Page 9 of Bad Ball Hitter
Or big paychecks.
I tap the plate with my bat and settle into my stance. The pitcher, a tall, lanky guy known for his curveballs, eyes me with a smirk that seems to taunt, “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Bring it, big boy. I’ve never been more ready.
My grip tightens around the bat. The smooth, worn wood feels comforting against my palms. Power surges through my muscles, raw energy coursing through my veins. Every nerve ending is alive, every synapse firing. I’m ready for this. I’m prepared to bring it all home.
The pitcher winds up, his arm a blur of motion. The ball hurtles toward me like a bullet, straight down the middle.
I fucking swing and miss.
“Come on, Drake. You gotta swing faster than that!” someone jeers from behind me.
I shake off the mockery and step back to the plate. There’s a reason Coach hasn’t replaced me with a pinch hitter. I may be a catcher, but I am also known for my batting average. If the pitcher messes up, I’m on it.
That edge got me in with the Phillies, and it’s why they traded my brother-in-law to the Dodgers and put me in his spot. I didn’t realize I’d be next. With one year left in my contract, I got traded to the Boston Bears to win the World Series. They fell short last year, losing in the championship game, but they’re not holding back this year.
It’s a crapshoot where I’ll end up when the season ends, though. I want to end up on the West Coast, where my sister lives. It makes the most sense. I don’t have any ties here.
The second pitch curves and dips at the last second.
“Strike two.”
The crowd’s cheers turn to groans, the tension palpable.
Yeah, yeah, I hear you. I glance toward the VIP section where Miranda sits. I can’t see her, but I imagine her cheering me on. That’s a nice feeling. Our relationship may be new, but it has a lot of potential.
The pitcher winds up and releases another curveball. This one is sloppy, hanging in the air long enough for me to lock on. I swing with everything I’ve got, the crack of the bat meeting the ball, echoing around the stadium like thunder.
The ball soars high, arcing into right field.
“Run!” the coach screams from the sidelines as the runners take off like startled hares. I sprint to first, eyes glued to the outfielders scrambling back. The right fielder leaps, his glove stretching into the night sky, but the ball bounces off the wall, just out of reach.
“Go for two!” The voice is distant but clear. I round first and head for second, my legs pumping, lungs burning. My foot crosses second base just as Rappel slides into home and beats the throw by a good three seconds.
“Safe!” the umpire calls and the crowd erupts.
I toss my arms up, sprinting toward home plate. The next few minutes blur in a rush of back slaps, pats, and body bumps. Our divisional lead holds, and while there are a lot of baseball games left to play, I like our chances.
As the cheers die down, Rappel wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Hell of a hit, Gunner. You’re a force to be reckoned with out there.”
His praise knocks me back for a second. No one on the team has given me props like that. But Kaplan’s stern glare cuts my moment short as he approaches.
“You’ve got potential, Gunner, but you’ve got a long way to go. If you want to be my catcher, you need to learn to read me better.”
His words echo the criticisms of my old teammate Roy, my supposed best friend from high school, who always hinted I was selfish. Maybe I am, but I refuse to let this prick—or anyone—crush my spirit. Never again. I spent four years thinking Roy had my back until the day he drove a knife through it.
All over a girl.
I shake my head, trying to banish the thoughts of my old high school girlfriend.
Fuck, get it together, Drake.
I square my shoulders and meet Kaplan’s gaze head-on, determined to prove myself to him and the team.
“The passed ball was a mistake. I know I cost you a W.”
“You almost cost us the game.”