Page 22 of Stolen Bases

I throw a modified fast ball for Turner, so the speed clocks in below eighty. The goal of today’s workout is to make sure my mechanics are on point. I can’t allow my body and arm to fall out of position lest I re-injure my elbow or, worse, my shoulder.

“Come on, Miller. If you plan on serving meatballs to every batter who faces you, you might as well quit now.”

This fucking guy. I bite my tongue until I can taste the copper tang of blood in my mouth. How is the kind, funny woman I met yesterday related to this prick? It honestly blows my mind.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Turner whispers to my back. “You know why we’re here. Focus on that. Give me one more slowed down, then let it rip.”

I nod, concentrating on my form as I step back with my arms up, then lift my leg and throw with my back foot. My throwing arm moves in the direction I want it to, no clicking or strain in my joints, as I release the ball right down the middle.

Nico catches the ball and shakes his head in mock disappointment. “You’re too old to be on the mound, Miller. Why don’t you leave the pitching to the young guys and retire? The Evaders might have a chance at winning the World Series if you do.”

“What a fucking asshole,” Turner growls behind me.

“Yup.” I pop the P like Rhys does.

Fuck, I miss that kid. I better call him tonight and see how he’s doing.

“Is he always like this?”

“This is pretty tame for him, so I think he’s actually trying to be nice.” Or he’s trying to prevent me from bringing up Talia.

“Pff.” Turner spits. “Please put this guy in his place.”

“With pleasure.”

Stepping back, I take a deep breath and go through the same motion as before, only this time, I push off my back leg with enough force to help my arm fly and let the ball rip down the pipe at a clocked ninety-five miles per hour.

The ball smacks into Nico’s glove with a pop—a sound so good, it even shuts Romero up.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Turner hollers. He holds out his knuckles for me to bump as Anson ambles over to the bullpen.

“I like what I’m seeing, Miller.” Anson runs his hand over his 70s pornstache, taking in the scene.

“Thanks, Coach.”

Romero shakes his head, but the mask covering his face can’t hide the disdain on his face. Lucky for me—or him; I haven’t decided yet—he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut around Anson.

“Take a break, get rubbed down and then cleaned up before batting practice. You too, Romero.”

“Yes, sir,” Nico says.

Anson leaves us, making his way to the next bullpen, where Fukui is pitching beside me. Nico pulls off the catcher’s mask, his face sweating, as I turn to Turner.

“Thanks for looking out, Coach T.” I lift my hat, wiping the sweat from my forehead.

“I got your back. Don’t let that little shit get in your head. Find a way to make peace with him. I would really love to win this year.”

“You and me both.” I look over at Romero. I have to admit I’m impressed he never brought up Talia or what happened last night. He ran his mouth, but it was the same stuff he likes to spout when he’s up to bat. “I’ll see you later.”

Dread for what’s going to be an uncomfortable conversation with my catcher settles like a lead ball in my stomach.

Romero catches sight of me and growls as I approach him. “What the fuck do you want, Miller?”

“Come on, man. You know what this is about.”

“If it’s about last night, I made it pretty fucking clear I want you to stay the hell away from my sister. In fact, just keep her name out of your fucking mouth.”

“So touchy. It’s not that big a deal. I was just—” I snap my mouth shut, recalling the way Talia looked when Kyle walked over. Nico has no clue about what went down, and she wants it to stay that way. While I disagree, that’s her story to tell, not mine. “I was getting to know her. No big deal.”

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