Page 15 of Fastball Fever
"I won't tell anybody."
She flips a page over on her clipboard, studying it briefly, and then looks up at me."How about we start with something light?No need to throw yourself back on the injured list."
Discussion over, that's what she's saying."Thanks for worrying about me, Coach."
Amy shrugs one shoulder."Nothing I wouldn't do for anyone else."
That's not exactly what I want to hear, but now isn't the time for a serious talk."Lead the way, Coach."
The night is quiet except for our footsteps and the steady buzz of the fluorescent lights.I try a few stretches, and my shoulder is tight but manageable.Amy watches from a short distance away.Her gaze follows my movements as if she's already diagnosing the problem, determining how much better I've gotten—or how much worse.She joins me shortly, demonstrating a few exercises that seem almost ridiculous but actually work.
"Keep your elbow up," she instructs, mimicking a pitching motion.
"Got it."I try to match her precision, testing my arm a bit more even while I hide the wince that comes with it."What do you think?The old man's still got it, huh?"
She shakes her head."Don't be so sure about that.If you get overconfident and try to throw a fastball before you're ready, you might injure yourself even worse."
"Thanks for the pep talk, Coach."The sarcasm in my voice is unmistakable, though I hadn't meant to sound that way.Amy's pessimistic attitude threatens to infect me too.But I refuse to let that happen.
To either of us.
"I'm being realistic, Charlie.Not many players make it past thirty before they need to retire."
Did she just call me Charlie?Not Braddock?Hmm, I'm beginning to think she's way more worried about my injury than she's letting on.Why else would she vacillate between calling me Charlie or Braddock?The only explanation I can come up with is a dumb one.
I roll the ball between my hands."Any advice for a washed-up pitcher, Coach?"
"Take it slow.But don't give up."
"Could say the same for you."
She almost smiles, which I take as a positive sign."How about a real warm-up?Test those skills a little?"
"Yeah, why not."
We move through the exercises, a series of throws that feel better with every movement.The tension melts away, replaced by a connection that grows with every catch as both of us focus on the game.And on each other too, though not in a romantic way.Amy gives me pointers as needed and lets me do my own thing too.For a moment, it's like everything else fades.Just the ball, the glove, and this fragile thing between us.
Then I hear something.A whistle.Off-key and deliberately obnoxious.
Groaning, I throw my head back and hiss, "Jared."
He strides up to me like he owns the place, all swagger and cockiness, his voice echoing as he draws closer."Still awake at this hour, Chucky?"
I don't respond, but I do clench my fist around the ball.
Jared grins, clapping me on the shoulder like we're best pals.Like he's not here strictly to screw with my head."Insomnia sucks, huh?Must be super worried about our next matchup."He glances at Amy, raising an eyebrow."What a shame to waste that hot body on coaching a has-been.Or is it babysitting?"
Amy's eyes narrow, and her posture stiffens."Not now, Morris."
"Didn't realize I was interrupting something."His knowing gaze shifts between Amy and me."Come on, Coach Keller.Show me how to pitch a fastball after hours."
The innuendo in his tone rankles—not just me, but Amy too.I can tell by the way her lips pucker slightly.As much as I want to tell him off, to throw his words back in his face, Amy gets there first."We're busy, Jared.Go bother someone else."
He's enjoying this too much to leave quickly, though.His exaggerated sigh makes that clear."Working with Chucky has made you no fun at all.Guess I'll let you get back to your, uh,workout."He tips his ball cap at me."See you on the field, Braddock.If you make it that far."
As badly as I want to clock him in the face, I refuse to stoop to Jared's methods.
He finally walks away, whistling all the while.
