Page 66 of Wild Hit
I look up and find his eyes on me, a sun beam hitting them in a way that makes them look like translucent amber. I swallow hard.
A corner of his lips rises. “Hello, wife.”
I almost choke in my own saliva.
“Husband?” I rasp out.
Miguel nods. “Good girl.”
And I nearly expire.
CHAPTER 24
MIGUEL
Imarch from the on-deck circle toward the batter’s box, ready to make my daughter proud. Noise from the crowd rises to decibels that would be dangerous for someone whose eardrums aren’t used to this. Twirling the bat a couple of times, I cast a sweeping glance across the diamond and outfield. Then I make a big production of getting ready while I observe the position of the players in both teams.
I’ve been asked by the press about my jinxes, if adjusting my hat, then pulling my pants up, tapping my shoes with the bat to get the sand out, pulling up my left arm sleeve, swinging the bat three times, and then holding my bat upright in the same non-aggressive position all the time is the recipe for my success at bat.
First of all, no. The only reason I do all this shit is because it buys me exactly two minutes.
During that time, I make a mental map of the game. I know that the outfielders have pushed back as much as they can, expecting either a long hit or a home run, which makes them very unprepared for a simple hit or even a bunt. Those are also tools I employ occasionally, when they best suit me. Forexample, right now I’d really like to work on my base stealing record, so a home run isn’t convenient.
However, Lucky’s on second and our captain on third. We’re scoring no matter what happens.
Lucky’s lead is bold—dude’s nearly half of the way to third base. Meanwhile, Logan’s conservative. Not because he’s a chickenshit but because he knows the exact same thing I do. He runs his hand across the peak of his helmet—our code for going wild.
Has anyone realized how many incredible puns can be made with the name of the team?
Anyway, the pitcher has a certain gleam in his eyes that gives some red flags.
What would a normal person do? Be careful, stand back.
What do I do? Stand as close to the catcher as the batting box allows.
“Dude, are you sure?” the catcher asks me.
I don’t respond. I’ve studied enough film of this team to know that their first baseman runs very well, but can’t jump high enough. Their second baseman is mid, and the real challenge is the shortstop. That’s gonna be Lucky’s problem first, so I’m gonna target the first base.
And here’s my real jinx: I cross my self and touch my crucifix. Then the music stops playing.
Ah, yes. This is actually my fave kind of pitcher. The ones who are young and don’t know any better.
Sure enough, the first pitch spins the ball into a pink dot. Quite easy to predict. It whiffs by close enough that I get a nice breeze, scented like leather and all.
“Ball!”
The sweet frustration on the kid’s face… I manage to keep my expression immutable out of sheer practice but if I could, I’d have the biggest shit-eating grin in the world.
I stay put exactly just inside the line of the batter’s box. The catcher mumbles something that sounds close to concern for my wellbeing. How mindful of him.
Enough bravado has slipped from the pitcher that the next pitch slips early. My body moves by itself. I lean back from my waist, enough to change my center of gravity. My tree trunk legs pick up the slack and keep me put even as I swing the bat like a hurricane. Sound comes like an explosion—probably because my bat just disintegrated in my hands from the hit.
I take off.
I’m almost halfway through first base when the ball appears in the corner of my eye, flying at the first baseman. It rockets right over him. My legs pump full force, balls of my feet digging into the dirt as I go. His glove falls short by maybe an inch. The ball lands inside bounds as the poor sucker runs after it. I step on first base. There’s roaring in my ears. My legs keep going. I make a bet that they’ll target tagging Lucky out. Play keeps going. It’s chaos ahead of me. Lucky’s chased by the ball. Third baseman’s afraid and stays put on base, reaching to catch. Lucky honors his name as the ball passes him by—andthe third baseman.
I run faster. Harder. Stronger. The roaring’s louder. Base coach windmills his arm. I press even harder. Tunnel vision takes over. Catcher’s too far from home. I don’t slow. He’s preparing to catch. I tilt back and slide. The momentum is so strong that it pulls me up on my feet like I’m a spring, and I walk away from home after wiping the floor with the opponent.
