes grow louder.
“Put that one away Haynes,” the same voice from a moment ago calls out again, brighter now, like she’s settling in for a full conversation. “That curve’s got a kink. Bring her back once she’s been a good girl.”
The crowd around her chuckles and I hear their laughter from the mound.
I should be pissed. I should want to flip her off and have her ejected from the game, but deep down in my soul, I know she’s right.
My curveball sucks ass today and Bishop won’t leave it alone.
My arm’s a fraction late. My brain’s five steps ahead of my body and none of it is lining up.
I look for his signal as the rookie waggles his bat, eager for another mistake on my part.
Of course he calls another curve.
Fuck the curveballs, bro.
I hold his gaze a second longer this time and give my head the slightest shake staring him down, refusing to take his call. Maybe this time he should trust me instead of the other way around.
After a lengthy standoff between Hop and I, he shakes his head and signals something I can agree with.
Fastball.
Yeah, that’s better.
That I can handle.
I wind up and fire a fastball that paints the outside corner. The umpire’s right arm shoots up.
“Strike one!”
The crowd roars and once the noise dies down, I hear the mystery girl once again. “Atta boy,” she says, like she’s rewarding a dog for learning a trick. “See? That’s growth.”
My lips twitch before I can stop them.
Whoever is heckling me from the stands had better be worth looking at, because right now she’s got more of my attention than the rookie at the plate.
She wants to see growth?
I’ll show her what growth really looks like while she screams my name.
“Relax your shoulders,” she adds, almost conversational now. “You look like you’re trying to bench press the stadium.”
I don’t need another fucking coach, sweetheart.
I roll my shoulders once, and then again, more out of irritation the second time because I fucking listened to the mystery woman and rolled them the first time.
What the hell am I doing? She’s not my coach and she’s not the trainer, yet here I am standing on the mound in front of thousands of people, heeding every word she says.
Surprisingly though, my shoulders loosen a little which causes me to blink.
Huh.
I set myself again, nodding to Bishop’s second fastball call.
There’s no overthinking this time. No running through mechanics and no arguing with myself.
I just throw the ball. It leaves my hand clean, cutting through the air with that sharp, satisfying snap I’ve been chasing all inning.
Bishop’s glove pops as it lands dead center.
“Strike two.”
The batter shifts, stepping out, resetting, suddenly not nearly as comfortable as he was thirty seconds ago.
“Well, will you look at that? He’s not a train wreck; there’s a goddamn pitcher in there.
Toot toot, motherfuckers!” The crowd around her laughs and this time I crack a smile because damn, I’ve got to hand it to the mystery woman.
That’s my kind of humor. Pretty sure I’ve shouted similar words at my television while watching games.
I huff out a breath that’s dangerously close to a laugh and then remind myself to focus on this last pitch.
One more.
I’ve got this.
Toot toot, motherfuckers!
That voice. Her voice. It’s still there in my head as I throw the ball and watch as the pitch snaps into Bishop’s glove with a crack that echoes loud and clean.
“Strike three!”
The crowd erupts into a full-body roar as I step off the mound. My chest expands, breath finally coming easy as my teammates start moving, the inning over, the out secured.
Thank Christ.
Taking a step toward the dugout, I turn and look toward first base. I don’t mean to. I know I shouldn’t, but I do it anyway.
“Attaboy, Haynesy.” A few sections up from first base, she’s leaning forward in her seat like she’s been watching me the whole time. My breath catches in my throat as I take her in.
Well holy shit, it’s the redheaded girl.
Her locks cascade over her shoulders in waves that catch the sunlight like fire.
She’s wearing a simple white tank top under a Lagers jersey and part of me desperately wants to know whose name is written across the back.
A little smug and a lot amused, her lips curve into a knowing smile when she realizes I see her, like she’s aware of exactly what she’s done to me from fifty feet away and she’s entirely too satisfied with herself.
She lifts her brows almost like she’s saying, “You’re welcome,” and I find myself appreciating her spitfire-like attitude. She’d probably be a fun fuck if given the chance.
Maybe I can find a way to repay her after the game.
I shake my head more to myself than to her and then I turn away, heading for the dugout before I do something stupid like acknowledge any further that she just helped me get out of that inning…that she calmed my anxiety before I got myself removed from the game.
Not that I will ever admit it.
Bishop falls into step beside me, his catcher’s mask now dangling from his hand.
“That’s more like it.” He nods toward the stands where the redhead is still watching us. “Who the hell is that? One of your recent fuck buddies?”
“No idea,” I mutter, but I can’t help stealing another glance her way. She’s leaning back now, her lips around the straw of her cup, looking happy as hell as she laughs with the woman sitting next to her.
“Well, whoever she is, she just saved your ass.” Bishop bumps my shoulder with his. “You were about to spiral.”
“Fuck off,” I lie, even though we both know he’s right. The familiar tightness that had been building inside is gone now though, replaced by something lighter.
Probably relief.
“Yeah, okay.” Bishop rolls his eyes. “Just don’t get too distracted. We’ve got five more innings.”
“Five more innings,” I repeat, more to myself than to him.
When we reach the dugout, Coach Martinez gives me a curt nod. “Nice save, Haynes. Keep it up.”
I grab my water bottle and take a long swig, letting the cold liquid wash away the last of my tension.
“You gonna look for her after the game?” Bishop asks, leaning against the dugout railing next to me.
I shoot him a look. “For what?”
“You know exactly for what,” he laughs. “You owe her.”
“Bullshit. I owe that woman absolutely nothing.”
Though if she were to be hanging around later, I may be willing to play a round or two tonight if she asks nicely.
“Not to mention she’s probably married or spoken for or whatever weird shit girls are committed to these days. Now leave me alone,” I say, taking the iPad from Daniels so I can look over my past pitches. “I need to focus.”
“Sure you do.” Bishop’s chuckle and accompanying smirk tells me he doesn’t believe a word out of my mouth. “Just don’t let her get in your head again.” He shrugs. “Or…you know, fuck it, let her do all she wants with your head. It works for you.”
“She wasn’t in my head,” I lie, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re bullshit.
That redhead had cut through my anxiety like it was nothing, her voice somehow slicing through the noise of my own thoughts.
And now as I sit here watching Brock Adams take his place at bat, I wonder if the redheaded mystery girl will stay for the whole game.