Page 11 of The Battery
“The man had a rep. If I was on the forty-man and stuck in the minors, I knowI’dbe looking forward to working with the guy.” I pushed off from the banister, turned, crossed my arms, and put my back to the field. I stared at an anthropomorphic pizza slice shaking a pair of maracas.The hell?Some kinda pizza and Mexican fusion?
“Good point. He needs to figure his issues out, though. It’s getting noticed.”
I felt a pinch in my gut, which made me glower. I didn’t need to have my own cloud of emotions blocking the sun. “Anything I can do?”
I noticed Romo give me a look that I ignored. After a moment, he spun around and leaned his rear against the banister, extending both arms out for a wide grip. “A couple of the relievers took to you, which is great to see. Feels like Hill is resisting a bit. Maybe see what that’s about?” He shook his head. “He’s good. I think he’ll be able to stay if we can just get him on the right track.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good.” He jutted his chin toward the pizza shack. “Ever have a pizza-dilla?”
“Awhat?”
Romo laughed. “It’s like this pizza that has all the ingredients of a quesadilla. It’s friggin delicious. Fan favorite, in fact.”
My brow dimmed in confusion. “You mean like bread and cheese?”
Romo pushed off from the banister and started walking. “I guess. Gotta run to a meeting with the skipper. I’ll catch ya later?”
I nodded as a response, then turned and walked the opposite direction.
The mid-May air was a perfect low seventies. My favorite time of year, when I could wear shorts or pants and not worry about being cold or hot. I wore compression leggings underneath workout shorts, if only for the modesty aspect and my fellow Riders not being ready to see me unleash beast mode. I wore a Riders-branded t-shirt underneath a sweatshirt I left halfway zipped. Stuffing my hands into the pockets, I slow-walked as I stared at the field. Movement caught my eye in the bullpen.
At least ten people were there. Three-quarters of the pitching staff and a couple of pitching coaches. A line had formed and it looked like they were playing a game. Top That, probably. Who could throw the fastest. I spied Cody somewhere in the middle of the lineup. Those around him were all smiles and loose stances. Cody appeared stiff. Hat pulled low.
It’s for fun, kid, I thought with a pang of sympathy.
I eventually made my way to the mezzanine overhang that looked down on the bullpen. Raucous laughter, the distinctsmackof a fastball hitting the catcher’s mitt. The May sunshine overhead. All the perfect elements to a good day, and poor Cody Hill looked like he wanted to drop through the floor.
And I started to learn why as I observed. The laughter came at Cody’s expense. Aston and Shoji still hadn’t let go of when Cody pegged me twice. Now they referred incessantly to his disastrous fifth inning at his last game. Each reference caused him to drop his head lower and lower. They had him, they knew it, and they wouldn’t let go. A third, Levine, stepped in for the kill after Aston and Shoji would make the setup.
I felt heat rise in my chest. Not at the antagonists—that was par for the course. I had anger towardCody. How could he stand there and not give it back? The coaches ignored it, and I didn’t blame them. There was a degree of competition required to keep these guys aware of their position. Seeing how they performed under peer pressure was another good indicator of longevity. Cody Hill was failing miserably.
I couldn’t stomach watching more and left the mezzanine. I couldn’t help someone who didn’t want to help himself. That heat in my chest ignited a fiery anger that I controlled. I knew it was unreasonable to be so pissed off about it. I could not have cared less if one of the other pitchers were being teased like that.
Which gave me pause, mentally and physically. I came to a stop somewhere in the bowels of the stadium in one of the concrete corridors staff and players used. I recognized an unhealthy curiosity when it hit. I wasn’t here forthat. I was here to win my fourth pennant. I had to focus on that. Not on…
Cody came around the corner, head lowered, stalking forward like he was ready to fight. The brim of his hat lifted and our eyes met. “Ohcome on. Seriously? You’re justeverywherenow?”
He continued forward and I stepped in his path, shot out a hand, and slammed a flat palm against the cool concrete to bar his way. “The fuck isyourproblem?” I used another voice, one that came from the diaphragm. Deep, resonant. Cody stopped short with wide eyes.
We were alone in the narrow space. I hadn’t memorized the layout yet. I had been wandering through the rabbit’s warren of tunnels to eventually get to the clubhouse. The way behind me led only to the utility rooms. Why was Cody heading in that direction?
“Look, I just need space. I’m pissed and I need to calm down,” Cody said with as much venom as he could muster, which wasn’t a lot.
I wanted more. I wanted to observe him come alive with anger to see if he even cared.
“Pissed because you got your feelings hurt?” I said. I didn’t move my arm, and I was wide enough at the shoulders that he would have to make a concerted effort to go around me. “Poor little baby.”
Cody took in a sharp breath and retreated half a pace. “That’s… I’m not a…”
I cocked my head. A little voice told me I was going to push this too far but I didn’t care to listen. “Yes.You are.It’s exactly what’s happening. You can’t handle other people being critical? It’s pathetic, Hill. How did you make it this far being so sensitive?”
“I’m not sensitive.” There, more volume in his voice. A flash of anger on his face.
“Oh fuck off.Yes you are.You’re gonna let that rattle you when you’re on the field? Because that’s what’s gonna take place. Then it’s adios majors and you lose probably the one chance at—”
“Shutupyouasshole,” Cody said.
