Page 22 of Wild Catch
“Three outs! Change!”
The crowd roars. Loud enough to make the air vibrate.
“Shit, shit,” the third base runner moans as he does a U turn to return to his dugout.
“Music to my ears,” I mumble, grinning behind the grill of my mask.
“What just happened?” Starr’s eyes are as wide as they can go while we jog over to our dugout. “Like seriously, a triple play? Who are you trying to impress? My momma?”
I snort. We all know he doesn’t have one.
Behind us, Rivera’s voice joins in. “Bro. Bro! What?What?”
I rip off my mask and wipe the sweat off my forehead with my arm. “Listen, I can hear the crushes developing in your voices and you need to stop.” Because I’m leaving this season, but I don’t say that part aloud.
“But you’re single.” Rivera laughs.
“It’s okay, you’re safe from me.” Starr puts his hand on his chest. “But only because I’m already dating Hope.”
Sighing, I leave them behind because I have an at bat coming up and need to get the pads off. Sometimes these two preschoolers wrap me up in their absurdity and I end up saying things that fuel them. I should know better by now.
As I step into the dugout, I’m greeted by more paws than I’m comfortable with—from players and staff. Even Beau joins in.
“That one’s going to make the highlight reels,” he says.
Kaplan will enjoy that, I think to myself sardonically.
“Triple play, you show off!”
“Pff, off the charts.”
“Wow, I’m so glad you’re on our team, man.”
I focus on removing my chest pad, not showing a single hint about how bad that last one hits. I wish I was as cold blooded as I actually want, just so that the glee in their faces didn’t land in the pool of acid in my stomach.
But whatever, the game’s still going. I put all this in a little box in my mind and shelve it.
McDonald, one of the hitting coaches, grabs me by the shoulder. “Brown’s going to get on base before you no matter what. You have to get him in scoring position.”
I nod. Brown’s a really good hitter. He’s not powerful enough to make the coveted rankings or anything, but he’s reliable and a decent runner, and his RBI doesn’t lie.
“Their second is still shaken from the error in the bottom second,” he continues with that special blend of whisper-shouting that happens in matches where the crowd is rowdy. “Crush it right behind him and we’re set.”
“Got it.”
He hands me the helmet, someone else gives me the gloves. I stuff the sliding mitt in my back pocket and grab a bat on the way out. Brown’s just reaching the home plate and starting his jinxes—two swings, a sweep of the dirt with his foot, one more swing.
I stand on-deck, tugging my gloves in place and balancing the bat on my shoulder. Brown makes eye contact with me and touches the tip of his nose. I nod.
Yeah, we’re not filling up bases. We’re going for it.
Instructions given, he makes short work of it and connects on the second pitch. It’s a solid hit, landing between the pitcher and second base in a way that gets the whole formation scrambling. And voila, there’s Brown in first.
I’m not an old school type of ball player who believes in rituals. My biggest asset is my brain and that’s how I approach every single play, and every single inning. My goal is to screw over with the heads of the opposing team whether I’m catching, batting, or running.
A glance at Beau and he gives me the go ahead to do whatever the hell I want. I’ll miss that. It always takes a while to get to this level of trust with a new team. But they’d be fools to test me for too long, anyway.
I step onto the batter’s box and the catcher steps inward in an almost drastic way. Are they trying to bean me and walk me off?
