Page 34 of The Catcher

Tre’s eyes were concerned, and he came over to me, standing beside me, leaning against the wall, and we both watched Tanner stretch on the field, long strong legs, asshole stance, big broad shoulders.

“Are you OK?” Tre asked.

No

“Can I do anything to help?” he tried again.

Also no. I’ve tried everything I can think of to stop Tanner Courtenay and none of it is strong enough.

“No,” I said, trying to smile at him.

It was only 1 pm, but the crowd at the ballpark already seemed half-drunk, wildly drunk. We were in the homestretch of the season now. The next few weeks would determine if the Phoenixes made the playoffs.

The tension stretched as the game settled into a pitcher’s duel. Tre was pitching well. The Phoenixes were hitting well, but unable to bring anyone home. The game was tied at 1-1 at the top of the 9th, and Tre had finally been taken out in favor of our light’s out closer, DeShaun. DeShaun was the best in baseball.

But I watched in horror as the opposing team hit a single. Then another single. Then a walk. The stadium was so loud Tanner called for timeout, walking out to the mound to talk to DeShaun. I couldn’t see what Tanner was saying with his glove over his mouth and I started chewing my lip nervously. DeShaun nodded, and Tanner went back behind the plate.

Whatever he had said worked, because DeShaun smoked the next batter. 1 ball, 3 strikes, out swinging.

But there were still three men on base, and even a pop fly would put the opposing team in the lead.

The next guy hit a little bloop of a single, right by Steak. I saw the runner at third start to sprint toward home. Steak was not the most agile defensively, but he miraculously managed to snag the ball and I heard Tanner call for it. Steak threw the ball, a bit wildly, and I saw Tanner throw off his mask to catch it.

But the guy at third was almost home and Tanner turned, hurling himself toward the runner. They collided and rolled over home plate, the collision sending up puffs of dirt in the air. The stadium was shaking with the roars of the crowd as we waited to watch the replay, all the Matts like a surround-sound in my ears.

The angle of the replay on the big screen was perfect.

Tanner had beaten him by an inch, maybe two.

My ears rang with the noise. I wanted to look away, not absorb the sight of Tanner covered in dirt, spitting blood on the ground, but I couldn’t.

The player he had tagged out waspissed. This was a division rival and they were barely ahead of the Phoenixes. And Tanner had flipped his bat. The other player yelled something at Tanner, getting in his face and grabbing his shirt. Then the other guy swung wildly at him.

Well, I could have goddamn fucking told him that testing Tanner was a stupid idea. Tanner hit back, but he didn’t miss. He connected with the other player’s jaw, sending him staggering back, and I heard the outraged squawks of all the Matts as the benches cleared around me, Lou leading the charge onto the field.

The crowd screamed even louder, and I started hearing them chant Tanner’s name as he grappled with the other team, both teams out on the field now in a wild maelstrom of angry fists.

This, from a PR perspective,is very good, I thought to myself, trying to pretend that my heart hadn’t been in my throat when the other player had swung at Tanner.

Tanner’s punch had been the worst of the fight, though, and the other player was ejected from the game since he had thrown the first, ineffective haymaker.

As the whole stadium buzzed with nervous, frenetic energy, the next player grounded out and the inning was over.

I knew better than to look away, so I kept my eyes on him, and when Tanner stepped down into the dugout, he smiled at me, bared teeth, his smile bloody and vicious, and I didn’t have the strength to resist as he came over and kissed me again, his blood coppery and warm in my mouth.

Comehere

Comehr

Em

It almost seemed like there was no other option for that game, no other way it could have gone. With the stadium in near-hysterics, Miguel had hit a leadoff double and Steak, who was only hitting .209, had knocked him in with a single. The guys had rented a few of the rooms at the top of the hotel I was staying in to celebrate their win.

I was lying in my pajama shorts and top in bed.

I got up and wrapped myself in a big thick bathrobe. Let him try to fuck me throughthat.

The hotel room they were in was dark, the music loud. The table next to the door was crammed with every type of vodka, beer, whiskey, and wine bottle. There was an DJ in the corner, Steak and Miguel standing beside him toasting each other with beer bottles. Kenji nodded affectionately to me, his arm around his latest model girlfriend.

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