Chapter 4
My old man taught me how to throw a baseball before I could walk.
There are endless photos in my folks’ place of me as a baby dressed in baseball onesies and lying on my belly wearing backward caps that drooped down to cover my eyes, never fitting my tiny head properly.
I don’t remember any of this for shit, but Mom loves to retell the same story about me at every family function.
The one where I’m sitting in my fuzzy red Elmo chair with a baseball in my lap and a Bobcats jersey with my dad’s number on the back drooping off my tiny body as I said my first word.
Strike.
Both my parents thought it was some miracle. Like that singular word that I had most likely only repeated after hearing a million times in my first year of life was a sign that I was going to take after my dad.
While I don’t believe in fate the way they do, they weren’t exactly wrong.
No magical power selected and determined my path before my birth; instead, I did everything I could to turn it into my reality. Not for my dad or his love of the sport, but because it made me happy.
It gave me a purpose. There was always a fire in me that rode me hard toward success, and baseball fanned those flames. I wanted to be the best. Anything else wasn’t good enough. Isn’t good enough.
While I always knew baseball was going to be my future, it wasn’t the only sport I ever played. I was an energized kid and an even more antsy teenager. School wasn’t interesting to me, and I only ever did enough to get a passing grade so that I could keep my spot on the team rosters.
There’s no denying that I grew up pretty privileged.
I didn’t have to work after school or on the weekends, which left me with too much time to spare, especially when baseball season was over.
That led me to get into hockey. I played all throughout junior high and into the tenth grade before I gave it up.
It was fun, but nothing compared to baseball. Not to mention, I risked too many injuries that would have cost me my spot on my baseball team. My one and only fight had my knuckles so swollen I couldn’t throw a ball for a week. I never did that shit again.
Flexing my fingers around the baseball in my hand, I find my placement and get into position.
The coach waiting for my throw at the end of the bullpen nods his head for me, and I let the ball go.
The crowd surrounding us is deafeningly loud as the bottom of the eighth inning continues on the field.
I tune them all out as I watch the ball disappear into the worn brown leather.
Stretching my neck out, I lift my gloved hand and catch his return throw.
The Havoc are only up by one in this game, and while Kellan gave me a hell of a hard time when I didn’t play yesterday, there was no reason for me to. Our bats were on fire, and we had eleven runs come home compared to the other team’s four.
That isn’t the case today, and I’m grateful for it, as selfish as that is. I don’t like to sit for over two games max, or I grow too restless. My recovery is just fine on that timeline, despite some of the armchair GMs who love to say otherwise. They’re white noise to me.
When I first joined the league, I was a long reliever, so constantly pitching only one inning now is easy work for me. It’s not my fault if there are those out there who doubt that. My near-zero ERA speaks for itself, especially since we’re already almost three months into the season.
I steal a glance over the railing. The scoreboard shows a blown-up photo of Wes as “Partition” by Beyoncé plays through the stadium, and he approaches the batter’s box. My eyes roll automatically as I quirk a grin and stroke a finger down the seam of the ball.
We’re already at two outs with the bases empty.
Wes isn’t a bad hitter by any means and can homer a ball more often than anyone would have expected, but tonight hasn’t been his best outing.
He does a slow practice swing to loosen up before lifting his bat and staring down the pitcher.
I feel the blood flowing through my muscles and inhale slowly, filling my lungs to bursting before letting it go.
The first time his bat cuts through the air, he misses.
It was a quick splitter to the bottom left corner of the zone.
Without watching his next two swings, I put my focus back on the practice catcher and nod to continue.
We throw two more practice balls before the lights are changing and I’m striding for the exit.
I drag a knuckle along the back of my glove the same way I do every time I leave the bullpen and let my eyes adjust to the sudden flashes of lights before I stride forward.
“Back In Black” pulses through the stadium as I pick up into a jog with my eyes laser-focused on the hill and the umpire standing there waiting for me.
The sound of my name being announced has my adrenaline throbbing in my veins.
I soak up the cheers, letting them calm some of the energy beneath my skin before I start twitching.
I offer my glove and hands easily, allowing the ump to check them over.
Once he’s happy with what he hasn’t found, he hands them back, and I give him a nod of thanks.
Wes is already squatting behind home plate, changed into his catcher gear and making eye contact with me immediately.
I flash him a grin and throw a few warm-up pitches once the lights return to normal and the music dies.
Our pitching coach, Kordell Bailey, is watching from the dugout, alongside Roman Shore, our manager.
Finn is in discussion with Kellan, having covered his jersey with a Havoc hoodie after finishing the first seven innings today.
