Page 12 of Pitching for Keeps
I carefully study my salad.
"A few," Jay admits. "Nothing too crazy."
"Tracy used to be superstitious about tests," Megan pipes up. "Remember? You had that lucky pencil."
"That's different," I protest.
"Is it though?" Jay's eyes meet mine. "I seem to remember someone who insisted on sitting in the same seat for every game..."
"Lots of people have preferred seats."
"And who found exactly three heads-up pennies before each game..."
I kick him under the table. He doesn't even flinch.
"Wait," Greg's mom looks between us. "You went to Jay's college games?"
"Every single one for three years," Jay says quietly.
The table goes silent. I concentrate on cutting my chicken into tiny, very precise pieces.
When Greg stands to give his speech about partnership and dreams, I risk a glance at Jay. He's twisted his napkin into something unrecognizable.
"Like my buddy Jay here," Greg's saying. "This guy's been grinding in the minors for years, never giving up on making it back to the show."
Everyone raises their glasses. Jay's eyes find mine over his champagne flute.
"Actually," Jay says suddenly, "I should clarify something. When I hurt my arm senior year, when everything fell apart... someone told me that dreams were worth fighting for, even when the path wasn't clear. That person was right."
He's looking directly at me now.
"So here's to second chances," he continues. "And to the people who believe in us."
Everyone drinks. I set my glass down with shaking hands.
"That was beautiful," Megan says. Then adds, "Tracy, didn't you write something similar in that article about perseverance in athletics?"
"I wrote a lot of articles," I mumble.
"No, I remember! It was about that pitcher who—oh." Her eyes go wide. "You wrote about Jay!"
Jay pulls out his phone, scrolls for a moment, then slides it across the table. There it is, saved in his notes. My article about him, about dreams deferred but not destroyed.
"I read it whenever I have a bad game," he admits.
"Okay," Greg says slowly, "what's happening here?"
"We dated," I say quickly. "In college. Past tense."
"For three years," Jay adds. "She was at every game. Had this complete system for charting my pitches."
"You kept statistics?" someone asks.
And then, because apparently my brain has given up on self-preservation, I hear myself say: "His fastball sits at ninety-two but touches ninety-five when he's really on. His curveball breaks at seventy-eight. He tips his changeup sometimes when he's tired. His best pitch is the backdoor slider to righties."
The entire table is silent.
"Tracy," Megan says flatly. "You're in love with him."
