Page 42 of Fastball Fever
The ball rockets toward right-center field, sailing over Morris's outstretched glove.He stumbles backward, cursing loudly enough for me to hear it as I round first base.Martinez scores easily.Reynolds is sprinting toward home, and I'm pushing for a double.The crowd jumps to their feet with a thunderous roar.
I slide into second base just as the throw comes in, kicking up a cloud of dust.
"Safe!"the umpire signals, and our dugout erupts.
I scramble to my feet, brushing the dirt from my uniform, and can't resist glancing toward Morris.His face is twisted with frustration, and he deliberately turns away when our eyes meet.The satisfaction that floods through me is sweeter than any home run.
"That's what I'm talking about, Braddock!"Coach Bennett yells from the dugout, clapping his hands.
But it's Amy's reaction I'm searching for.She stands at the periphery of the dugout wearing a smug smile.She gives me a sly nod, and I swear I can read her thoughts:You've still got it.You always did.
As another batter steps up to the plate, I take my lead off second base, ready to run.My heart is still pounding, not just from exertion but from that look Amy gave me.She's earned that look.My coach worked harder than anyone in the MLB last summer, when I was recovering from my shoulder injury.She refused to let me lie down and give up.Her tactics pissed me off at first, but I quickly realized she knew exactly what she was doing.
"You can't baby an injury like this," she'd informed me back then, her hands firm on my shoulder as she guided me through exercises that made me sweat and curse."You have to challenge it, or you'll never get back to where you were."
But now, my thoughts return to the present.
The pitcher winds up, and I edge further from second base.The ball connects with the bat, sending a grounder toward third.I take off, rounding third base as the third baseman fumbles the ball.The coach is waving me home frantically, and I dig deep, pumping my legs harder than I have all season.The throw comes in from the outfield, a bullet aimed straight for home plate.I can see the catcher positioning himself, glove ready.It's going to be close.
I don't slow down.Instead, I lower my shoulder and launch myself into a headfirst slide, my fingers stretching for the plate.The catcher lunges, ball in glove, and I feel the tag brush against my jersey as my hand slaps against home.For a moment, everything goes silent as the umpire hovers over us.
"Safe!"he bellows, thrusting his arms out wide.
The stadium erupts.My teammates pour out of the dugout, and suddenly I'm surrounded and being pounded on the back and shoulders.We're up by one.The momentum has swung our way.
As I untangle myself from the celebratory dogpile, my eyes find Amy again.She's hanging back, maintaining her professional distance, but her smile says everything.I've never wanted to kiss someone more than I want to kiss her right now, but there are about ten thousand witnesses and a strict no-fraternization policy that would get us both fired.
We ignored that policy on the night when we fucked each other like mad in the dugout.After hours, but still…Maybe it was wrong.It felt so damn good, though.Amy promised me the best sex in the history of the universe—her words—if I won us the World Series.
I trot back to the dugout, and she hands me a towel without a word.Our fingers brush, and that familiar spark ignites between us.
"Nice running," she says, her voice neutral but her eyes gleaming with humor.
"Nice coaching…coach," I reply, keeping my tone equally neutral.Sarcastically so.
The game continues, and we manage to hold onto our lead through the eighth inning.When we take the field for the top of the ninth, the energy in the stadium is electric.The fans are on their feet, stomping and clapping in rhythm.Three outs.That's all we need to take Game Five and push ahead in the series.
I jog out to my position, feeling lighter than I have in weeks.My hit and run might have breathed new life into me and into the team.Morris glares at me from across the field, and I can't help but grin back.Nothing pisses him off more than seeing me succeed.
The first Altitude batter steps up.He's their leadoff man, known for his patience at the plate.Our pitcher, Rodriguez, goes through his familiar routine—adjusting his cap, touching the rosin bag, gazing up at the sky briefly.The first pitch is a strike, painting the outside corner.The second is fouled off.
The count is 0-2.
Now it's time to go for it all the way.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Fastball Revenge
I lucked out this time with an 0-2 count—no balls, two strikes.That gives me an advantage, for the moment, and I won't let that opportunity pass me by.Not with Jared Morris at the plate.He's been the thorn in my side for years, the bane of my existence, the insufferable jerk who's been riling me up since our college days.
I adjust my grip on the ball, feeling the familiar seams against my fingertips.The stadium lights catch the sweat beading on my brow as I stare him down from the mound.Jared's signature cocky smirk is firmly in place, and his bat is twitching slightly as he waits for my pitch.
"Come on, Braddock," Jared taunts, half whispering."Show me what you've got.Or are you still throwing those marshmallows you call fastballs?"
I clench my jaw, refusing to take the bait.Amy has often warned me about letting Morris get under my skin.That's his specialty—not just hitting home runs but hitting nerves.
The catcher pops his mitt open and shut, waiting for me to throw.The noise from the stands fades to a distant hum as I focus on my task.This moment, right here, is everything I'd been fighting for during long months of rehab.
