Page 41 of Fastball Fever
Swing and a miss.Strike three.
"Dammit," I mutter, trudging back to the dugout where twenty-four pairs of eyes avoid looking at me directly.Another strikeout.My fourth this week.
Amy stands at the edge of the dugout, arms crossed over her Jacksonville Admirals polo.Her expression is unreadable, but I feel the weight of her disappointment dragging me down.Not that I'm blaming her.But I need to get worries about whether I'll screw up out of my head.
"Braddock," she says casually as I pass by her.Just my name.Nothing else needed.
I slump onto the bench, tossing my batting helmet aside.Maybe I'm subconsciously worried I've lost my touch.But no, that isn't the problem.It's Amy.Every time my gaze wanders to her, I lose my focus.Every time I step up to the plate, I'm not just thinking about hitting the ball.I'm thinking about impressing her.Proving I'm still worth the contract.After all, I still have the threat of being traded hanging over me.
"Hey, Charlie, you gonna sit there all day looking like someone stole your puppy?"Martinez slides in next to me, bumping my shoulder."It's one at-bat."
"One of many lately," I grumble, grabbing a water bottle and taking a long drink.
From across the field, I spot Jared Morris grinning at me from the Altitude dugout.Even from this distance, I can read the smugness in his posture.He mouths something that looks suspiciously like "washed up."
That dirtbag.
"Don't let him get in your head," Amy advises, coming up behind me.I hadn't noticed she'd moved.Her voice is hushed, meant only for my ears."That's exactly what he wants."
I grip the water bottle so hard the plastic crackles."I'm well aware of his tactics."
"Then stop playing into them."Her attention shifts to Morris before returning to me.There's something in her gaze I can't quite read."You're better than this, Charlie."
Before I can respond, Coach Bennett calls the team together for a quick huddle.He's the head coach, and everyone listens to him.We're down by two in the seventh inning.Not impossible to overcome, but we need to do better.
"All right, listen up," Bennett tells us, his weathered face creased with concentration."Martinez, you're up next.Braddock, you're on deck after Reynolds."
I need to get my head straight before I'm up again.So in my mind, I prepare to recite the mantra Amy had taught me.But I don't get the chance.
Amy walks by me, her hand briefly touching my shoulder."Wake up, Charlie.Gotta stay focused."
"What?I am awake—and very focused."
But she's already gone.I caught only a glimpse of her face as I watched her ambling away.Amy and I, we both have jobs to do.She's my coach, and so much more—but on the field, we're strictly business.I love her, and she loves me.That's all the encouragement I need.
Martinez settles into his position at the plate, and I focus on his stance.He connects with the first pitch, sending it soaring into left field.The crowd erupts as he makes it safely to first base.
"That's how it's done!"someone shouts from our dugout.
Reynolds is up next, and I grab my batting helmet, ready to be on deck.I take a few practice swings, feeling the familiar weight of the bat in my hands.The rhythm helps clear my head, pushing out thoughts of Morris and whatever jackass move he might make.
Then Reynolds connects on the third pitch—a solid hit that advances Martinez to second.The crowd's energy surges, and I feel it flow into me as I step toward the plate.
"Braddock's up!"someone shouts from the stands.A mix of cheers and nervous murmurs follows.
I take my position at the plate, digging my cleats into the dirt.The pitcher eyes me warily, and I stare back, refusing to blink first.In my peripheral vision, I see Morris shifting in the outfield, probably hoping I'll send one his way so he can make a play.
Not today, you rat snake.
I block out everything except the pitcher and the ball.Focus.Breathe.This is what I've trained for my entire life.
The first pitch comes in high—ball one.
But the second pitch catches the outside corner—strike one.
I adjust my grip, rolling my wrists slightly.The crowd noise fades to a distant hum as I lock eyes with the pitcher.He winds up and releases a curveball that starts high then breaks sharply downward.
I see it coming.Time slows again, but this time I'm ready.I swing with everything I've got, feeling the sweet spot of the bat connect with the ball.The crack echoes through the stadium like a gunshot.
