Page 123 of Wild Hit
Miguelismagic. He’s everything that is good and worthy in this messed up world, and the most unbelievable part is how the world doesn’t affect him. Life and its difficulties haven’t sharpened his edges, like juggling an elite professional athletic career and being a single dad would to anyone. Or like all the slander online would mess with anyone.
If he hasn’t hit a home run it’s simplybecause. He doesn’t owe anyone anything. No matter what, he’s still taking the team toward victory.
They’re gonna win, I say in my mind.They’re gonna make history and I’m kissing him tonight.
Miguel doesn’t swing for the first pitch, which isn’t surprising. He’s an observant batter. That brilliant brain of his calculates outcomes at a speed that mere mortals like us can’t even fathom. But when he doesn’t swing at a strike, it gets an alarm going in my mind.
“What’s happening?” I mutter, and the bugs make me smack Hope several times. “Hope, am I overreacting?”
Her eyes narrow. We’re not close enough to catch every detail on the field, but we’re not baseball nerds for nothing. “This is just his second at bat. Lucky’s the only runner on base. He doesn’t really need to exert himself.”
The third pitch gets him swinging.
And missing by a mile.
After a quiet moment, Hope admits, “Okay, that’s not entirely normal for him.”
“You don’t think…” Rose leaves the question hanging, also not daring to vocalize something that might cast bad luck on the team.
“No,” Hope and I say in unison, because this is how we negate what we’re all fearing. Miguel’s not in a slump. Everyone has a lackluster at bat every so often. Iamgoing to bury my fingers in his sweaty hair and claim his mouth for my own.
“What?” Marty asks, her eyes widening. “What?Is my dad okay?”
People in the audience start booing, and we all snap back to attention.
There is absolutely no stinking way that Wild fans are the ones booing our cleanup hitter, which can only mean one thing. The Riders fans are catching up onto what we’re fearing. Miguel isn’t playing his usual.
But then comes the fourth pitch and he connects.
I jump to my feet, barely registering that I’m not the only one. The ball flies like a rocket. I push onto my tiptoes. Miguel takes off for first base. The outfielders start running toward the same area, close to our side. Lucky’s dashing to second. My ears are roaring. I cram the wordpleasesome five hundred times in a single second. The ball crashes against the fence—on the inside. It’s not a home run, but the outfielders are scrambling.
And then there’s silence.
Complete, and utter lack of sound.
My heart stops. There’s no air in my lungs. My eyes run to Miguel. But my worst fear doesn’t happen—he’s on first base, not bleeding from anywhere. And he’s looking ahead of him, still as a statue.
One of the girls gasps. I can’t tell who. Because now I’m seeing what happened.
My second biggest fearhashappened. One of our guys is hurt.
It’s Lucky, and his leg is out of shape at the knee.
I drop the popcorn I forgot I was even holding. Before anyone wakes up from the nightmare, I say, “We need to go, Lucky will need us.”
Screw nerves and jinxes, we have to go to our friend.
CHAPTER 46
MIGUEL
It’s hard not to feel some type of way when someone like Lucky Rivera gets a potential career ending injury on a decisive game like this, where the result can dictate the rest of the series.
Especially when it happened during one of your plays.
The logical part of me keeps trying to explain how it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t bat the ball into his knee, nor was I the overly excited baseman who got in his way too early, making him slide off the wrong direction. I also wasn’t the base itself that caught his shoe at a weird angle and ensured the snap of Lucky’s knee.
I sure watched the whole thing unfold… after I was the one who set that play in motion.
