Page 59 of Commander in Briefs

Michaels makes a squeaking noise just as his knees buckle.

“But I have to admit, Drew, I don’t fuck anyone with OBP lower than 400.”

Her grip tightens on his balls and he sinks lower to the ground.

“And if you so much as insult me again I will make sure that you taste spunk for a solid week.”

Another squeeze.

In a squeaky voice, Michaels apologizes and agrees to be on his best behavior before Anniston gives him a shove into his buddies.

She flips her hair with a devilish smile and mutters, “Pussy,” as she struts back to me.

“Come on, Von Bremen. It’s your turn.”

“You’re releasing too late!”

“No, I’m not!” I shout back, wiping the sweat from my brow. I’m tired and short-tempered, snapping at anyone who dares offer me advice. This shit sucks. I was ready to leave an hour ago.

Anniston is perched behind Brody, my catcher for today, critiquing my curveball, which subsequently is too far outside. I think it’s a finger adjustment. She thinks it’s a timing issue. One of us is wrong and I am pretty certain it’s her.

A small crowd has gathered to watch her unique coaching strategy. Unique as in, she threatens and throws shit at me when I don’t do it like she says. Even Bellamy is enjoying my torture, flashing me a shit-eating grin while Ans reams my ass six ways from Sunday. Michaels is amongst the crowd, sending me hate glares as often as he possibly can. It’s a damn miracle that I am able to focus.

“Come on, T.” Brody’s encouragement is severely lacking in confidence but highly appreciated, nonetheless.

“Theo!” Anniston grabs the ball from Brody and marches toward me. “Release it a half-second earlier. Do what I am fucking telling you!”

On a huff, I snatch the ball from her outstretched hand, pound it over and over in my glove. It’s times like this that I want to launch this damn ball into space and give all these fuckers a “deuces,” but no, I have to be an adult. Be responsible they say. Fuck that.

Anniston retakes her position behind Brody, leaning over his shoulder for a perfect view of the plate. He gives me the signal, adjusting his crouch to the corner and opens his glove, providing my target.

I double-clutch the ball, rubbing the laces in a clockwork pattern. It’s a habit and has no effect on how the pitch is thrown. Most of the guys on the team have some kind of tick. Maybe they open and close the Velcro on their batting glove each time they step out of the batter’s box. The movement creates a beat of time in which the batter can gather his thoughts, take a deep breath and anticipate the pitch. It’s strategy. It’s a mindfuck. Either way, we all do it to buy time.

Once I finish my ceremonious rubbing, I wind, bringing my knee to my chest, pulling my fingers apart, and release the ball at the hip. It’s too far outside. Again.

“A fucking kindergartner could have hit that!” Her frustration is palpable as she yells at me mid-pace to the mound. In her current state, anything is possible, so in an effort to calm her fury I reach back into the bucket of balls behind me, grabbing another, and set up before she can reach me.

“I bet you couldn’t hit it.” The voice that irks me on a daily basis spills out of Michaels’ mouth from the first baseline. What could possess a human to be that stupid? It’s like he said, “Today, I want to die.” I realize he’s still a little butthurt about Anniston’s remark in the locker room but now he’s just being petty.

Baseball players typically are nonaggressive players. Unlike football, baseball players use sneaky maneuvers like having their pitcher pitch to the far inside or flat out throw a fastball into a nonlethal body part. They don’t just haul off and fight. No, we’re catty bitches and like to be passive-aggressive until it’s your turn to bat.

My head snaps up just in time to see Michaels smirk at a pissed off Ans. Again, what an idiot.

My eyes track to Ans, her lips thinning into a straight line.

“Give me the bat,” she demands Liam, my relief pitcher.

He looks at me, then at her, his head mirroring a dog tracking a treat. I’m not a good people reader but the expression on his face is pretty clear. He’s fucking terrified.

The thought that Ans inspires fear in my teammates curls a smile onto my lips.

Seriously, Liam, she doesn’t work for the team. What could she possibly do to you?

But that’s the thing about fear…it’s the unknown that really gets to you. If you knew the worst that could happen then you wouldn’t be as scared.

“Give. Me. A. Bat,” she repeats slowly, approaching Liam like a hungry lioness.

Liam hands over a bat with unsteady hands, quickly halting her strides toward him. Okay, someone has to stop this madness. She can’t really be out here hitting my pitches, not that she hasn’t before. She’s hit many of my pitches but I usually slow them down and make sure she is geared up properly.

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