Page 24 of The Battery
We bumped fists as we hit the field together. I studied him as he moved. The hint of swagger in his shoulders. A leveled gaze that maybe he borrowed from me. A fierce determination emanated like a tiger before the pounce.
Too much, I realized as he walked toward the mound. I needed to loosen him up. Get him to have fun.
I neared home plate. I put a finger to the PitchCom remote. I alternated hitting Fastball and Curveball to a sustained beat.
Over the speakers stuffed in our hats, we heard, “Fastball, fastball, cur-cur-curveball. Fastball, fastball, cur-cur-curveball,” and so on.
Cody broke into raucous laughter. The other three players allowed to have speakers, the shortstop, second baseman, and good ol’ center fielder Romo, all smiled at the playfulness. I nodded my head to the beat I was creating with my fingers.
I stared Cody down while bobbing. Hadn’t put my mask down yet. Gave him a look. One he understood.
His big smile dimmed but didn’t disappear. He stared right back. Determination, with a hint of joy. Right where I wanted him.
We were gonna do this. He would help carry us to the pennant. I knew it in my bones.
“Let’s do this,” I mouthed. I slammed my mask down and sent the call for the first pitch.
PART TWO
“It’s the pain,kiddo, y’know? I’m worried about it.”
“No. You won’t have to worry, Uncle Andy. I’ll make sure you’re not in pain. You won’t suffer at the end.”
“You sure about that, kiddo?”
“Yes. I promise.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Leo
Home game. Numberseventy-eight. None other than the Brooklyn Brawlers under a scorching, late June sun. Blood red versus blue. The last of a three-game series, the first two games we won, we were currently tied.
This did not mark my first fight against the Brawlers since leaving, but it was Cody’s first playing withmeon the team. The last time the Riders hosted the Brawlers was back in May when I was still on their team. The bruise on my ass had taken three weeks to go away.
We were finishing up the bottom of the fifth. I had struck out and now stood against the railing in the bullpen. Cody joined me, ready to hit the mound shortly. In the two weeks since his comeback, Cody played an astounding seven games—two of those came from one of his nemesis Assholes, Levine, having to rest due to injury. In those two weeks management, impressed by his rapid improvement since I knocked sense into him, moved Cody from long reliever to middle reliever. This game against the Brawlers marked his first time playing that position.
At the stadium, Cody and I had an unspoken agreement that I wouldn’t give him special attention. I participated when the pitching staff needed the catcher. What we kept to ourselves, however, was Cody’s check-ins when we had the free time in our schedule. He would explain what he trained on with the staff, who did what and when, and I would provide analysis. I had a hanging pitching mat installed in my backyard. Cody would come over for some demonstrations and I provided analysis and help where I could.
And then we’d hit the pool. The weather turned from mild to scorching in only a few days. It was a welcome reprieve from the heat of our little practice sessions. Admittedly, I kept Cody at arm’s length in this newly forming department of physicality. He didn’t seem to mind that I consistently wanted the same thing out of him. In fact, I think he made a game out of it—how fast could he work his magic to get me off with just his mouth? Most nights that he came over ended with me sitting on the edge of the pool or at one of the chairs around the fire. Cody did his thing while I relaxed. It was his prerogative if he wanted to get himself off or not and he usually did. I had yet to help him out in that regard.
Selfish. I know.
But I had a singular goal and I couldn’t be distracted with the introduction of reciprocated feelings.
“Duggins is up first,” Cody said as he popped open a tin of nicotine pouches. The scent of cinnamon perfumed the space between us.
Mentally, I grunted. That smell had been triggering things for me lately. It’s what I smelled in the moments before he went down on me. I bit down on my tongue in abject rejection of the budding Pavlovian response. Cinnamondid notequal climax. No, sir. It did not.
“What would you suggest?” I said.
Cody wedged the packet into his gums. “He’s been hot lately. But he always swings at the first pitch if it’s low and away.”
“And?”
“We should start with a slider,” he said, then used his tongue to adjust the packet. I watched him, his eyes, his posture. No hesitation, no hitch in the shoulders. No question in a quirky brow. He spoke confidently, as if he was in command. “Then we give him what he wants. A fastball. Gift wrapped. Perfect throw.”
“Third pitch?”
