Page 107 of The Brickwall and the Bombshell

I think that phrase is ingrained in every baseball player in the world.

“Let’s get you home and soak in the tub. What do you eat on nights you lose?” I ask, trying to think back to the last home game when the Revelers lost.

“My feelings,” Mack groans, making me laugh.

“Ice cream and wine it is.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

MACK

After losingthe first game in the series and then taking another loss on the road, we’re back home for the seventh and final game. If we win tonight, we win the pennant. If we don't, our road to the World Series ends.

Typically, I’d say there’s always next year, but I don’t think there will be a next year for me.

I think this is it. After experiencing some of the worst knee pain yet over the past month, I know my body is telling me it’s time.

The pressure to win is always there, but this season, it feels like it weighs a ton. I try not to think too far ahead, keeping my focus on the current game, because if I project too far into the future, I get wrapped up in the unknown.

What happens next?

What will my life look like after baseball?

A year ago, I think I would’ve felt lost at that thought, but now, I feel like as long as I have Greer I could get through it. We could figure out the future together.

I don’t know if she wants that, but I sure as fuck do.

“We’ve had a good run,” Ross says, standing beside me as we watch the rest of our team warm up.

Glancing over to the press box, I see Greer getting ready for tonight’s broadcast. She’s flawless with her hair tied back in a tight ponytail and wearing a purple top that hugs her curves in all the right places. Instead of the skirt she normally wears, she has on a pair of black pants that make her ass look phenomenal.

“I wish you were pitching tonight,” I tell Ross, bringing myself back to the conversation.

“Stevens is going to bring the heat tonight,” Ross says, eyes glued to the field. “I can feel it.”

Just like we don’t like to talk about the playoffs mid-season, we also don’t like to talk about next season during the postseason. It’s always about the now. But I can’t help it. If we don’t win, and this is my last game as a Reveler, I wish I was catching for Ross.

“You’re a great unofficial captain,” I tell him, kneading my glove. “In case I haven’t told you, catching for you has always been my absolute fucking honor. I love being your teammate as much as I love this team.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Ross’s words carry no bite, and I can see his half-smile out of my periphery. “If you start saying shit like that, I’m going to hog tie you to the weight bench and let everyone rub their shitstained underwear on you.”

“Fuck, dude. I take it back. You’re the shittiest non-captain ever.”

Ross chuckles. “How’s the knee?”

“Charged up and ready to go.”

“How’s Greer?”

I look over to where she’s still standing, writing furiously in her trusty notebook.

“Also charged up and ready to go.”

We both laugh, drawing Greer’s attention.

I shoot her a wink and Ross catches it.

“Have you told her how you feel?” he asks, turning back to the infield.

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