Page 2 of Strike Zone

“Striking out and losing will definitely be dramatic, pretty boy.”

Shit. The second pitch flies past me as my bat connects with nothing but air. I can’t be the guy who loses the World Series. For starters, Anders will never let me live it down. He was the man who rose to the occasion last year and laughed in the face of pressure.

I adjust my grip and stance, readying myself for the final pitch. It’s now or never, at least for this season. Everything slows down—the roar of the crowd and the ball as it leaves the pitcher’s hand. I can see it hurtling toward me at close to a hundred miles an hour, but I know exactly where to position my bat.

The ball connects… CRACK! Disappointment ripples through the crowd and is reflected in the dugout, but it’s not the faces of my teammates because I just hit a motherfucking home run! Anders comes barreling toward me, full tilt, knocking me on my ass before I get a chance to run the bases.

“You fucking did it, bro.”

“Not yet, I haven’t. I still need to take my lap of victory.”

“Shit!” He rolls off me, laughing his ass off as the rest of the team bounces on the sidelines, welcoming our teammates to home plate as they complete their runs. Before I begin mine, I take great pleasure in turning to the catcher as he squats on the ground with his head in his hands.

“Tough break… pretty boy. Make sure to watch my home run, just so it really sinks in that you lost.”

“Fuck off, Nash.”

“Parting is such sweet sorrow. Kiss goodbye to the World Series trophy and pucker up for my winning ass.” I give him a shit-eating grin and take off at a jog as the crowd goes wild. My heart is pounding so hard I’m a little concerned it might burst right out of my chest before I slide into home plate. I didn’t think anything could top winning last year, but this moment right here is the single greatest of my life. One swing of my bat stood between us and victory. Me. Lincoln-fucking-Nash.

I take it slow, throwing my hands in the air as I jog the bases. I can’t hear myself think over the roar of the Yankees fans celebrating. Tens of thousands of New Yorkers cheering for us—for me. We made this season work, but in the end, it came down to me. One fucking hit of the ball. Talk about pressure. I drop my head back, staring up to the heavens as I round third base.

“If you’re up there, Pops, I know that was all you on the last hit. Thanks.” My grandfather was the only father figure I had growing up and a baseball nut. He’d have loved seeing me make the major leagues.

The entire team is waiting for me at home plate in a collective huddle of sheer joy, bouncing so high it seems superhuman somehow. Chanting my name, they welcome me with open arms, shouting obscenities as words of congratulations.

“Fucking legend!”

“You are the shit, my friend.”

“Swing that dick, brother. You fucking did it!”

“Lincoln-fucking-Nash.”

“World Series-winning motherfucker.”

“I’d drop to my knees and blow you right now, bro.” That one catches me off guard as I run into the arms of my teammates.

“Easy, Aymes, I’ll have plenty of women lining up to do that tonight… because we just won the World Series!”

The tension that was coiled in every muscle of my body releases, replaced by a wave of elation and unadulterated delight. There was a moment there after the second strike when I thought I was going to lose it. Then I remembered I’m not a loser and knocked it out of the park—literally.

Anders finds his way to me, pulling me into a heartfelt embrace, slapping me on the back. “Way to go, bro. You didn’t fuck it up.”

“Is that your way of saying I’m a legend?”

He gives a hearty laugh. “If you need to label it. That was one hell of a hit.”

“Damn straight.”

Brooke comes running onto the field with all the other wives and girlfriends, and just for a second, a teeny, tiny part of me wishes I had someone to share this moment with. It didn’t bother me last year when we won because I was swept up in a collective win. Today is personal, and for one dumbass second, I think it might be nice to have a hot girlfriend climb me like a jungle gym and throw her arms around my neck in congratulations.

It’s short-lived.

I lose track of time as we lift the trophy, fireworks going off and music blaring through the speakers. The Red Sox and their fans are long gone, but the Yankees will be reveling long into the night. By the time we finally wander down the tunnel toward the locker room, I’m in a daze. Everyone slaps me on the back as they pass by, and for the first time in my career—heck, in my life—I feel worthy of the accolades I’ve accumulated over the years. I’ve been number one for a long time, but in the back of my mind, I’ve always questioned it, hearing my mom telling me I’d never amount to anything. Today, her voice has been overwhelmingly deadened. Snuffed out with certainty. Knocked out of the park with that final crack of my bat.

Gripping my bat tight, I let it swing back and forth at my side. I’ll be framing it tomorrow. This is it. The highlight of my career—of my life. Parties galore, endorsements left and right, interviews with all the major networks are just a few of the perks coming my way over the next few weeks and months.

“Ready to celebrate?” Anders’ voice cuts through my daydreaming as we enter the locker rooms, and I nestle my bat snug in my locker before stripping out of my ash-stained uniform and grabbing a towel for the showers.

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