Page 20 of Wild Pitch
“How do you know?”
He snorts. “They all reacted.” Apparently that’s all he means to say.
I prod him with “I need a few more words than that, you caveman.”
“The Badgers don’t have the balls to swing big but they twitched at every one of your pitches. If they were just watching, they wouldn’t have even blinked.”
“Meaning…”
“Your balls are enough.” He nods to himself, not seeing the problem with his words.
I suck in air through my teeth. “Really trying not to quip with a that’s-what-she-said joke here.”
We both get jerked out of our riveting conversation at the unmistakable crack of a bat. Rushing to the barrier, we join the team to watch Rivera’s first hit—no. A home run?
“Asshole,” Kim mumbles. “Should’ve saved that for a bases loaded situation.”
“No complaints from me.” I nod all magnanimous as the ball finally lands on the grass behind the outfield fence. A few fans abandon their picnic blankets in pursuit of the home run ball.
“Yeah!”
“That’s right, baby!”
“Rivera, you beast!”
More hoots and hollers come from the dugout, almost competing with the noise from the stands. The Boricua raises a fist as he jogs around the diamond, stopping to step on the bases in a very deliberate way. Last season, an umpire ruled he hadn’tstepped on third base and therefore didn’t score the run. He’s probably still annoyed by that.
“Andthat’show it’s done, lady and gentlemen.” Rivera strikes a tough macho pose with his arms as he approaches, and it takes a second for my brain to click.
Lady? I glance over my shoulder and spot Hope Garcia coming out from the tunnel. She’s wheeling a trunk that looks big enough to fit me inside, but doesn’t seem to struggle with it. And of course she wouldn’t, when her thighs are so sculpted that I can see her muscles ripple beneath the white fabric of her clothes. Has no one thought that maybe she should be allowed to wear different pants?
She notices me watching and for a brief second I’m annoyed to be caught.
I swivel my attention back to the front. While our second batter steps up to the plate, a couple of staff members remove the gear from Kim’s legs and chest. He’s our best batter and that, plus his catcher acumen, make him absolutely insufferable. I really have to solidify myself asthestarter pitcher of the team so I can shut him up.
“Do you have it?” one of the guys asks behind me.
Garcia’s voice responds with, “Tall glass of Bengay coming right up.”
Annoying chuckles come after that. I peek over my shoulder again, this time as she’s lathering up someone’s bare shoulder. It’s way too early in the game for that shit, but it’s none of my business. At least she’s wearing gloves.
The ball hits at another good angle and the sound gets my attention again. Our third batter is taking off to first base and gets there safe, right in time for Kim to walk up to the plate and get the crowd surging with excitement. I smirk as he misses the first ball by a mile, but he hits the second pitch hard enough thatit almost goes over the fence. As the outfield rallies, our third batter makes it all the way home and Kim to second base.
“Yep, the Badgers suck,” I mumble to myself.
The Orlando Wild, as a team, is decent. We don’t have a star studded lineup now that Williams has deserted—aside from our catcher, I guess—but even with the two of them as a battery, we still fell short of the postseason last year. I’m not really used to the power dynamic we have in this game.
Yet, we end our first inning up by three runs. I shut them out in the next inning, and we score one more run with the middle of our batting lineup. I concede a couple of hits in the third inning that get our infielders running wild, one of them ending with a double play that will make the social media highlights. Kim runs me through a combination of fastballs that include some nasty ones close to the batter’s chest, and also an array of curves that produce a few more hits. Sweat trickles down my face and my spine, more because of the sun than from the game itself.
However, I don’t know if it fools Beau because as I walk to the dugout after the sixth inning, he declares, “Starr, you’re done for the day. Get iced.”
I open my mouth. Close it. There’s no point in arguing with the man, and even if I didn’t pull any spectacular plays that can secure my spot in the roster, it was a decent showing.
“Yes, sir.”
“G’job, Cowboy.” Rivera pats my back as I walk deeper into the bench.
More pats and similar words are tossed my way. I’m glad this inning starts with Kim’s at bat because one look at my mug, and he’d be able to tell I’m disappointed.
