Page 54 of Playboy Pitcher
Chapter Seventeen
My dirty four-seamfastball is my signature pitch. My secret weapon. My fail-safe. It strikes out even the strongest batters. It’s why, even with the current clusterfuck of a team, my stats are still solid.
Then Willow McBaine waltzed in and shit all over it like I’m some second-rate high school benchwarmer.
“For humility,” I growl, picking up another ball and hurling it into the net. Most of the team has already gone into the locker room, but here I am, still throwing pitches. Her words won’t leave my head, and it’s starting to get to me. “Humility my ass. You just got a lucky hit.” Grabbing another ball, I throw again, gritting my teeth as a sharp pain radiates down my elbow.
“It’s because you keep throwing a four-seam. Your elbow isn’t ready for that. You should stick to a two-seam. It’s a few ticks slower, but it has more movement. Less wear and tear on your joint.”
I glance up, shocked to find a girl with a long blonde ponytail sitting on the barrier railing. She can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen, but by the way she has her arms spread out wide while lazily swinging her legs, you’d think she owned the damn place. “How’d you get in here, kid?”
“The front gate.”
“Cute. I meant fans aren’t allowed inside the stadium unless there’s a game.”
She shrugs, chewing a huge wad of gum before blowing a massive bubble. “I’m not a fan.” Hesitating, she adds with a grin, “I’m related to a staff member.”
Worker’s kid.Probably one of the maintenance guys. It’s common to see them around in the afternoons, although they’re usually not this forward. “Oh, well, isn’t it kind of late for you to be out?”
Popping another bubble, she sucks it back into her mouth. “Gee, I don’t know mister, my bedtime isn’t until seven o’clock on school nights.”
Smartass.
As I go to pick up another ball, she waves a hand. “Don’t worry. Nobody cares where I am. I’ll catch a ride home when I’m ready.”
A little disturbing, but whatever. She’s not my problem.
Concentrating on my finger placement, I throw again, cursing as it veers to the left. “Fuck!”
“You know the definition of insanity, LaCroix?”
“Can I do something for you, kid?” Jerking my baseball cap off my head, I throw it on the ground. “You want an autograph or something?”
She grins, showing off a mouthful of braces. “Nah, I’m good.”
Grabbing another ball, I automatically position my fingers for a four-seam when this damn girl’s voice pops into my head.
“You should stick to a two-seam. It’s a few ticks slower but has more movement.”
It’s stupid. She’s a kid. I’m a professional athlete. Yet, I find myself switching my finger placement from a four-seam fastpitch to a two-seam. Before I change my mind, I draw my arm back and throw.
I’ll be damned.
“Told ya.”
Catching her smug grin out of the corner of my eye, I shake my head. “Are you still here?”
“That’s the second time a girl has shown you up today,” she says, ignoring me while hopping off the railing onto the field. “You’d think you’d start listening more and arguing less.”
God, she sounds like Willow. “Saw that, huh?”
“The lady who knocked your fastpitch back to Miami? Yeah, I saw it.” Dusting the dirt off her hands, she nods at the graveyard of baseballs lying at the bottom of the net. “It’s because you threw a four-seam.”
“What do you know?” I argue, nodding to the equipment manager to let him know I’m done. “You’re just a kid.”
Snorting, she shoves her hands in the pockets of her denim shorts. “A kid who just saved you from looking like a jackass in front of eight-thousand people on Friday.”
Seriously? What the hell is with women today? Did Mercury go into retrograde and throw sticks in the spokes of their menstrual cycles?
