Velocity.
I call for a fastball, and he connects with a sharp line drive to second that turns into an easy out at first.
Not a strikeout, but I’ll take it, thank you very much.
I grin, since, damn, it is so satisfying to send my lover back to the dugout. As Declan walks away, I pretend he’s on the other team.
But even though he’s not, maybe we can pull this off for a little bit longer. Would that be so crazy? Another few nights? Another few days?
That idea takes hold of me the rest of the morning, and on into the afternoon when the Bandits arrive.
Hell, if I pulled off that excellent scrimmage, I can pull off a terrific game.
Especially since Fisher has me start.
Yup. I’ve got this. I’ve so got this.
Except in the second inning, a pitch skitters past me and I don’t fucking have it. I race after the passed ball, hustling to the backstop to field, but the runner on third scores and I curse.
That was one hundred percent my fault.
I return to the plate. As the pitcher goes into the windup, the runner on first makes a move to steal. Once the ball hits my glove, I throw to second. It should be an easy out—the runner lumbers like a bear—but I’m too late.
He’s in safely.
Fuck me.
I grit my teeth, huff, and finish out the inning.
When I reach the dugout, I park my sore ass on the bench and drop my head. Crosby claps me on the shoulder. “Focus, rookie. Get your head in the game. Is it someplace else?”
I wince. Can he see right through me? My head is in the same stupid place as my stupid fucking heart. It’s fantasizing. It’s galloped off to tra-la-la land after the scrimmage. It’s picturing things it doesn’t have any right to picture.
Declan’s not on another team.
We can’t keep on doing this.
We’re done at the end of tonight, and that is all. Baseball is what matters.
I laser in on that when I’m at bat. But a pop fly to center ends my chance.
Fisher pulls me aside and says Rodriguez will finish the game.
“Hit the shower, rookie,” he says.
Kiss of fucking death.
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll talk later.”
Dread crawls over me as I go into the locker room, shower and dress, and wait for Fisher.
But all he says when the game ends is a crisp, “We need you to pick it up soon.”
“I will, sir,” I say tightly, then I take off before the rest of the team pours in.
I call my grandfather when I leave, walking along the road by the complex so I can burn off these fumes. “I had the worst game ever, Pops,” I say, my head hanging low.
“But that happens. You have bad games,” he says.
I blow out a long stream of air as I stalk down the street. “I can’t have bad games. Rodriguez has been playing better. I went into spring training thinking I had this locked. That he’d be my backup catcher. But he might get the starting spot, and I don’t even know if I’ll be the backup or if the team will call on someone else,” I tell him, my voice as strained as my heart. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“All you can do is focus on the fundamentals, kid. Focus on the game. You know how to play. You’ve always known how to play. And the only times you’ve been frazzled is when personal stuff has gotten in the way,” he says in that calm, paternal voice he has. “Remember all that stuff with Frank in high school and what a tough couple of games you had at the end of the season?”
I stop near a bus stop as I listen, lean on the signpost as I drop my head and grit my teeth. “Yeah, I remember.”
“And what did you do?” he asks.
I swallow roughly. “I went to you. I talked to you, and you helped settle my state of mind.”
“By reminding you that you’re a great ballplayer. The game is mental as much as it is physical. Your physical game is great. If you’re out of sorts, it’s usually because your mind is elsewhere.”
He says it gently, but firmly. It’s a message from someone who knows me. Knows me like he can see inside my soul.
God, I want to tell him.
I want him to know what happened.
I fell in love with this guy, and he’s all I can think about. I want to find a way to be with him, but I can’t. Do you have any idea what I should do, Pops?
I know what he’d say, though.
Tough break, kid. But you need to let him go.
“You’re right, Pops. I’ll keep my head in the game. Crosby said the same thing too,” I say heavily as I walk to the bus stop.