Page 31 of Fastball Fever
Amy almost smiles, finally acknowledging I exist—sort of."That's what I like to see."
Her gaze holds mine for a second.Whatever it was, it vanishes in a flash as she turns away."Remember your mechanics.Don't overthrow."
"Got it,Coach."Emphasizing her title didn't phase her at all.Rats.
When I step onto the field, the crowd's reaction is mixed—some cheers, some skeptical murmurs.They've all heard about my injury and my struggles.I survey the crowd briefly before focusing on the mound.The familiar dirt beneath my cleats grounds me.This is where I belong.
Then I seehim, and my jaw tightens.
Jared Morris is warming up in the opposite dugout.When he notices me, he smirks while pantomiming a throwing motion that mocks my injury.Then he taps his shoulder with exaggerated concern.
"Feeling fragile today, Braddock?"He kept his words hushed, but I heard his snide remark.
I shake my head and turn away, refusing to take the bait.Not today.Not when there are scouts in the stands and kids looking up to us.
Not when Amy is watching.
The first batter steps up to the plate—some Altitude rookie I don't recognize.I get the sign from the catcher and nod.The weight of the ball feels perfect in my hand.I wind up, channeling all the frustration of the past few weeks into my mechanics, not my velocity.The pitch flies true, right at the corner of the strike zone.The rookie's eyes widen a fraction before he swings late, missing by inches.
"Strike one!"
A murmur ripples through the crowd.I don't react, keeping my face neutral despite the satisfaction warming my chest.The catcher tosses the ball back, and I roll it between my fingers, finding the seams.
Just like Amy taught me.
Two more pitches and the rookie is walking back to the dugout, shaking his head.One down.
"You're on fire, Braddock," someone shouts from our dugout.I don't turn to see who it is, but it sounds like Dante Roberts.
The next batter steps up, a veteran I've faced before.He fouls off my first pitch, then watches the second sail by for a strike.On the third, he makes contact—a sharp grounder that our shortstop scoops up effortlessly before firing to first.Two down.
I glance toward our dugout, catching Amy's gaze briefly.She gives me a small nod—the closest thing to approval I've seen from her in days.It shouldn't mean as much as it does.
The third batter is Morris himself, of course.This time, I'm ready for whatever he throws at me.He swaggers up to the plate, tapping his bat against his cleats before settling into his stance.His eyes zero in on mine in a deliberate challenge.
"How's the arm, Braddock?"he stage-whispers to make sure no one else hears."Ready to embarrass yourself?"
I won't respond to his ridicule.He'd love that.Instead, I take my time finding the perfect grip.The stadium seems to quiet around us as I wind up, my motion smooth and controlled—exactly how Amy and I practiced it a hundred times.The ball rockets out of my hand, hurtling through the air with purpose.It's not my fastest pitch, but it is my most precise—a fastball with just enough movement to catch the inside corner.
Jared's eyes widen for a split second before he swings.Too late.The satisfying smack of the ball hitting the catcher's mitt is followed by the umpire's call.
"Strike one!"
The crowd responds with scattered applause, growing louder as they realize what they're seeing.I'm back.Maybe not at full strength yet, but yeah, I am definitely back.
Morris steps out of the box, adjusting his gloves with a scowl.He mutters, "Lucky pitch."
I ignore him and, instead, focus on my breathing.Amy taught me how to do that during those long rehab sessions.In through the nose, out through the mouth.Center yourself.Find your balance.
The next pitch comes in a bit faster.Morris fouls it off, the ball skipping toward our dugout.
"Getting warmed up?"he says mockingly as the catcher tosses me a new ball.
I roll my shoulders and focus.The third pitch is my slider—the one that's given me the most trouble during rehab.Amy watches me intently, analyzing every movement of my delivery.The ball breaks late, diving away from Jared's bat as he swings through empty air.
"Strike three!You're out!"
The crowd erupts.Three up, three down.I walk off the mound, keeping my expression neutral despite the fire in my veins.I did it.Holy shit, I did it!First inning back, and I struck out Jared Effing Morris.Okay "Effing" isn't his actual middle name.But it should be.I just can't say "Jared Fucking Morris" in polite company.
