Page 52 of Knox
He smirked. “Oh yeah. What are you thinking?”
I slipped my arms around his waist and pressed my lips to the corner of his mouth. “It starts with you getting naked and ends with us sweaty and satisfied.”
He pulled me against him. “You really know how to sweet-talk a guy.”
“When have you ever liked it sweet?” I teased.
“You’re right,” he agreed. “You know exactly how filthy I like it.”
20
CREW
Knoxand I were getting ready to head to the field for our game when my phone buzzed on the dresser, and I saw it was a video text from Mallory. I pressed play, and Grady was in the pool at their house. It must have been the day before because it wasn’t time yet for him to have his lesson yet today. On the video, his instructor crouched behind him with a hand braced under him, guiding him to float on his back. His little arms were stretched out, his body tense in a way that showed he was still learning to trust he wouldn’t sink. The instructor’s voice carried through the phone, telling him to look for an airplane in the sky so he would keep his head back. When she finally pulled him upright, he wiped at his eyes and turned toward the phone. His grin was wide, and both Mallory and Archer could be heard cheering for him.
I wished I could watch his lessons in person, but we had agreed to keep them in the early afternoon because that was when the sun would be highest, and it would keep Grady from ending up cold, even though the pool was heated. It also meantI was always at the stadium by then, working through pre-game stretches or sitting in pitcher meetings. Since I hadn’t been there for a single one in person, Mallory sent videos so I wouldn’t miss out completely, but most of the time, the videos only made it clearer how much I was absent from.
“Sounds like G’s doing good at swimming.” Knox squeezed my shoulder.
“Yeah. He is.”
I tucked my phone into my pocket, grabbed my bag, and followed Knox so we could get to the field for our game.
With my chestprotector and shin guards on, I came out of the dugout and headed across the field to the bullpen. A few fans had settled in early behind the rail, beers and nachos in hand, waiting for us to warm up. Ritchson was already there with the ball in his hand, tossing it into his glove as I dropped into a crouch. He started with his fastball, the pop sharp in my glove, then worked through his slider that looked tighter than it had in his last start.
“Slider’s got more bite today,” I told him.
“Yeah, I’ve been working on it and it feels like it’s coming out clean,” he answered.
“Looks like it.”
We finished up the rest of his throws, then walked to the dugout for the start of the game against Houston.
After the national anthem, I scanned the crowd quickly and found my family had finally made it. Day games were tough with Grady’s swim lessons, but a few rows up, Mallory was sitting next to him and Archer. My son was shoving popcorn into his mouth while Archer leaned over and whispered somethinginto Mallory’s ear. She laughed, swatted his arm playfully, and then, as though she could feel me watching, her gaze met mine. She started to wave and then nudged Grady to look at me. He jumped up and waved enthusiastically, and I smiled before slipping my catcher’s helmet on and heading behind the plate.
Ritchson was locked in early. He ran through the top of the first without a hiccup—three up, three down. My first at bat came in the bottom of the first. We already had one out, and the pitcher started me with a fastball low and away that I didn’t bother chasing. Next was a curveball that didn’t break much and stayed over the plate longer than it should have. I drove it hard on the ground, thought it might sneak through, but the shortstop moved well to his left, picked it clean, and threw me out by a step.
Knox came up after me, took a pitch off the plate, fouled one down the line, then got under a ball that carried to the warning track. The left fielder caught it for the third out.
Ritchson cruised through the innings, only giving up one hit that was a homerun in the third. We’d managed to get the run back and were still tied when I came up to bat at the bottom half of the sixth with two outs. The pitcher tried me outside twice and missed, then brought a fastball on the outer half that I fouled back. He pitched inside after that, missing and making it three and one. I let the next pitch go, watching it dip under the strike zone, then took the walk.
Knox walked up to the plate, tapped it twice, then waited for the first pitch. He fouled off two, then took a pitch low. I thought about stealing, but instead, waited as the next ball was outside, and made the count even. The one after that, he drove to left, but it hung too long and got squeezed near the foul line.
Jogging into the dugout, I dropped down on the bench to put my gear on while Knox came in, set his helmet in the cubby, and grabbed his glove.
“Didn’t look like you loved that swing,” I told him, tightening the strap on my shin guard.
He shrugged. “Wanted to drive it up the middle, but it was a change-up and I was expecting a fastball.”
“Still put a decent swing on it.”
“Doesn’t mean it felt right.”
“It never does. You could be three for three and still talk about how one came off wrong.”
He almost smiled. “That’s probably true. And better than being the guy who’s fine watching three go by.”
“If that were the case, you’d be sleeping on the couch tonight.”
