Page 11 of Catching Feels

Rudy G is now up. With two strikes and two balls, he swings and delivers a powerful hit to right field. But he’s thrown out one step from first base.

We’re all on our feet, cheering on Steel and Pope, who seize the opportunity to advance to third and second respectively.

Turner heads to bat, and Coach T looks at me. “Keep it on the ground, and you’re all good.”

I nod as I watch Turner approaches the plate. The second pitch, he smashes a single. The crowd is on their feet, but Steel and Pope stay put.

No pressure, I think as I head to home, holding the barrel of my favorite bat, flipping it, catching the knob, and tapping it on the ground four times—once for each base I want to make it to. After three swings, I step into the box, grind my left toe into the dirt, and then nod to the pitcher.

Eyes locked on his, I then watch as the ball leaves his hand and grip the bat tighter, seeing as I watch the fastball heading straight for my sweet spot, just above my knees. I exhale the tension from my body as I step forward and swing.

The moment leather and wood connect, I feel an energy course through me that is stronger than anything I’ve ever felt. I don’t even need to watch the ball to know it’s soaring between center and right, and I’m not sure where it will drop, but I am sure at least two of my teammates will make it home.

I watch our first base coach motioning me on as I approach. Then I hit first and head to second, making it seconds before the second baseman has it in his hand.

“Fuck!” he roars, hurling the ball to the rookie pitcher, who misses it.

Our third base coach waves me on as it flies past the first baseline.

Their first base man grabs the ball and throws it to the catcher as Turner slides into home.

“Safe!” the ump yells.

“One hell of a hit, Uyar!” Our third base coach smiles as he claps his hands. “One hell of a fucking hit.”

“You wanna come home or hang on third for a while?” Locke yells to me as he heads to bat.

“Bring me home,” I answer.

“You got it.”

Truth be told, it shouldn’t matter either way, but my focus right now is leaning heavily toward going through the list of every fucking thing I did today to make damn sure it’s repeated next game.

When I got pulled up, my ultimate goal was completed. I just wanted my shot. But now I want more than anything to play for this team for as long as I possibly can.

Inside the visitor locker room, we’re celebrating our second win, when the men of the Steel family walk in.

“You made us proud tonight, Jaguars,” Jase Steel says.

Xavier adds, “Had fuck not to do with the two out of three wins you delivered here in Anaheim, and everything to do with the fact you played like brothers, and you had fun from beginning to end.”

He’s not wrong. Tonight was the first away game we’ve really engaged with the crowd. Those months of lockdown and learning TikTok dances to pass time, paid off.

“Had a little to do with the win,” Cyrus adds.

“To celebrate, we’re giving you all two straight days with no games,” Max Steel jokes, because it’s not a gift; it’s scheduled.

Justice Steel shakes his head. “Shower up, and then let’s get home, kiss our mothers, then it’s back to business in Trenton against the Tigers.”

Walking out of the visitor locker room, I hit the Flingshot app, send a message to GTO, and see she’s sent me one.

GoodTimesOnly: Slept on it. Looking forward to meeting up, sooner than later. *hourglass emoji*

I tap out a reply.

SportsManSam: You going to be around in about an hour? If so, hit me up. Let’s nail *hammer emoji* this down.

When I round the corner in the corridor, I see Amira standing with Roman Hart’s crew—CeCe, her sister, Cora, Hudson, Linda, and Jillian Hart—and shove my phone in my pocket.

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