The rest of the guys are chowing down on sunflower seeds and chatting, distracting themselves from the close game and any nerves they might have.
I steady myself on the mound and let the dugout fade to the background.
I’m facing the top of the order, and excitement burns through my stomach, making my fingers tremble around the ball Wes has thrown my way.
My deep green glove blends into the fabric of my jersey as I adjust my belt and set myself.
I watch the first batter come into the box and get adjusted.
There’s no stress rocking through me as I wait for his nod.
This is what I do. The high-pressure stakes of this game, this inning, are what I live for. I wouldn’t change it for the world.
Wes sets up, and I listen to his call, accepting it. My following pitch cuts through the centre at a speed too fast for the batter to catch a piece of. I feel the lurch of my heart when Wes catches the ball and clutch onto the swell of adrenaline, using it to ground me.
There’s a special relationship that you build with your catcher, especially one as elite as Wesley Hayes. One after another, I throw what he decides and let my fist pump toward the ground when I strike the first batter out after three pitches.
The second goes down a bit harder, catching a slider I couldn’t place quite right and fouling it off. I catch a new ball from Wes and shake it off, setting again. Looking behind me, I hold my position for a beat before facing forward to send my next pitch.
Two outs.
The designated hitter leaves the circle and finds his place at home plate.
He drags his bat over the dirt twice and rolls his shoulders while I pull my play card from my back pocket, looking it over.
A beat later, I tuck it away and watch him closely, not shy when it comes to baseball.
When Wes’ call comes in, I pause, recalling what I’ve just read.
My mind works for a second before I shake my head and wait for him to choose something else. The second is much better, and I nod at him before setting again. Five seconds count down on the pitch clock as I lift my knee and send the ball piercing through the air.
The sound of it hitting Wes’ glove fills the air as I blow out a rough breath and find my balance. It was a fast throw, somewhere close to a hundred and three, if I had to guess. Pride sparks before I extinguish it, not ready to celebrate yet.
The tens of thousands of fans attending today’s game stand and start to cheer so loudly it nearly hurts my ears as I register the two-strike count.
My body moves nearly on autopilot as I bring my glove up and shield the ball behind it, my fingers spreading just right.
The only thing on my mind is finishing this game when I let the ball go, watching it curve and drop just right.
In a flash, Wes is snapping it into his glove and popping up, his eyes on the ump behind him and not the batter who didn’t swing.
My gut twinges, confirming the strike call at the same time the umpire does. I can feel my lips spreading in a grin at the same time my fist flies up and I jump off the hill. Wes abandons his helmet on the dirt as he rushes to me and smacks both hands against my back.
“Fucking legend, man,” he announces, eyes wild.
I grip the back of his neck and give him a light shake as our teammates swarm around us. We’re the only team left on the field now, but I don’t pay the other a moment of my attention as my ass gets smacked and Finn plants a fat kiss on my head.
He’s beaming when I turn toward him. “That’s our boy. A near-perfect inning.”
“Near perfect?” I echo, scowling.
“Take the compliment before I revoke it.”
I ignore our manager as he steps up beside me and poke Finn in the cheek. “You can’t take back a compliment.”
“Ten balls for the three outs? Those are rookie numbers for you, Becky,” he drawls, already retreating to start a handshake line.
His teasing is familiar, so I let it go with a laugh.
Roman settles beside me and claps a hand to my back, offering me a firm nod.
I’m close to making a comment about him being so nice to me after the bitter cold shoulder he’s given me the last few days, but decide against it.
His surly attitude isn’t anything new, but it’s been almost comical to watch him grow jealous of my friendship with Wes’ sister, Brielle.
I don’t know if anyone else has noticed, but he’s obsessed with her. I’ve had the time of my life getting a rile out of him because of it.
“You happy, Coach?” I ask before he can slip away.
His hands find the pockets of his baseball pants, a stiffness causing his shoulders to rise a bit. “Hard not to be when my team plays like this. You did good, Beckett.”
“Not good enough for you to shorten my name, eh?”
“Not yet,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s joking around. If that’s possible for him.
Thank you, Brielle.
“Challenge accepted,” I tell him before giving him the chance to leave.
He takes it eagerly and makes his way back to the dugout.
I fall into line behind my teammates and slap a few hands as I work to release some of the adrenaline I’m feeling.
It will take me a while to shake it completely, and I’ll most likely wind up in a freezing shower with my hand around my dick for a while once I’ve made it back home.
A year ago, I’d have been working through this seemingly endless well of energy differently. In a way that would include a woman and a long, long night of fucking.
Things are very unusual for me now, and I still don’t know how to feel about that. It’s a problem for another day.
Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, preferably.