Page 3 of Stolen Bases

“Do you see it?” Coach Turner asks, rewinding the film for us to review again.

Matt “The Bullet” Turner never misses a thing. It’s why he’s one of the best pitching coaches out there. He’s a two-time World Series winner and has pitched three no-hitters, putting him in the baseball Hall of Fame with pitchers like Cy Young. Now, the Tom Selleck looking pitcher spends his retirement days coaching us on how to keep our bodies strong for long-lasting careers like his.

“Yeah, I see it,” I grouse.

“How’s your arm, Cam?” Before I open my mouth, he cuts me off and huffs. “And don’t bullshit me.”

I scoff, lifting my hat off my head and running my fingers through my shaggy curls.Fuck, I need a trim. “Like I would ever chance an injury, Coach T.”

“Really?” he asks like he doesn’t know I was the one who signaled for Anson, our team manager, to pull me out in the middle of the seventh inning.

Unfortunately, sending me off wasn’t enough. We ended up losing the last game of the series to the San Francisco Goliaths, which knocked us out of the pennant race.

Not only did we lose the division championships, but we also lost our catcher, Gage Thompson, in a freak accident when a runner on third decided to steal home, cleats up. Thompson took the hit, but he broke his fibula and pulled his groin, effectively ending his career. Now our trusted catcher is gone.

My elbow is the least of my worries at the moment, as I think back to my earlier call with Eli.

Shaking it off, I concentrate on my job. “Really. Elbow is good. You know I don’t fuck around. I’ve been following all of Doc’s instructions. I feel strong and ready for the season to start.”

Not a lie. I have been ready since I walked onto the field for my first T-ball game. I knew then that I wanted to be a baseball player.I’m in my early thirties now, but my dream is still the same.

There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to stay in the game.

Strict rehab? Extra training sessions? Daily PT? You name it; consider it done. Going above and beyond to ensure my career lasts has always been my top priority. Even if I can’t pitch, I’m prepared to make my mark in any position.

I eat, sleep, and breathe baseball.

I have no off-season. When I’m not pitching, I’m hitting, running, and doing field drills to keep my skills sharp. I’m what you call a five-tool player, and I have worked my ass to be seen as such.

“That’s what I like to hear. As for this, I’m going to chalk the elbow strain up to you pushing too hard. I’ll be watching you when we start up. I don’t want to see these lazy mechanics. You’re better than this, Miller.” Coach Turner isn’t telling me something I don’t already know.

As soon as I was off the mound, my dad was texting, concerned about my arm and criticizing my throw. Mark Miller takes injuries seriously. He ruined his shoulder playing ball in high school, killing his dream of making it to the big leagues. It’s one of the many reasons he pushed me to finish college before going pro.

Always have a backup plan.

“Yes, sir,” I joke with a salute.

Turner’s lips twitch from under his thick, graying mustache as he turns back to the screen.

We continue to watch more tape of me on the mound, making notes on what else I need to be aware of when we get back into the bullpen.

A knock sounds behind me, and coach Anson appears at the door, his grizzled face set in a scowl, per usual, as he grunts, “Miller. My office. Now.” He turns and leaves without another word.

“The boss has spoken. Better hurry.” Turner turns off the video feed. “We can pick this up tomorrow. Don’t forget to follow up with Doc before you head out on vacation.”

“Will do. Thanks, Coach.”

The air is hot and stagnant as I make my way to the boss’s office. I might as well be walking the green mile to my fucking death sentence right now. My heart rate spikes, and my palms sweat as I follow the corridor towards Anson’s office. I nod at a couple of trainers and Evaders staff members as I pass them, my ever-playful smile securely in place and masking the inner turmoil taking root in my head.

Rowan Anson sits behind his desk, staring at his laptop, his sandy-brown hair hidden beneath his ball cap. He’s in his mid-to-late fifties, but you wouldn’t know it if you looked at him. A former player himself, Anson stays in shape, many times working out with the team and putting us through the wringer. He is by far one of the best managers in the league, with three World Series wins with the Boston Revs.

When the Evaders poached him two years ago, it was one of the greatest days in my life. I’ve been a fan since I was a kid. To work with him is a dream come true. I know our team can claim the trophy with him at the helm, leading us there.

I knock on the door frame, grabbing his attention. “You wanted to see me, Coach?”

“Close the door and take a seat, son.” He points to the oversized navy armchair in front of his desk.

I do as he asks and close the door, giving us privacy. The hairs on the back of my neck tingle.

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