Page 45 of Fastball Fever
"Perfect."The corner of her mouth twitches into her patented half-smile."Now go show them what Charlie Braddock is really made of."
I take the mound for the ninth inning with renewed determination.The first batter steps up to the plate, and I struggle to restrain my self-satisfied smile.It's Jared Morris.This is no time to get ahead of myself, though.But as I catch a glimpse of Amy in the bullpen, I feel taller and stronger—only for a second or two.I can sense I'm about to vanquish my enemy at last.
With my fastball.
I adjust my grip on the ball, staring down Jared Morris with a focus so intense everything else blurs around the edges.The roar of the crowd fades to white noise as I wind up.This pitch matters.This moment matters.
The ball leaves my hand like a rocket, blazing toward home plate with the kind of heat I haven't thrown since before my injury.Morris's eyes widen a fraction.He wasn't expecting this kind of velocity from me.Not anymore.
He swings hard but connects with nothing but air.
Strike one.
The crowd goes wild, and I allow myself the briefest smile before refocusing.One good pitch doesn't win the battle.I need two more.
"Lucky pitch," Morris calls out, tapping his cleats with his bat.His petulant expression tells me everything I need to know.
I ignore him, rolling the new ball between my fingers.The catcher flashes the signal—slider, low and outside.I nod, wind up, and deliver.The ball breaks sharply at the last moment, and Morris lunges for it, off balance.
Strike two.
"Still got your number, Morris."
His expression darkens, and his knuckles whiten around the bat handle."Throw your best, Braddock.I'm waiting."
I prepare myself for the hottest pitch of my life, knowing deep inside that I will wipe out anything Morris has ever done.My fastest pitch ever will destroy my nemesis.
I can feel Amy's eyes on me, her tension mirroring my own.I center myself the way she taught me, repeating my mantra in my head.The catcher signals for the fastball again.My bread and butter.I nod, set my stance, and channel every ounce of strength and technique I've rebuilt over months of grueling rehab.The ball explodes from my hand, a white-hot streak blazing through the humid night air.
Morris swings with everything he's got—and misses by a mile.The satisfying smack of leather as the ball hits the catcher's mitt is the sweetest sound I've ever heard.
"Strike three!You're out!"
But how fastwasthat pitch?A radar gun will decide.All I can do is wait for the verdict.What do I know for sure?I got my fastball revenge against Jared Effing Morris.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The After Party
The stadium blows up in a deafening roar of screams and applause.I can't help myself—I pump my fist in the air as adrenaline burns through my veins.My teammates rush the mound, surrounding me in a tangle of arms and shouts and pure, unfiltered joy.My heart is racing, and now I really do feel breathless.A pile of players has overtaken me, but I couldn't be happier to get crushed.
"You showed that bastard!"Phil yells, clapping me on the back so hard I nearly stumble.
Through the crush of bodies, I catch sight of Morris slouching back to his dugout, shoulders hunched in defeat.Briefly, our gazes connect, and I detect something beyond his usual arrogance.Maybe it's respect, or possibly shock.Either way, I'll take it.He shakes his head slightly before disappearing into the shadows of the dugout.
"Braddock!Braddock!"The crowd chants my name like I'm some kind of hero.Maybe today, I am.
The celebration continues as we make our way back to our own dugout.Hands slap my back, and voices congratulate me from all directions.The sweet taste of victory is on my tongue, and it's juicier than any beer could ever be.
"Didn't I tell you?"Phil says, his voice rough with emotion."Didn't I say you had his number?"
I grin, still riding this high."Yeah, you did.I'll never doubt you again, Phil."
"That curveball in the ninth…" He gestures wildly with his hands."Pure artistry!"
An announcer comes on over the PA system."Let's hear it for our hometown hero, Charlie Braddock!His fastball clocked in at…"
Everything seems to freeze while the damn announcer draws it out for as long as possible.I hate dramatic effect.Just fucking tell me.When Amy rushes up to me, wrapping her arms around my waist, we both wait in hushed anticipation.The entire stadium seems to hold its breath.
