Page 21 of Wild Catch
“Rogers?” a new female voice enters the chat with perfect timing. “I’m here to pick you up for your surgery.”
“Gotta go, guys,” Dave says. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” his boss and I chorus.
Dave disconnects from the line and I jump to my feet. “Well, I best get started.”
“Don’t forget to show me the final product before posting,” Tom reminds me.
“Ha. Yes, of course.” I chuckle my way out of his office and then do a bit of a power walk to my cubicle, cracking my knuckles to brace myself because I’m about to turn Logan Kim into a damn romance novel hero.
CHAPTER8
LOGAN
Cade Starr is freaking me out.
One crumble of attention and the dude is turning into a monster.
I take my sweet time fixing a wedgie and rearranging my mask while I muse about how to bring out an even nastier pitch out of him. This is game one in the series against one of the weaker teams in the league, so it’s not like we’re going for broke here, but we should definitely display dominance.
And he’s certainly doing that, to the point that it makes me want to laugh.
A new batter steps into the plate, already mumbling vile shit under his breath without even having taken the first swing. That’s what happens when you’re down eight runs and have only managed to score one.
In just the third inning.
The umpire knows exactly what I’m up to and tries to cut me off, announcing, “Play ball!”
As I crouch and get comfy, I notice the batter choking up on the bat like he’s going for a hit on one of the pitches that Starr can place in the strike zone with laser precision. Bold of this guy to try that on pitch one.
It’s like he thinks I’ll really let the runners on second and third score.
Since Starr doesn’t vibe with the PitchCom, I tuck my right hand between my thighs for old school signs. The one thing that’s annoying about him—the real one, not the ones I say are annoying just to keep him off my back—is that he tends to put a hundred percent of his trust in my calls. Rare is the occasion where he rejects one.
On the one hand it’s great because he recognizes who has the brains in this battery. But on the other hand, he’s fully dependent on me. I can’t say that his next catcher is going to be as effective in drawing out his full power as I am.
But that’s not my problem.
He throws the fastball right where I wanted, on the inside corner. I don’t even have to move my glove.
Of course, the batter connects with it on the perfect spot.
We spring to action at the exact same time. Him, to run to first. Me, jumping to my feet to yell at Rivera. “Third!”
Rivera makes an Olympic leap—a real beaut. The ball doesn’t fly with explosive power and he catches it in his bare hand. Rolling with the motion, he tosses the ball from behind him to third.
“Out!” the umpire calls behind me.
Yep, that’s one.
But the runner on third is advancing toward home. Brown, our third baseman, needs no instructions. He throws the ball at me with so much force that he goes tumbling forward.
Me? I just put a casual foot on the home plate and catch the ball in my glove. Then I fire it like a cannon to first base.
The runner makes it to home another second later. “Out!” the umpire shouts.
My throw lands in Miller’s glove with a poetic thud and lo and behold, the batter makes it to base at last.
