Page 143 of Stolen Bases

With two outs, Pete Jiménez, better known as Papí PJ—ironically, he has a butt-load of kids—steps up to the plate and stares me down. He’s pissed and intimidating as hell, with his black beady eyes and the long scraggly beard.

I rub the side of my hat, where Talia’s picture—my good luck charm—sits flush to my head, and stare back at him, my face a mask. I’m not backing down.

PJ, a lefty hitter, is known for smashing fastballs like paper machete piñatas at a kid’s birthday party and is dying for me to throw him a meatball. I won’t be. I’m sticking to the plan Turner and I have mapped out. My friend Peej here has fallen for it twice by striking out both his at bats.

It’s time for him to sit the fuck down again.

Nico signals for me to pitch when I’m ready. He doesn’t call my pitches. We haven’t built that rapport yet, not that I mind. He’s all about throwing heat. Typical catcher.

My first pitch lands too high for Nico to frame it. Next, I throw a changeup. It lands with a drop right down the middle, where PJ swings and misses.

Strike one.

I let my eyes drift to the left, where my mom and dad are sitting in the very expensive VIP home-plate seats I gifted them for their anniversary. Dad gives me a nod and wipes two fingers under his chin.

I fight a smile as he calls me to throw a curveball. Growing up, I could always depend on him to be home and outside throwing pitches with me. We’ve spent countless hours together and have created our own shorthanded signals.

Mark Miller knows my game like the back of his hand.

I don’t even have to look at Turner to know he’s calling the same pitch. I let it rip. Jiménez watches my curve as it clocks in at seventy-seven miles per hour, hitting Romero’s glove with a pop.

Strike two. One more.

I don’t miss the smirk on my dad’s face as I get back into my stance. Index and middle finger almost touching between the seams, I grip the bottom seam with my thumb for another curveball. Winding up, knee to chest, I let the ball fly—palm mostly up—down the hill. It goes low and left toward PJ, who reads the ball, steps out, and slices the ball.

Crack.

Line drive. Everything happens all at once. Blinding pain blooms on my right leg as the ball bounces off my knee back towards home. I stagger back and hit the ground with a whoosh. The fall knocks the wind out of me, but from my periphery, I see Nico charge and slide for the ball. He throws to first, just in time to get PJ out at first for the inning to end.

Fuck, that was lucky.

Nico hovers over me. “I just saved your ass, Miller.”

“Thanks, man,” I croak. I drop my head back against the ground and wait for the air to return to my lungs.

“You alright, Miller?” Reed McKay, my shortstop, leans over with a smile.

“Help him the fuck up, you morons, before Anson calls medical.” Heath Erikson, our second baseman, slides his arms under my armpits and helps me stand. “Are you alright to stand, Cam?”

“Yeah, I’m good. The fallback hurt worse than the knee.” I shake off the pain radiating in my leg. I’m definitely going to have a bruise, but my heart is pumping massive amounts of adrenaline through my system, numbing my senses, so I can’t feel a thing. Tomorrow will be a different story.

Blake Jensen, our third baseman, throws his arm over my shoulder. “You should thank Papí PJ for being allergic to cardio. Fucker could have made it if he spent more time on the treadmill and not balls deep in his wife.”

We all laugh as we walk towards the dugout.

I run my fingers through my hair. “Where’s my hat?”

“Here.” Romero aggressively shoves my hat into my chest. Without a word, he turns and steps into the dugout to take off his gear.

My heart races as I check the inside to make sure my picture is still inside and hidden from view. The top corner pokes out, but otherwise it’s still concealed. My worry recedes for a second until I look up and find Nico staring daggers at me.

Fuck, did he see the picture?

My heart beats in my throat. Fletcher, our left fielder, hits the ball, and I shake off the unease curling in my stomach as the crowd goes crazy. I’m not hitting tonight, so I take a seat on the bench and focus on my notes for the next three hitters on the Sun Rays, repeating my game plan in my head.

When I step on the mound for the ninth inning, I drown out the sounds of the stadium and focus on the batters. I just need three outs, and I’ll have accomplished something very few pitchers have in their lifetime.

I rub at my good luck charm through the side of my hat and take a deep breath.

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