Page 20 of Spotlight
All this buzzes through my brain as I pitch to JT. The familiarwhooshas the ball sails through the air followed by athwackof the ball hitting the catcher’s mitt time and again has every muscle in my body relaxing. I dream of that sound.
I’m not sure how long we’re going, but at some point, I stop trying to throw hard and instead focus on getting back to my rhythm. Speed is great, but precision and accuracy make or break a pitcher.
Sweat drips down my temples when JT finally stands and jogs up to the mound. He doesn’t remove his face mask and a pit forms in my stomach. I’m teleported back to the last inning I pitched in game six of the World Series. I’d been unhittable up to that point and then I just lost it. I don’t know what happened. I couldn’t put the ball where I wanted no matter how hard I tried. I was all over the place. Inside. Outside. High. Low. When I tried to pull back on the speed to regain some precision, it was like I was lobbing softballs.
I knew it was coming. I knew I was going to be pulled from the game if I didn’t get it together. Still, I fought as long and as hard as I could.
No pitcher wants to get pulled, especially not like that. And not when you know your career depends on it. Walking off that mound I knew it was going to be a fight to get back. At least I thought I did. The last four months have shown me just how fast an entire league can turn on you.
JT holds the ball in his glove. He stops two feet away and finally lifts the mask. His brown eyes twinkle with excitement, and that uneasy feeling turns to confusion.
“Was that the best you’ve got?” he asks.
Shit.Maybe I’m still lobbing softballs.
I reach up with my right hand and rub the back of my neck as I flounder for an answer.
He laughs, then pulls his glove off his right hand and holds his palm out in front of him. He opens and closes it a few times, staring at it with an expression I can’t make out.
“Even when you were holding back, I’ve never felt anything like that,” he says, voice filled with wonder.
For a second longer, I’m still confused. But as his boyish grin, one I’m already becoming accustomed to, lights up his face, understanding hits me. Along with relief.
He forms a fist with his hand and then hits me with it lightly. “You throw like that all season and we’re going to be unstoppable.”
* * *
Archer’s gaze roams around the space, still all blank, empty walls and sparse furniture, as he enters my apartment.
“Is this everything you have?” he asks.
“Yep.” I’ve been in paid housing since I left college or, most recently, crashing on Archer and Brogan’s couch, so I don't have a lot: couch, coffee table, TV, bed.
“It’s temporary,” I tell my brother, signing the words as I speak. My brothers and I all learned sign language. It helps in situations where it’s loud or there are lots of people or when he’s too busy looking around at my drab apartment to watch my face.
“It’s depressing as hell,” he says.
A laugh shakes my chest. “The location is good and it’s not like I’m going to be spending a lot of time here. I’m close to the Mustangs’ facilities and there are restaurants and bars within walking distance.”
With an expression that seems to say,if you say so, Archer plops down on my only piece of furniture.
I grab two Gatorades from the fridge and bring them to the couch, taking a seat on the other end. “It’s a six-month lease. Why get a lot of stuff if I’m just going to move it all again?”
He accepts the drink and studies my face for a second, brows pinched and mouth in a straight line, then nods slowly.
“Have you met the team?” he asks.
“Some of them. I went by the stadium earlier today and threw a few pitches with JT Ryan.”
“Oh yeah?” One side of his mouth pulls up into a smile.
None of my brothers have really mentioned my performance in the World Series that caused me to be let go from my team and forced me to spend the next few months clawing for another opportunity. Sure, they’ve offered their support and told me to keep my head up, but they’ve tiptoed around my shitty pitching.
Now, though, I can see he’s thrilled at the thought of me being back out there and of things going well. Having four older brothers is like having a whole bunch of parents, except they’re more overbearing and less comforting. Oh, and there’s a lot more ribbing. Or I assume that’s what it’s like since I didn’t grow up with parental figures that weren’t my brothers. Our mom died when I was young, and our dad wasn’t around much.
“What have you been up to since the season ended?” I ask, kicking one foot up onto the coffee table.
“Not much. Sleeping in, working out, helping Sabrina at the dance studio.” At the mention of his fiancée, Archer’s expression goes soft. Helping at a dance studio for kids doesn’t sound like the most exciting way to spend his months away from the rigorous schedule of professional football, but if it makes him happy, I guess that’s all that matters.
