Page 53 of Nothing Like the Movies

I’d been a team player and answered Liz’s questions like agood boy, but I was hard-passing on anything more.

Especially when Liz wasn’t involved.

I pitched lights-out at all the practices leading up to the game, and by the time Friday night rolled around, I had a hard time sleeping because I was so excited.

It was finally here.

But the instant I woke up Saturday morning, I could feel that the stress was back. Every ounce of excitement I’d had was now replaced with fear.What if I fail?I laughed with the guys when we grabbed breakfast at B-Plate, trying a fake-it-till-you-make-it attitude as they acted like it was just a regular day, but my stomach was in a thousand tiny knots as I forced down a Bruin scramble and some oatmeal.

And as we rode to the field in Mick’s car, I contributed to their inane conversation while trying to shut down my inner monologue that went something likedon’t screw up don’t screw up don’t screw up.

I needed to get a grip, but it was like my brain was fixated on all the ways this could go south. Getting the start had put one of my ghosts in the grave, but what if I screwed up? What if all I’d accomplished with the start was to showcase how hard I could choke in a game?

What if I proved to the coaching staff that they’d been wrong to give me this second chance?

“Why so quiet, Bennett?” Brooks asked as we did stretches on the field. He was relaxed and grinning, his knee planted in the grass, and I was jealous of his energy. “I don’t think I’ve heard you say dick today.”

“Dick,” I muttered with a forced grin, working into shoulder rotations while attempting some deep breathing.

I looked out at the stands and inhaled slowly through my nose. It was a warm California afternoon, with barely a breeze, and a record number of fans had turned out for the exhibition game. The packed-out vibe at Jackie was electric, with music booming through the speakers as the snap of balls hitting gloves was like bonus percussion to the party vibe.

It was fall-ball perfection.

I let out my breath through my mouth, glancing toward where my sister was sitting with her feet propped up on the seat in front of her, a blueBpainted on her cheek.

God, she’s a cheeseball,I thought, and seeing her obnoxiousness somehow helped.

This is what I’ve been working toward, and I need to enjoy it.

I told myself that as I finished stretches, but as soon as I grabbed my glove and started warming up, my dad’s voice was all I could hear.

What was that, Wesley? Squirrely shit,I heard as I threw high and inside, just as clearly as if he’d been on his feet in the stands the way he’d been at all my high school games.

Stop it.

I wiped my forehead as Mickey threw back the ball.

It’s only warm-ups.Chill.

But when I threw a wild pitch that Mick had to chase, I started freaking out a little.

Because I was going to blow it.

No wonder you didn’t want me to come to the game last time,I heard my dad yell from the stands.Quit messing around and throw ’em the gas.

Dear God.He’d said those words to me—quit messing around and throw ’em the gas—no fewer than three million times over the course of my life. It’d been annoying as shit when he was alive, but now it was like nails on a chalkboard, mixed with a bloodcurdling scream.

I was obviously losing my mind when I couldn’t stop hearing my dad’s voice, right?

I took a deep breath, trying my hardest to concentrate on clearing my mind. I closed my eyes and tried to find calm.

But I could only picture his face.

Which kind of made it hard to breathe.

I threw another pitch.

Mickey should punch you in the face for making him chase that trash.I looked out at the stands, at the spot behind home where he’d always stood, but no one was there.

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