Page 46 of Fastball Fever
"One hundred point six!"the announcer virtually screams."Charlie Braddock is in second place worldwide!Only Nolan Ryan could best that fastball!"
The stadium explodes again, the sound so intense I feel it vibrating through my bones.One hundred point six.Holy shit.I've never thrown that fast in my life.Not in college, not in the minors, not even before my injury.
"Charlie!"Amy races up to me, her eyes wide with excitement.Her hands are still gripping my waist, and I realize I'm holding her too, both of us locked in a moment of unbridled exultation."Do you have any idea what this means?"
I can barely hear her over the roar of the crowd, but I can read the joy on her face.My teammates are losing their minds around us, jumping and shouting like little kids.
"It means I'm back," I exclaim, my voice cracking with emotion.
Her smile widens."Damn right you are."
For a fleeting moment, I see something else in her eyes, something that goes beyond professional pride.It's gone before I can be sure, but it leaves me with a strange flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with baseball.
The post-game interviews are a blur.I'm shuttled from one reporter to another, microphones thrust in my face, cameras flashing.I answer on autopilot, spouting the usual clichés about teamwork and perseverance, but inside I'm still reeling.One hundred point six.The number echoes in my head like a mantra.
"How does it feel to silence your critics?"a reporter asks, her pen poised over her notepad.
I pause, considering how to answer."It feels like…finding something you thought was lost forever."
Later, in the locker room, the celebration continues.Someone's broken out the champagne—against regulations, but no one seems to care tonight.The cork pops with a satisfying thunk, and the bubbly liquid splashes everywhere, drenching jerseys and cleats.The guys are singing some off-key victory anthem they made up on the spot.It's terrible and perfect all at once.
I take a swig directly from the bottle when it's passed to me, the bubbles burning my throat in the best possible way.After a shower and a change of clothes, I head for the exit, still riding the high.
The hallway outside the locker room is quieter, the sounds of celebration muffled behind me.I'm almost to the exit when I see her—Amy leaning against the wall, scrolling through her phone.She's changed out of her coaching gear into jeans and a simple blue top that makes her eyes look even more beautiful, if that's possible.
"There he is," she says."The man of the hour."
She gazes up at me with what I swear is…adoration.
"Just doing my job, Coach," I say, but I can't keep the grin off my face.
"False modesty doesn't suit you, Braddock."She pushes off the wall and walks toward me."One hundred point six.That's not just doing your job.That's making history."
The hallway feels smaller suddenly, the air between us charged with something I can't quite name.My heart rate picks up again, and I wonder if she can hear it.
"I couldn't have done it without you," I admit.And it's true.Her relentless pushing, her refusal to let me wallow in self-pity after my injury—she deserves as much credit as I do.
"Don't be so modest."She grasps a handful of my shirt, dragging me closer."What you did out there on the diamond made me so hot for you.Remember what I suggested earlier, before the all the melee?"
"Hmm, I think I've forgotten."But of course, I haven't.
She catches her lip between her teeth, letting it slide out gradually."Tonight, you'll get the steamiest, raunchiest, most mind-blowing sex of your life, Braddock."
I lean closer until our lips brush."Are you trying to seduce me, Coach Keller?"
Her laugh is low and sultry."Is it working?"
"You know damn well it is."My voice sounds rough even to my own ears.
We're standing too close for a coach and player in a public hallway, but right now, I couldn't care less.The victory, the adrenaline, the way she's looking at me—it's all combining into something explosive.
"Your place or mine?"I ask, my hand finding her waist.
Amy's chest rises and falls heavily."Mine.It's closer."
The drive to her apartment is torture.She insists on taking separate cars—for "appearances," she claims—but the anticipation building between us makes every red light feel like an eternity.I follow her sedan through the Jacksonville streets, the city lights blurring as my mind races ahead to what's waiting for me.
When we finally arrive, I barely remember to lock my car.Amy's already at her door, keys jingling in her hand.The second we're inside, the pretense drops.She tosses her purse onto the floor, and I kick the door shut behind us.
