Page 137 of Wild Pitch
It’s funny how somehow life gives you exactly what you wanted but with such little fanfare that it’s hard to celebrate it. I’ve dreamed of the starter pitcher position my entire life, and this is how I get it? Because of pizza?
I tilt my head slightly to make eye contact with Hope. Her barely contained grin confirms I did just hear what I thought I heard.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “One week?”
“Deal.” Kim nods.
But Socci shakes his head. “Only tonight.”
“Fine.” I sigh and all Kim does is shrug.
The umpire calls for the last out of the inning, so it’s time to switch. I wish I could get a kiss good luck from Hope—our pizza dinner is at risk here—but I can’t do that with all these sharp eyes around.
Grabbing my glove from the cubbies, I nod at Beau before stepping back out. O’Brian returns from his at bat and he gives me a fist bump as we pass. Kim catches up to me and walks in eerie silence.
I break it. “What’s your deal? Aren’t you gonna tell me something that will piss me off so I get to the mound all fired up?”
“You don’t need it this time.” He bumps his glove against my chest and veers left where I have to go right.
Only being a professional baseball player with six years in my belt allows me to keep a straight face, when all I really want to do is gape. Who the hell is this guy and what did he do with the real Logan Kim?
Whatever. I head over to a gross, messy mound. Williams is progressively leaving it more uneven with every inning. I don’t know if it’s because he’s getting tired, or just actively trying to get in my head.
While I even it out with my foot, I lift my eyes to the Riders’ dugout and spot him right away, the former starter pitcher of the Orlando Wild. His attention is trained solely on me and I have no doubt that in this whole stadium filled mostly with Rider’s fans, Ben Williams is still the person most interested in me screwing up. His sense of superiority is riding on the line.
Joke’s on him, though. I don’t think he ever cared to know me enough to understand that I thrive under pressure. And I don’t know any other definition of it but this moment.
The fans go absolutely feral as Miguel Machado steps up to the plate. You’d think he’s Babe Ruth come back to life or something.
He’s not as big a guy as my own catcher is, for example, but Machado is still a wall of muscle capable of batting the ball out of the stadium with the wooden bats he prefers. I don’t know a single pitcher who isn’t terrified of him, and there are actually at least two who have developed the Unmentionable Illness, the one that finishes professional baseball players from time immemorial and starts with the letter Y.
Am I scared of him?
Sure. The same way I’m scared of getting into a traffic accident in this damn city packed with terrible drivers. I still get in my car everyday and drive, though. This is no different.
Especially when I have Logan Kim inmyarsenal.
He signs for a fastball close to Machado’s chest, which is basically a declaration of war against the top slugger of the league.
I’m in.
I nod and raise my glove, twisting the ball to grip it in a basic four seam. Sometimes you don’t even have to be fancy. And sure, Machado could bat it, but as close to his chest as I’m gonna throw it this will be a hit at most.
For the pizza, I think to myself and wind up.
The ball flies out of my hand in such a satisfying way, I’m already closing my fist in victory before I land. Kim’s glove makes the loudest thud as the ball connects with it, and Machado doesn’t move a millimeter.
“Ball!”
I press my lips tighter. That should’ve been a strike, but whatever.
I check the bench. Beau touches his nose and then his chin, the sign forcalm your man boobs, son. His words, not mine. Inod at him, my man boobs are very calm. The calmest they’ve ever been.
Kim throws the ball back at me and gives me a look I can’t interpret, especially because it’s not followed by any man-boob-calming signs. He crouches back down and calls for another fastball, this time by Machado’s knees.
It should be an easy strike and I throw to the precise spot his glove waits at. But… “Ball!”
What the—Is this umpire drunk?
