Page 100 of Playboy Pitcher
The Storm kickedsome New York ass, beating the Mets four to two.
Ben pitched all but two innings, and even though it was technically a Mets home game, every picture I found online was of Storm fans in Storm jerseys. Multiple videos made the rounds all over social media with deafening chants of, “Play-boy... Play-boy…”
But what got the most views? The most retweets?
The signs.
Puddles + Playboy
Win It For Willow
And as anticipated, my phone rang off the hook with offers from so many sponsors, I had to make a spreadsheet.
Everything has snowballed. The home expo games have become so packed we’ve had to turn people away, a problem we haven’t had in over three years. For twelve days, the Storm has moved like one machine with intricate but connected moving parts. Tuck and Ben are one explosive force while Kyle’s precision throws from right field hit Cruz’s glove every time.
And we’ve won.
A lot.
I should be ecstatic. With only one expo game and four days to go until Spring Training ends and the regular season starts, everything is falling into place perfectly.
But that’s the problem.
In one game and four days, it’ll all be over.
In one game and four days, I have to divorce Ben and enforce the prenup agreement. I heard every word Emma said. I soaked them in and cried them out.
She’s right. I want everything she does and more.
But life’s little pieces don’t always fit together the way you want them to. At the end of the day, my priority has to be Emma’s safety. And that’s why after the divorce, we’re not only leaving Florida, we’re also leaving New York.
* * *
I grip the metal bleacher so tightly I can’t feel my fingers. “What’s he doing?” I shriek, my heart pounding so hard in my chest I can barely hear the roar of the crowd. “He doesn’t have it in him.”
“We only need one more strike,” Emma says, covering her face with her hands. “I can’t watch.”
“Emma!”
“He’ll do it,” she mumbles behind her hands. “He’s has to do it. He’s the star pitcher.”
Of course, he is. But he’s also in pain. I’ve spent the last three innings watching him wince during pitches and ice his elbow every moment in between. He’s hurt and pushing it on purpose.
This is the final game of Spring Training.
He knows he’s not making it to the regular season.
Even if I’d never walked in the door of that West Palm Beach bar or proposed this insane arrangement, it wouldn’t have mattered. Benson LaCroix’s career ended last year. Whatever happens, this stubborn, beautiful, iron-willed masochist is determined to go out in front of the fans he loves, playing the game he loves.
“Oh no,” Emma breathes, peeking through the slits in her fingers.
“What?”
“He’s throwing a four-seam.”
“No!” I yell, leaping to my feet.
But she’s right, I’ve seen it too many times not to recognize the signature pitch that flies from his hand with expert precision. I hold my breath as the batter swings…and misses.
