Page 87 of Faking Summer
thirty-six
Reese
Whack!A firm pat on my back pulled me from my focus, the warmth of it lingering through my jersey. "Carrington!" Skip's voice broke through my focus, and I turned to see him walking towards me. "Little short-handed tonight, might need you to close. Don't be surprised if I call your name in the ninth. Be ready."
I nodded, my muscles tensed at his words. “I’ll be ready," I promised, as the weight of the opportunity settled heavily on my shoulders. It could be my first big shot at proving I was worth drafting.
There was another pitcher that wasn't fully recovered and still on the injury list, a fact that certainly played into Skip’s decision. But, regardless, I’d take it. Skip nodded, signaling the end of our brief exchange. I settled onto the wooden bench in front of my locker, and reached for my phone.
The screen glowed alive at my touch. A long list of unread messages were displayed, but there were no new alerts from Caroline. Nothing after I’d sent her a good morning text. There was an uneasy feeling in my stomach. She typically called or messaged me throughout the day, but today, of all days, her silence stood out. Iknew she couldn't make it to my first game. The distance was something we hadn't figured out. She hadn’t been able to visit me yet, which I understood. But this silence? It was unlike her.
"Focus," I whispered to myself. ”Don’t let it get to you.” This was my moment—my chance to make a name for myself here. With or without hearing from her, I had a promise to keep, a game to close.
I flicked across the screen, searching for something—a distraction, anything to fill the void of her ghosting me all day. Bailey popped up on my timeline. He was live, talking to the camera at the gym in all his glory. I was cringing at him flexing under the harsh gym lights.
"Alright, I will do three more reps," Bailey grunted, sweat trailing down his face. "But you better keep sending those unicorns," he warned with a wink, the chat cheering him on.
And then he squinted at the screen. "Oh shoot, my man Reese is in here," he announced, with a big grin. "Which means he wants me to take off my shirt, hang on."
I couldn't help but snicker despite the tension knotting in my stomach. Bailey was still Bailey, just as outrageous as always. He pulled his tank top over his head, muscles glistening like he’d put some kinda baby oil on himself, tattooed skin flexing. I shook my head. I tapped across the screen as I typed, "God please put it back on."
The screen erupted in a digital mayhem of unicorns and fireworks, the chat moving too fast to keep up. Bailey's grin widened, appreciative of his adoring audience. "Alright, chat, thank you for the gifts. Everyone tell my boy Reese good luck on his first game."
The response was immediate and overwhelming. The kind wishes of support and each "good luck" flooded the screen. Shaking off the amusement, I swiped away from Bailey's live stream and turned on a playlist as I pulled out my headphones. Others had started to fill the locker room around me as the music filled myears. It was time to get my head right, to warm up. Time to step into the limelight and show them all what Reese Carrington was made of. Tonight, under the stadium lights, it would be just me and the mound—a place I knew better than the back of my hand.
Before I knew it, it was time to take the field. I glanced at my phone one last time, but there was still no message from Caroline. This wasn’t the time for distractions, though, so with a decisive click, the phone went dark and I tossed it in my bag.
The game started slow. Innings passed by with no runs on the board from either team. It wasn't until the bottom of the fourth that we broke through—a sharp line drive double. A sac fly to right field sent him home. The score was one to nothing. But, then in the top of the fifth, they answered with a two-run home run.
By the bottom of the seventh inning, we were locked in a tie. Then, the call came. “Carrington,” the pitching coach called from the bullpen phone, “Time to get loose.”
I nodded. The world shrank as I began with easy throws to warm up.
"Your girl here to watch you play for the first time?" the backup catcher asked as I gripped the ball, winding up for another pitch.
I let out a slow breath, forcing my expression to stay neutral. "Nah, she couldn't make it," I said, trying to sound unfazed. But I was far from unfazed. Would she ever make it to one of my games? Would she ever be in the stands, watching, cheering? I wanted to believe she would be, but hope was starting to feel like a losing bet. She should have visited already. But so far, there was always some reason she couldn’t make it. Maybe I’d fallen too deep and this was all on me.
"Ramp it up, Carrington," said one of the pitching coaches. "Game speed."
I nodded, locking in. The ball ripped toward the catcher’s mitt, each pitch sharper, faster. It was my best stuff. As I fired another fastball, a steady certainty settled in—win or lose,thiswas exactly where I was meant to be.
The ninth inning crept up before I knew it. I walked to the mound, forcing out slow breaths. As I stood there, the air seemed charged with electricity, an anticipation hanging thick from the crowd. It was surreal. I’d worked all my life for this moment, dreamed about it since I was a kid. All I wanted to do was take it all in and believe that I was here for a reason, and I wouldn’t fail.
And then, for the first time in my life, I went completely still. Blindsided. The roar of the crowd, the pounding of my heart, the rush of adrenaline surging through my veins—Gone. Like someone had just hit pause.
My gaze snagged on her, just beyond home plate—impossible to miss, like a firework in the night sky. Caroline. My chest tightened. I narrowed my eyes, not trusting what I was seeing. The double take confirmed it. She was there.
She had come.
A grin spread across my face, my fingers adjusted the brim of my hat—a silent salute to the woman who was the challenge I would never be able to resist. Confidence ran through my veins, drowning out the crowd's roar and putting my head in the game. Nothing could hold me back now. Not with her here, watching.
The catcher’s voice came through my earpiece. "Fastball."
I coiled, muscles tensing, and with a quick burst, I unleashed the pitch. The batter swung and the crack of the ball meeting the bat fractured the silence. The ball went foul. I felt the weight of stares, Caroline's among them. The second pitch hurtled across the plate, and the batter lashed out once more. This time, the ball sailed forcefully toward first base, where the baseman snagged it easily.
"Out!" The umpire signaled. The crowd erupted into cheers. One down.
With the second batter staring me down, my fingers brushed the seams of the ball. Another fastball. I’d let this one be my fastest yet. His bat sliced through the afterglow of my pitch, swinging too late. Once, twice, thrice—he flailed, each swing mistimed. Three strikes. He retreated, and I could breathe again for a moment.
